Artwork by Christian Schole

by Cynthia Wands

When I was a child,  I remember thinking that empathy was another word for sympathy.  I don’t know where I got that idea – but it made for some confusing conversations as I got older. (Especially around funerals and the dialogue around funerals…)

I’ve been blessed with being simpatico, sympathetic, understanding and yes, followed with a strong dash of empathy for the people in my life. A lot of that has to do with being born a twin, and having a twin sister that I could learn from, with and around.

A side effect of all this connecting behaviors, is my impulse towards collaboration.  I’ve come to realize that I work better in a group/cast/team/workshop than left to my own devices.  I feel a stronger sense of obligation/commitment and process in a group dynamic – left alone I tend to distract myself with other issues (does the cat needs another kind of kitty litter?)

So it Iwas very interested in this interview about collaborative design as a kind of “empathy.”

60 Minutes Interview with David Kelley

From 60 Minutes:

What makes a great designer? According to IDEO founder David Kelley, who gave the TED Talks “Human-centered design” and “How to build your creative confidence,” being an incredible designer isn’t necessarily about having a great aesthetic sensibility or coming up with out-of-the-box ideas. No,  Kelley says that the key characteristic is empathy. “Be empathetic.”

He explains, “The big thing about design thinking is it allows people to build on the ideas of others. Instead of just having that one thread. You think about it, I come up with an idea, and then somebody from somewhere else says, ‘Oh that makes me think we should do this and then then we could do that.’ And then you get to a place that you just can’t get to in one mind.”

This reminded me so much of the creative process when we work in theatre together.  And it does bring us to a place where we can’t get to by ourselves.

By Cynthia Wands

by Cynthia Wands

I had a trusted colleague edit one of my scripts recently, and he did an incredible, insightful, generous job of helping me see the problems in the script, and better choices I can make. His “review” of my work was invaluable, and I’m really grateful to him for the insight and consideration he gave me in his comments.

I’m still trying to process his comments to make the changes to the script.  And today, I stumbled across a review for a production of “Romeo & Juliet” at Playwrights Horizon Theare, by John Simon, a theatre critic I used to read.  I’ve seen several shows at Playwrights Horizon, and have had wonderful and dreadful experiences watching their shows.

Having just raved about “The Hollow Crown” series on PBS, I read this review with a strange sense of relief that I wasn’t in this production. And a weird sense of relief that someone could write with such zinging bitterness about what he saw. I’m aware of the history of “outrage” this critic feels about the director from past productions, someone who is referred to as “one of the world’s worst directors.”  But it did give me pause.

I have performed in productions that have received horrible reviews, desevedly or not, and I hated that exposure and helplessness. And I know some actors  who won’t read reviews from critics. (At least they try and not read the reviews from critics.) I’ve also been in shows that were praised to the skies and I wondered what the critics were they looking at.

And I know that The Westchester Guardian isn’t The New York Times or Variety, and John Simon isn’t the Drama Critic for a wide audience like he used to be. But boy, is he cranky in this review.  I guess I want to share it with you:

Romeo and Juliet

The faulty governing idea behind the production of “Romeo and Juliet” is that the Montagues are white and the Capulets black, and the whole thing predominantly modern but of no particular place, none of which the play can accommodate. This includes a Romeo who arrives on a motorcycle, and a Nurse who pushes around a bicycle she manifestly cannot ride. And the Prince here is black, sealing the illogic.

There are all kinds of meaningless fires all over the place, except in the performances, and the men keep jumping on one another, piggyback or prone, once even in a threesome. Condola Rashad’s Juliet speaks in a maddening singsong; Chuck Cooper’s Capulet bellows like a demented trombone; Christian Camargo’s Mercutio carries on like a flagrant homosexual; the death of Paris, like so very much else, has been cut; and instead of germane and fascinating swordplay, we get quick, prosaic stabs by switchblades.

The usual trouble, this, when one of the world’s worst directors, David Leveaux, whose Britishness must seem to some proof of quality, is in charge. Why he is repeatedly imported only to ruin everything he touches is beyond comprehension. Here again nonsense prevails. The set is a giant quasi-Renaissance mural that can split in three, the top mounting out of sight, the rest bisected, off to opposite sides. A large bell is omnipresent, displayed at various heights, but rung only one not particularly compelling time.

There is a rather measly masked ball, with animal masks worn flat on the top of heads, or missing altogether. There is Juliet’s bed, with her on it, raised sky-high and overhanging several scenes. There is a Lady Capulet with shaved head looking ridiculous. There is Jayne Houdyshell hamming it up as Nurse, and carrying on as if she were the central character. There is a Friar Lawrence, well-spoken by the good Brent Carver, but about whom there is nothing religious. There is the monochrome snarling Tybalt of Corey Hawkins. And there is the excellent Benvolio of Conrad Kemp, who outshines the merely acceptable Romeo of movie star Orlando Bloom.

And then there is the famous balcony, here a peculiar structure low enough for Romeo to chin himself on, looking like nothing on earth and having to double as Juliet’s bedroom. If after all this—and more—you still want to see this aberration, on your head let it be.

The Westchester Guardian Review of “Romeo & Juliet”

by Cynthia Wands

I’ve been watching the PBS series: The Hollow Crown, which follows Shakespeare’s Richard II, Henry IV, Part 1,  Henry IV, Part 2 and Henry V.

I performed some of these shows when I was an actor, and was curious to see how they would hold up for me as an audience member years later.  I have to say the performances are stunning, the character development, the concept of the times and the machinations of the royals – beautifully done.

But I found myself waiting for the women to appear. In a cast of several dozen, there are usually three, maybe four women in a Shakespeare show.  And I’d forgotten that so much of these “history” plays are about war, posturing about war, arguing about war, playing the chess game about war.  And so much of the issues about “history” seemed to me, in the viewing, to be about men claiming their place in the world. So much yelling.

I’d also thought that the Henry V was a herioc tale of England legacy; and in this time and place, I saw it more as a story of an invading country trying to justify grabbing French real estate. I kept thinking how different would this history be if women, who give birth to the soldiers and the rulers of this story, actually were decision makers during this time.  Would women look at a body count of 10,000 dead in the battle of Agincourt as a gift from God?

Mabye it’s the mood I’m in, with the debacle in Congress on governing our country, and the feeling of being lost in the “history” of things.  But I think the reason I’m feeling all these things from watching this series, is that the performances were so transcendent. The characters were in conflict and torment and finally, in resolve, of their life’s purpose.  And that, to me, is great acting from great writing.

And I keep thinking of the King Richard as played by Ben Whishaw. His ability to speak “immortal verse” and make it as accessible as any contemporay conversation was amazing. I found myself holding my breath during some of his speeches: I have never heard an actor make such beautiful connections with this language before. I loved how he kept surprising us with the sharp turns and twists in the landscape of his mind: what a generous and brilliant actor.

It really was quite a gift to witness this production. I hope you get to see it.

The Hollow Crown on PBS

By Jen Huszcza

After writing plays for nearly two decades, I have realized that writing a play happens in three stages. Yes, it’s only three stages. Yes, I will tell you what those three stages are.

These three stages might recycle themselves through multiple drafts.

1. I’m on fire! I see it all! I have the vision! I am God! I am King! I am Goddess! This play will be great! This play will stand on the shoulders of previous plays and reach out to future generations! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

2. Okay, let me think about this. What am I saying? What is the setting? What is the space? What are the visuals? What can not be seen? What is the character doing? Who is that character? Who am I? What is my place in the universe? Think. It’s somewhere in the head. Okay, okay, okay, okay?

3. I sooo want to be done with your sorry ass. I can’t write this god damn play anymore. I can’t mentally listen and watch these characters anymore. I have another play idea that will be better. End. End. End. End now.