Casual notes on show-biz books, memoirs and studies, dust gatherers, and hot off the presses.
Book Review by Samuel L. Leiter . . .
36th Edition.
Andrew Norlen (editor) and Matthew Murphy (photographer). When the Lights Are Bright Again: Letters and Images of Loss, Hope, and Resilience from the Theater Community. Guilford, Conn.: Applause Theatre & Cinema Books, 2021. 226pp.
Four and a half years ago the lights were no longer bright on the American theater community (and in other countries as well). Covid-19 had struck and thousands of on and offstage theater workers found themselves out of work, with no idea of when they’d return to their beloved profession, much less how they would survive in the meantime. Among the many with unexpected time on their hands and thoughts in their mind was an actor-dancer named Andrew Norlen. Late in 2020, eight months after New York’s theaters turned off their lights, he was back in his family home in Troutdale, Oregon, living with the family he’d left to pursue his theatrical dreams, and pondering his next steps.
Filled with anger and despair, he had an idea. Why not get as many theater professionals as he could to join in a project incorporating their feelings about how they’d respond to that great day when the social restrictions of the pandemic were lifted, the lights were bright again, and they’d be able to return to the living theater? This developed into a big project in which over 180 theater professionals participated.
Most of the names compiled are, I imagine, unknown to the theatergoing populace at large. I personally am familiar with only around a dozen, like designer Clint Ramos, actor Rob McClure, actor Arian Moayed, actress Keala Settle, theater historian Jennifer Tepper, press rep Rick Miramontez, photographer Carol Rosegg, actress Amber Iman, director Jerry Mitchell, and actress Ali Stroker. Not an Audra, Brian, Bernadette, Patti, Christian, Matthew, Idina, Mandy, or Nathan in the lot.
What Norlen did was to ask them to compose a note addressed to themselves. Entries begin with “Dear Andrew,” “Dear Patrick,” “Dear Amanda,” or even “Dear Ghost Light,” followed by the opening words, “When the lights are bright again.” They continue with a commentary on what they expect will happen then. The responses were gathered in When the Lights Are Bright Again, a coffee-table book whose glossy pages are filled with numerous glamor shots of selected participants by theater photographer Matthew Murphy. Some get as many as four photos spread across several pages, although most get none. Perhaps this is because the logistics of arranging sittings would have been too impractical under the circumstances, with so many people having fled New York for the duration.
The comments, which range from a few pithy sentences to moderately lengthy expositions, are arranged in classy layouts, with pertinent blurbs extracted and printed in large fonts alongside the entries proper. Most conclude with a personalized salutation in italics: Your rest awaits you, Measure in Love, Lead With Love, Keep chasing those dreams!, followed by the writer’s chosen moniker, Tiny Dancer, Meghan, The You that made it through, Kamilah, and so forth, after which the writer’s social media address (for example, @iamirenegandy) is appended. Finally, there’s a note, “Originally from Paw Paw, MI,” or “Originally from Palm City, FL.”
What’s lacking is any idea of what theatrical art or craft these people do, so there’s no way to tell actors from stage managers from electricians from chorus boys. Perhaps, in the interests of community, where hierarchies are to be avoided, this was deliberate; but it’s far from helpful for the curious reader. Occasionally, the content itself provides hints of a profession, or of the show they were in when the lights went out. Mrs. Doubtfire is a common example, reflecting Rob McClure’s presence, his being the brightest marquee name among the showfolk represented.
Much as this book represents a perhaps necessary outlet for the bottled-up frustrations of its contributors, as well as for all those others not included, it now, in 2024, is little more than a curiosity. All the aspirations, sorrows, joys, and longings it embodies read like faded New Year’s resolutions. We can sense the need for expression, much of it quite eloquent, but the result is much like standing in front of a large bulletin board filled with colored Post-it notes following some catastrophe. After you’ve read a few, and gotten the basic feeling, you move on.
Norlen, who also provides a foreword, acknowledgments, and an index, attempts to diversify the reading experience by subsuming the comments under such chapter titles as TIME, GRIEF, JUSTICE, CREATIVITY, CONNECTION, MAGIC, PRESENT, JOY, ESSENTIAL, HEALING, HOPE, and REMEMBER YOUR STORY. But, overlapping is inevitable in such an open project, and similar sentiments keep reappearing under different guises.
We hear about the writers’ love for their art (whatever it may be), absence from familiar routines, loss of loved ones, filling the empty days productively, exploring and learning new things, self-improvement, community, appreciating fellow artists, survival strategies, fears of not returning, remaining creative, discovering family joys (especially with kids), maintaining purpose, pondering the future, determining identity, observing the larger picture, being a better person, and so on.
We read of an actress’s thoughts on her multiple miscarriages as she keeps failing to get pregnant, of gripes with Actors’ Equity, of the need to address the industry’s flaws, of boredom, depression, and mental health, of the difficulties of paying the bills and qualifying for food stamps, of a child actor’s worry he’ll be too big to resume the role he had when the theaters closed, of others scared their prime career moments have passed, of Black artists’ outcry against the oppressive white patriarchy, and of the need for less racial, sexual, and physical discrimination in casting. But there also are admonitions to stay positive and appreciate your good fortune: “Those we have lost won’t return to us and it gives them no joy to see us refuse to live.”
Most of this is heartfelt, aspirational, and inspirational, of course, but that doesn’t mean expressing it will avoid flowery, even platitudinous prose. Inevitably, these reports grow repetitious, if not tedious. The prognostications often have a Pollyanna air, totally understandable when you consider the conditions during which they were written. Nevertheless, under those harsh bright lights, now that we’ve returned to square one, and theater still hasn’t returned to pre-pandemic levels, if it ever does, the writers’ optimism seems more poignant than profound.
By its third or fourth chapter, the book’s point has been made several times. Aside from the occasional bon mot or insight, not much that already hasn’t been said can kindle continued interest. It’s good for When the Lights Are Bright Again to have been written, even if it’s unlikely to be read, or, for those who try, completed. It served to blow off steam that needed release, but henceforth will be content to sit on coffee tables where every now and then someone will glance at its pictures of unfamiliar artists and, perhaps, read an entry or two. That is, if they don’t simply settle for one of the blurbs.
Coming up: Richard Nelson. A Diary of War & Theatre: Making theater in Kiev, Spring 2024.
Leiter Looks at Books welcomes inquiries from publishers and authors interested in having their theater/show business-related books reviewed.
