Your play, Paradise, was inspired by the true story of Ayat al Akhras, an 18-year old Palestinian suicide bomber who killed three people in Jerusalem. What was it about her and her story that sparked the initial idea for Paradise?
The idea for the play was not mine, but Bert Goldstein's, the Director of Education at Cincinnati Playhouse in the Park. He was very taken with the story of Ayat al Akhras and her youngest Israeli victim, Rachel Levy. Both had been on the cover of Time immediately after the event; both were 17 by all accounts I've read, and there was a terrible fuss about the inference of "moral equivalency" that the dual photos and the story created when it came out in 2002. Bert approached me about writing a fifty-minute play that used this as a jumping off point and dealt with the issues raging in the Intifada. Why I said "yes" is a whole other question, and a bit layered.
I'd already been in the world of war and children in my play Concertina's Rainbow, and I'd already stood on my street corner in the West Village and watched the homicide/suicide bombers drive our airplanes into the Twin Towers on 9/11, and I'd already been to the Memorial service for a very close friend who I'd been with on 9/9 who was one of the first to die on that horrific day.
So, I suppose I was feeling the general subject in a very direct, personal way. Plus, for reasons I can’t explain, my work had taken me into a couple of hot spots around the globe—particularly in the old Communist block—and I’d seen repression and violence first hand. As I began to scratch under the headlines of the al Ahkras mission, I became more and more fascinated by what kind of hate/love/hurt/religious zealotry/despair/desperation would motivate anyone to walk out of what the press at the time was characterizing as an almost idyllic life: perfect student; religious; close family; fiancé, strap on a bomb belt, and murder any and all people in the vicinity of the single IDF soldier who was her target. I wanted to arrive at my own understanding of this phenomenon, and the familiar traction of the compulsion to write in order to do so pulled me in.
Bert Goldstein's idea ended up being a door. I opened it. Walked in, and made it my own when I left the historical girls behind and created my own characters who are, and are not somewhat like them. Once I got deep enough under the surface of things, they, and the play took on a life of its own.
Paradise had a bumpy ride to production. It was commissioned by Cincinnati Playhouse in the Park, who was initially going to produce it in 2003, and then canceled. What happened?
I went to a reading of the 5th draft of the play at the Playhouse in December 2002. They'd invited a Rabbi, a Professor of Middle Eastern Studies, and they thought, one or two members of the Islamic community to come sit around the table in the rehearsal room with us while actors read the draft and then share their thoughts. Because this was meant to tour high-schools, this was a courtesy that Ed Stern and Bert Goldstein extended to the communities within Cincinnati who would relate to the play directly. It was the usual "in-house" read-through before the script went on to its next draft.
Well, instead of the "one or two" members of the Islamic community, we had a room full of about seventeen—not all at the table because there was no room. The predominant players—all men—did sit with us, each with a script to follow along. The vibe in the room was hostile from the very beginning. The play was read. We broke for fifteen minutes, and then I came back to face an all out attack on the play by the Muslim men at the table. It seemed that everything in the play—down to the names of characters—was an "offense."
It was nowhere in the range of even a “heated debate,” it was “The Crisis.” As soon as it seemed like some reason might prevail, the sands would fall right out from under our feet and it was back to the invectives, the innuendos, the inferences of “danger,” and simply because it was amazingly never said directly by any of the men at the table except one who couched it the catch-all “Zionist,” a Jewish driven project.
I knew I'd written a fairly "balanced" play that presented the convicted beliefs of the most polarized parties on either side of "The Crisis." I wasn't alone in that: The Playhouse's Artistic Director said as much, as did a number of other theatre professionals to whom I showed the draft.
Cincinnati Playhouse in the Park left the door wide open to them all. In fact, it was emphatically stated at the end of that very long afternoon by Bert Goldstein that the play was on its way to its sixth draft and that they would have another reading, and they would be invited back.
Before that could happen, however, my most vociferous adversary, and the man who had demanded I give him a copy of my play so that he could “correct” me, under the umbrella of CAIR (The Council on American Islamic Relationships) set the course for the events that followed. They met with two high school principals, and essentially scared the hell out of them. (The tour was completely booked.) They dropped out, and very quickly the rest of the tour began to fold like a deck of cards. At the same time they set about drawing up a thing called "The Fact Sheet on Paradise” listing about twenty “violations” in the script. An amazing feat to me since had I been asked at the time to write a “Fact Sheet,” on my own play, I'd not have been able to as it was still in process and revision. They walked into a Hearing of The City Commission of Human Relations and plopped down their "Fact Sheets" in front of all of its members, received an actual formal Hearing, and that's when all hell broke lose.
At ten in the morning of the day after the Hearing, I got a call telling me that the Theatre was 300% behind the play. By six in the evening, their Board had met and decided that this "was a battle we do not want to take on," and they dropped the play. By the next day, The Commission on Human Relations realized what a hot potato having the actual script in hand was, and they returned it, and the "Fact Sheets" and said they were not "in the censorship business."
By then, the censoring had already been done. Cincinnati High School students would not be seeing a production of my play, Paradise.
I respect the men at Cincinnati-Playhouse-in-the-Park very much. Had I been in their shoes at the time, I might have made the same call. The "storm" was so huge, it was beyond their means to bring it under control.
But I was left with "the battle." And I really thought long and hard about what I would do next. I consulted with a couple of other playwrights I respect. I consulted with PEN American's Freedom To Write Committee, I consulted with The Dramatists Guild. Then, I spoke with the late New York Times Drama Critic Emeritus, Mel Gussow when he called, and told him what had happened.
Once his very fair story broke, I was overwhelmed by newspaper reporters, television and radio hosts from around the world. I'd no idea that this would be picked up and investigated, reported on, and covered all over the globe for about two months. On the actionable side, after letters from both PEN and The Dramatists Guild, The Playhouse in the Park agreed to present a public reading of the play in February 2003.
On the day it was scheduled, there was a huge snowstorm here in New York City that closed all the airports. Press was there from as far away as Los Angeles; some 400 Cincinnatians who had braved the ice were let in. The only person who was not there was me. JFK, LGA, and Newark were all closed—I couldn't get there! From the 300 or so response cards I have in my archive, many were in support of the play. I was so grateful that I was hearing from other Muslims, Palestinians, Arabs, beside the men in that room in Cincinnati.
There were immediate requests for the script—however—it was still a fifty minute play written primarily for seniors in high school. I went back to work on it and opened up the story, included more details that I'd uncovered. Gary Allen—a playwright's gift—a producer who'd already been involved in one of my plays, immediately offered his support, and we opened the play for a sold out limited engagement at The Kirk Theatre, on Theatre Row in March 2005. I directed that production because I’d seen half a dozen readings of it in half a dozen cities, and had pretty much figured out its mechanics and how it would work.
You've had a couple of professional mentors—namely, Edward Albee and Alfred Uhry—who've been influential for you. Could you talk a little bit more about your relationship with each of them and the impact they've had?
I met Edward Albee five months after I’d arrived in New York, when my first play, The Jumping Place, was produced in 1975. The late producer, Richard Barr had seen, liked it, and knew that Mr. Albee was looking for a new assistant. From 1975 until 1984, that was my “job-job.” I remained Literary Director of The Edward F. Albee Foundation until 1991. From 1991 to 2000 I was directing much more than I am now, and also premiering some of my own plays in Europe. By this time, I was Associate Producer for Vienna’s English Theatre, directing many American companies in American plays and taking them to Vienna. I was back and forth quite a bit. Many of the productions I directed in other theatres were plays of Mr. Albee’s. In 1996, he allowed me to develop two pieces created from his work Albee’s Men, and Albee’s Women at theatres like ART in Cambridge and Provincetown Rep. Eventually—thanks to him and to Jack O’Brien—these premiered together in rotating repertory at The Old Globe in San Diego as Albee’s People.
I’m privileged that today—after many years, and many different “official” relationships—we are very close friends, and participants in one another’s lives on a regular basis. Now, I very much enjoy being just another playwright, and I think he does, too.
We have been through a lot together, and his influence on me has been enormous. I didn’t even know how to type when I found myself running his office and taking calls from, well, … everyone. I learned about the legitimate Broadway Theatre; contracts; the international theatre world; everything there was to absorb about the life of a working playwright. I also began to learn how to think; to develop logic; examine; observe; detach a bit; begin to define my own aesthetic, know myself as a playwright, develop my own easy intellectual passion for learning, and lean into and rely on my natural curiosity.
Edward also instilled in me what experience has since proved—the play begins it all. It’s the score, not the template. Deeply imagined and properly notated it will contain what’s needed to lay it down precisely on its intention regardless of the numerous directorial visions it will be enhanced by.
Alfred Uhry I only know from the wonderful re-birth experience I had as a Fellow at The Cherry Lane Theatre in 2001. How often do you get to come out twice as a “new” playwright?! It was so serendipitous, the way it happened. I’d left NYC for the first time in my life in 1995. I’d never gone anywhere except to work When I moved back to New York, it was to the same street as The Cherry Lane. One rainy night I stopped and read the board outside that lists who runs the place, and mailed them a resume. I’d thought, “Well, maybe they’ll let me direct something.” I was surprised when I got an email within a day saying “Wow! Welcome to the neighborhood. We never do this, but we’ll accept one play from you.” I sent them Concertina’s Rainbow, and to my shock on my next birthday, I got a call telling me that it was one of the Mentor Project Plays selected for 2001, and that Alfred Uhry was to be my Mentor.
Alfred Uhry was just great! He asked great questions; shot me straight on what was working for him, and what wasn’t, and particularly helpful in pointing out spots where the play’s considerable humor could be activated. He’s a wonderful playwright and man who I wish I saw more of. He shared a really wonderful piece of personal symmetry with me. He took me aside one day and said that when he was my age—the age I was then—he was about to throw in the towel, but something clicked and instead he sat down and wrote Driving Miss Daisy. So, despite our obsession with “young and new” (and there’s nothing wrong with that!) … there’s hope for those with a gray hair or two who have persisted in this profession and keep working at their craft.
I understand that Adrian Hall's productions at Trinity Rep, back when he was the Artistic Director there, also left quite an impression on you. What was it about them that stayed with you?
Trinity Square Repertory Company, as it was known then, is where my fires were lit, and it was four years of watching Adrian Hall’s incredibly innovative, edge pushing productions that they were stoked. This was 1965-70-ish, and I was lucky enough to be able to study at what was then the nascent form of what is now Trinity Rep’s Conservatory.
Adrian was as interested in the plays of Pinter, Joyce, Williams, Brecht, Penn Warren, Shakespeare, Wilde, as he was in dramatizing The Novel. He was constantly exploring form and technique. Growtowski, Meyerhold, Brecht, Chaikin, Julian Beck and Judith Malina, Artaud – all these theatrical “performance” philosophers were explored in some way in his productions in those heady days when it was an actual resident repertory company. Of course, I was only a teen. I didn’t have a clue what I was really seeing until many, many years later when my own curiosity led me to a project at The Moscow Art Theatre. I cut my own teeth as a director in the European theatre with its often crisper lines of demarcation, its formalities, and its “director is all” position. As I indicated, this view would come to be challenged during my years with Albee; now, I quite happily split the difference and welcome true collaboration with directors keenly intent on it. In hindsight, I see these years of study at Trinity as a prelude for what I call my “Director Years.”
Did you know right from the start that you wanted to be a writer? Or was it more of just a general feeling that you wanted to be involved in the theatre somehow?
I started writing poetry when I was around seven, and at the same time would also stage huge Passion pageants in the mill yards of the tiny one square mile city in Rhode Island where I grew up. Then, I thought I wanted to be the first American Pope, and had several collections of the appropriate attire in my costume collection. (One day, I’d still love to write a big ‘ol Pope play!)
I was sort of being groomed in the direction of the priesthood. But, that wasn’t to be. I liked the theatricality of it all immensely, and the form and structure. Once I discovered Trinity Square Repertory Company, I fell in love with words, and language even more. I’d grown up listening to stories: my Irish grandmother’s, my uncle’s, aunts, my dad—so many stories, and here they were arranged and being told through action, so naturally, at about 16, I thought I wanted to be an actor who got to tell them. That led me from a dour Catholic boy’s academy to drama school at North Carolina School of the Arts where I trained as an actor. By the time I graduated, I was just beginning to write my first play. I came to New York City with it, in very short order it was done, and people told me that I was a playwright. I said “Thank God,” and have never acted again. I love actors, and acting, but I don’t think I’m a very good one. I know that I couldn’t bang out eight performances a week; that my mind likes to gallop ahead of itself, and is usually engaged with a couple writing projects at once. “Shape-shifting” – which I get so excited about when I encounter it for real in an actor – is something that I’d rather do privately and on the page.
You teach at both Lehman College and Fordham University. How do you like teaching? And what are some of the more important things you try to impart to your students?
Jump fully in. Make mistakes. Trust your curiosity and allow it room to lead. Start knowing your own mind as soon as possible. Remain as open to things for as long as possible. Don’t allow anything, or anyone—including one’s self—to stop you from creating. You are not your play, your production, your role. Defend what you hold to be true. Seek generosity in yourself whenever possible. Make at least one true friend who will shoot you straight when/if delusion begins to compete with reality. If it’s on your mind, there’s a pretty good chance it’s also on someone else’s—they just may not know it yet. View Art in all forms as much as possible and dialogue with it. Listen to the text and the sub-text in everything. “Difficult” people in this profession are often some of the most honest—their contradictions, and passions are overt; don’t be afraid to engage with them. If it’s compelling to you, make it compelling to others. “Nice” is as exciting as “the.” The sooner you come to terms with the fact that living is dangerous and will end, the sooner you will experience all its splendors. There’s nothing the theatre can’t explore. These are the major general aspirations I try to communicate.
Having taught and directed extensively, both in the U.S. and abroad, and having had your plays produced steadily, you are one of those rare people who makes a living in the arts. How did you manage to build such a career? And do you have any advice for others striving to do the same?
I think I just said “yes,” in times and circumstances where I might otherwise have said “no.” I’ve no idea where in hell the confidence to do that came from. I was a sort of “slipped through the cracks” kid, and perhaps wasn’t taught to be afraid of what could be waiting on the other side of that little word. Naiveté or brio, I’m not sure—probably some of both. “Yes” in a Greenwich Village coffee shop once led me to directing a newly commissioned work in an eleven hundred seat theatre in Athens in Greek, and to many other great adventures all over that had I given too much thought to the “risks” of, probably never would have happened. So “building a career” to me … well, it’s not something that I was ever aware that I was doing. To my mind at the time, I was simply responding to what I initiated and following it through very curious to discover where it might lead. Now, I sometimes think that I “should” (a word I try not to use much) have been more “goal oriented” about it, but I don’t seem to be wired to think very far ahead; become consumed by whatever it is I am doing when I’m doing it, and well, leave the rest to sort itself out as it invariably does.
My advice for those “striving” (your word) is to stop “striving” and do it. If you are genuinely a playwright, you won’t have much choice in the matter, as it has a life of its own.
Interview with Glyn O'Malley was conducted by Michael Criscuolo January 2006.
(Glyn O'Malley died in 2007. He will be missed.)