Godspell Hippies and clowns, strumming guitars, and sunshine. I went through several mood swings when I agreed to direct this production of Godspell. First, I was excited about getting to create my own stamp on this oft-produced show. Then it occurred to me just how often Godspell is performed poorly. High schools, churches, and community theaters the world round have adopted the images of the original production without capturing its essence, its intent. The show’s composer, Stephen Schwartz, remarked how many productions emphasize only the show’s comedy or tragedy—much to the detriment of the other side. This delicate balance is vital to the show’s success. Rather than focusing on preserving its vintage performing traditions, or on “updating” the show, by placing it in some cybermedia Neverland, I strove to achieve two simple goals: to entertain and to explain. John-Michael Tebelak, the show’s writer and original director, urged his cast to perform as if half the audience were deaf and half were blind—enabling a blend of physical and vocal acrobatics to satisfy both groups. This technique proves most useful in relating these familiar parables in a new and entertaining way. But it is only half the battle to get an audience member to smile. Theater has long been a vehicle for the dissemination of ideas, and Godspell is no exception. From the various deities and philosophers who open the show with conflicting philosophies, to the central passion play narrative, to the ultimate call to audience to “prepare ye the way of the Lord,” the show urges its audience members to consider their place in society and to examine their beliefs. Originally written as a response to the fragmentation of society during the Vietnam War, Godspell focuses on the importance of community—and the amazing things that can be accomplished by a group working toward a common goal. Our diverse cast has portrayed this message not only in relating Tebelak’s script, but also in its continual molding of its collective talents and ideas into a cohesive whole throughout the rehearsal process. They have provided a never-end a stream of creativity to fuel the pageant of parables and songs that makes up this show. Men and women, living in community, and hope. You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown When I found out that You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown was to be the fall musical my senior year of high school, I was crushed. I had seniority on my side; this was my last chance to get a juicy role on my resume before going off to college. And now, I was going to be a singing, dancing dog? I put in the work, I learned my music, I practiced the steps…and somehow I was still nonplussed. With no dramatic star turns or profound deeper meaning, the show just seemed too simple to my teeming adolescent brain. When the curtain went up on the Wausau West High School stage, and heard the laughter of my friends and peers, I began to understand the appeal of the simplicity I disdained. Life is complicated. Our childhood anxieties mature into adult worries and the pace of life relentlessly increases with every new gadget invented to “make things easier.” It is refreshing to step back from all of this and remember the days when a dropped ice cream cone meant the end of the world. And it is amusing to watch adults dressed in shortalls or frilly anklets, one obliviously sucking his thumb while another wails at the top of her lungs. And who couldn’t love Snoopy, in all his curtness and cuteness, after all? Anyone who has read the comic strip Peanuts recognizes the genuine pearls of wisdom strung together with the charm and humor found in following these precocious six year olds. Perhaps this is why, unlike most comic strips, Peanuts is still printed years after the death of its creator. Perhaps this also explains the enduring quality of this musical, one of the most produced musicals ever written. It is precisely its simplicity of thought and economy of structure that make You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown a palatable evening (or afternoon) of entertainment for all ages – from the children who identify directly with schoolyard troubles to the adults who appreciate a breath of fresh air. I thank Holy Trinity Lutheran Church and the Three-Sided Players for allowing me the opportunity to re-examine this musical. It has been a pleasure to work with this cast. Their enthusiasm and camaraderie are infectious, and they truly “play well with others.” I hope, in the spirit of the show, you can take a step back from your daily life and play with us as well. Go ahead. Laugh out loud. Tap your toe. Whether happiness to you is pizza with sausage or five different crayons, forget about the stack of cares piled on your desk and enjoy the show. And if, in the course of it all, you find something that resonates a little deeper, I wouldn’t be surprised. L e nozze di Figaro The Marriage of Figaro is a work so shrouded in mythology surrounding its origins (Finale dashed off in two days! Ink still wet on Overture! Ballet banned!) and so saddled with tradition concerning its performance practice (Ornamentation? Rubato? Alternate arias?) that mounting a successful production is a daunting feat indeed. Though the material’s quality speaks for itself, one must capture the audience’s imagination enough to justify yet another performance while not offending purists. When Maestro Katkov-Trevino and I decided to schedule the opera this season, our main concern was to give our talented company members the experience of performing a standard work, after all our previous attention to the less-performed corners of the repertory. Then, faced with stamping our mark on the piece, our perspectives diverged greatly. Whereas my colleague opted to eliminate many elements of standard performing traditions, I chose to accept several conventions of 18th century opera in my approach. Figaro presents the director with an enormous challenge of Shakespearian complexity in the size of its cast and the quick weaving of entrances and exits for characters of vastly different social standing. As we are providing an introduction to these roles for many of our singers, I thought it best to delve into the actual characters as written by Beaumarchais and filtered through da Ponte, as opposed to inventing a more contemporary scenario expressly for the occasion. Our longer rehearsal process has allowed the singers to examine their relationships in the Beaumarchais play, consider the socio-political climate of the era, factor in religious beliefs, explore presentational versus naturalistic acting, and to simply live with their roles longer than the few weeks normally allotted. This, combined with the intimacy of our venue, will hopefully allow the cast’s finely-crafted, nuanced performances to come across to the audience. But then, there remains the question of whether an opera written for the Austrian court in 1786 is relevant to our modern society. What suits the cast’s needs may not prove, after all, to be remotely interesting to the audience. However, I would contend that, when you see Wendy van Asten’s Cherubino smile awkwardly at the Countess, you will recall hints of your own first bouts with infatuation. Or that you might feel the tingle of recognition and sympathy when Summer Grest’s Countess laments the Count’s love grown cold. Much has been said about the power of Mozart’s music to penetrate the human psyche; that these perfumed, feathered Rococo moments can still strike a chord with modern audiences is remarkable indeed. While I cannot promise this to be a Figaro for the ages, I can promise the best efforts of a group of talented and dedicated young performers striving to do justice to an incredible masterpiece. And I wager that’s enough for a satisfying, touching, smile-inducing evening of music-theatre entertainment. After all, isn’t that what opera is all about? The Wandering Scholar / THE BEAR My appreciation for the one-act opera developed early on, when I first sang in Gianni Schicchi at Valparaiso University at the ripe age of 19. As my knowledge of the repertory grew, it astonished me how many composers had cut their teeth writing short works—who knew that Pagliacci and Cavalleria Rusticana weren’t the only one-act operas around? And every time such a work is actually produced, you will often read in the program notes how difficult it is to find a companion piece. For me, a major part of the charm and interest of one-acts is the finding of a perfect pair. The director is able to play matchmaker on a grand scheme, seeking complementary visual and thematic elements while not overextending company resources. Aside from Benjamin Britten, whose operatic output dwarfs that of his fellow countrymen, British composers have never really found a niche in the standard operatic repertory. Works have either been found “too British” in their sensibilities, “too difficult” in terms of production demands, or have had serious problems with their libretti. Often, the very elements that make concert music written by British composers in the 19th and 20th centuries so enjoyable (like the folk-song quotations of Vaughan Williams or the deft orchestrations of Delius and Holst) can cause their operatic works to seem unfocused or undramatic. These two operas, however, have a great deal of charm to offer an audience, especially in a country that shares English as its native tongue. The Holst piece does wear its British pedigree on its sleeve to some extent, from the snippets of pastoral melodies recurring throughout the score to its Punch-and-Judy-show style of plot. But this quintessentially British sense of humor (with exaggerated physicality and tongue firmly in cheek) has exported well before—consider Gilbert & Sullivan, Ab Fab, or Monty Python. While the brusqueness of the plot may not find a perfect match in the refined score, this Springtime romp in medieval France yields delights worth unpacking for the academic musician and the layperson alike. Walton’s The Bear has met with some success in Europe, and certainly has surpassed the composer’s earlier foray in opera in terms of popularity. Chekhov’s famous vaudeville, forever swapping extremes of emotion, found a perfect match in Walton’s eclectic style. Here, libretto and score are inextricably linked, as the composer’s energetic rhythms and witty pastiche keep the action bubbling along. A tour de force for three singing actors, The Bear pushes its performers through extended ranges and techniques physically and vocally—thus warranting its label as an “extravaganza.” Both pieces center around a battle of wits between the sexes. It is not simply a matter of person versus person in these works, but very definitely a woman versus a man. Both Alison and Popova use their femininity to their advantage, when useful, and suppress it when not. Louis and Luka are both rather aloof and unaware of the world around them in stereotypical male fashion. Smirnoff, though coarse and ungraceful of manners, is accused of being unmanly when he gives up the battle and surrenders to his affection. In spite of all the bickering, love reigns supreme at the final curtain. Louis may tease his wife with punishment, but his unceasing attention will certainly ease her condition. Popova’s long faithfulness to an undeserving husband is rewarded with a proper sparring partner—who can match her mood-swing for mood-swing. But enough of the deeper side; it is indeed the comedy that will catch your eyes and ears. Please sit back and enjoy this delightful pair of rare British masterpieces. L’INFEDELTa Fedele Why does opera continue to be performed in this day and age of iPods and plasma televisions? Certainly with 3,000 or more songs at your fingertips, your average mp3 player can offer a much wider selection of music than any opera house. And, while it is generally no longer accepted for four-hundred-pound women to plant themselves on a corner of the stage and wail for hours, any old sitcom will give you much more action in half the time. Such grand speculation hardly seems appropriate to accompany a chamber production of an obscure work by a second-rank composer. However, I believe that passion is the single most vital ingredient in any successful opera. The passions of the composer filter through the dreams of the director and then course through the veins of red-blooded singer-actors. And it is passion that is absent in the above-mentioned forms of mass-market media. My passion for this opera stems from its taking a formative role in my career. At the end of my undergraduate career, through a miraculous chain of coincidences, I received an offer to costume and sing with Studio Lirico in Anghiari, Italy. In this small Tuscan village, I began my acquaintance with Domenico Cimarosa through Talmage Fauntleroy, at the time the director of Studio Lirico and the world’s foremost authority on Cimarosa. He and Nick Rossi, when producing the composer’s hit Il matrimonio segreto, noted the lack of writings on the composer and began to research the subject. In so doing, they pored over Cimarosa’s previously unpublished scores in the Conservatorio di musica San Pietro a Majella library in Naples. Painstakingly copying the scores by hand, they began performing one of these rare operas each year in their summer program. This work, with its interesting blend of low comedy and melodrama, fascinated audiences at its premiere, and so charmed Franz Joseph Haydn at a revival in Dresden in 1783 that he set the libretto himself. The comic servant characters were based on commedia dell’arte stock characters and originally sang lines written in the Neapolitan dialect, while the hero and heroine take a cue from the classic opera seria figures of Orfeo and Euridice in their words and actions. This blend of low and high art was designed to cater to the growing middle class audience for opera and, when the Teatro del Fondo opened its doors with this very opera in 1779, the Neapolitan king unlocked the otherwise “base and vulgar” opera buffa for the middle and upper classes. Cimarosa’s combination of high vocal demands with low comedy may seem strange to modern audiences (is it opera?!?), but we should recall that these pieces were indeed the musical theatre of their day, meant to please the ear while entertaining a public eager to laugh. Preparing this work for production has been an amazing endeavor for all involved. Conductor Robert Katkov-Trevino and I have prepared a new performing edition of the opera, opening up several cuts made for the 2001 modern premiere of the work in Italy. The corrupted Italian text of the opera has been corrected and standardized, while stage tricks common to the classical era theatre have been reimagined for modern sensibilities. The many quirks of the plot have provided the cast with every emotion from confusion to frustration to delight. Through it all, the lovely tunes and innocent comedy of this opera won me over again; I wish you the same joy as you experience this neglected gem. Now that the sets are up and the lights are blazing, I hope we are able to imbue this work with the passion so often absent from art in our age and share it with you, our treasured audience. THE RAPE OF LUCRETIA When Robert Katkov-Trevino called me this summer to propose possible operas for a collaboration, I had no idea that six months later I would be working with a new ensemble to present Britten’s The Rape of Lucretia. Indeed, when Robert first mentioned his interest in the piece, I laughed at him. Surely a group of young singers should stick to the standards to cut their teeth, rather than tackling a tricky masterpiece of twentieth-century music. In spite of my reservations, I agreed to mull it over and, as I listened to the music, pored over the score, and researched past productions, ideas and images started to fill my head. I took a deep breath and willingly braced myself for the challenge. It struck me after reading other directors’ concepts and critics’ reviews that, while the show is very clearly framed with contemporary Christian narrators, few had ever confidently explored the framework these narrators provide. Further, many critics of the piece contend that the opera’s Christian elements detract from the impact of the central tragedy, with some even excising the Male Chorus’s overtly Christian final monologue from the score. When Holy Trinity Lutheran Church agreed to host this production, my central concept locked into place. Staging the opera as a sort of church “passion play” would solve the problem of the piece’s more didactic elements and give the framework resonant meaning. However, this solved only half the problem. Considering the thematic elements of innocence versus corruption, violence versus pacifism, and honor versus deceit, I thought of the vital importance of these concepts in non-Western cultures. The stylized ritual of church liturgy fused in my mind with Asian styles of presentational drama. Both are present in this production in alternation with more traditional “realistic” theatre. As with any show, the concept should never supercede the actual material of the work, the words and music. Britten’s complex score and Duncan’s intricately wrought libretto, emphasizing ideas over action, have given all of our personnel a very difficult task. Overcoming the hurdle of these difficulties has simply demanded a careful reading of the words and music. You will not see in this production any magical special effects or hear famous names singing. However, hopefully this evening you will experience this opera in a new way, in the way opera was intended—a fusion of musical and dramatic materials to create a total work of art. The Fantasticks I have developed somewhat of a reputation among my peers for championing the obscure and uncharted corners of the repertory. How, then, am I now presenting one of the cornerstones of the musical theatre genre—indeed, the longest running musical in the world? Staging The Fantasticks has been an interesting experience for me as a director. Having never seen a production of the show before, it was difficult to sort through the years of traditions surrounding its presentation. Costumes, scenery, choreography, visual images, and other performance practices have all become standard practice for nearly any production of the show. But with so many traditions surrounding the piece, such a traditional production may become bogged down in superficial details—which way to hold a hand, which size of platform, which color of dress—that the show is only a museum piece, a secondhand artifact of the original. As with any show, the concept should never supercede the actual material of the work, the words and the music. Much has been said about the power of The Fantasticks to win the audience’s hearts. The simplicity of the score and plot, gilded by intricately wrought dialogue, make this 45-year-old piece seem fresh—and refreshing!—rather than hopelessly nostalgic and antiquated, as one might be tempted to believe. It has been a joy discovering the charms of this piece in all their simple elegance. And, I am happy to say, I have been blessed with a terribly talented and (more importantly) dedicated cast able to bring these beloved characters to life. Whether you find resonance in the work’s central love story, chuckle at the antics of the Old Actors, identify with the befuddled parents, or hum along to the familiar tunes, I encourage you to leave the outside world behind, and be swept away by the magic that has kept audiences spellbound for decades. THE SCARF Lee Hoiby’s first opera, The Scarf, proved to ban acquired taste for me. I first encountered the score last November, when searching through the music library for a work to be performed with Ned Rorem’s A Childhood Miracle. On the surface, they seemed a good pair: both represented the first foray into the operatic genre by major American composers, both were set in a wintry 19th century New England, both were adaptations of short stories by famous authors, both involved magical plot elements, and so on. And while the direct charm of Rorem’s score captivated me from the start, Hoiby’s more complex language kept me at a distance. Admittedly, the drama of the situation was more compelling to me than the music. In an early rehearsal, we had played through forty-some pages of the score before our rehearsal pianist said, “Aha! A pretty tune, after all!” Yet Hoiby’s taut, tense score perfectly matches the mood of Harry Duncan’s libretto, adapted from Chekhov’s “The Witch.” Normally, Hoiby’s musical output is known for its unabashedly melodic, Romantic style—one thinks of the catchy tune of the song “Where the Music Comes From,” or the gorgeous line of his William Blake settings. But another principle of import to the composer is the sensitive treatment of text. “The words themselves become a very active part of the compositional process,” he said. “They give me the feel, meaning, mood, atmosphere, and the rhythm.” Because there is so little light in the lives of these three characters—a Postman bound by his dull duties, a younger woman worn by an uneventful life, an older man embittered by a loveless marriage—Hoiby’s score takes on a melancholy coloring, predominantly written in a minor mode. True to his compositional credo, however, he never lapses into the atonality championed by so many of his contemporaries. The balance of religious, magical, and realistic plot strands has evolved significantly since our first rehearsals. Perhaps because of my relative unfamiliarity with the piece, I was willing to be more ambiguous about Miriam’s witchcraft, about Ray’s fanaticism, about the Postman’s enigmatical character. But it became clear that, though those choices were “safe,” the opera still kept people at a distance. As our choices became riskier, I became further drawn into this intimate tale of isolation, tension, and passion. We have all had moments when we have desired to break out of our boxes and experience a new life. Miriam’s story takes this idea to the extreme, and has disastrous consequences for all parties involved. After many setbacks, due to illness, scheduling difficulties, and other assorted curses, it gives me great joy to present Lee Hoiby’s The Scarf. Since resuming work on this production in April, my initial misgivings about this piece have truly been turned around. I invite you, too, to put aside any apprehensions about twentieth-century opera and experience with us the passions of three disparate persons trapped in a farmhouse kitchen on a blizzardy winter’s night. A Childhood Miracle When I initially experienced the magical opening music of A Childhood Miracle, Ned Rorem’s first opera, it beckoned to my (somewhat dormant) inner child. The charm of the score enticed me, and the more I listened, the more my head filled with images and ideas of the dramatic possibilities inherent in this piece. From that moment, over three years ago, I have been working toward the realization of this production, and I am very grateful to the receptive faculty and talented students of the Chicago College of Performing Arts for helping to bring this project to fruition. This opera was penned with Elliott Stein, another American expatriate, during Rorem’s long residency in Paris; neither of them had any previous operatic experience, nor did they have any prospects of production for their creation. It is perhaps due to this lack of constraint—that they did not have to write for the technical capabilities or voices of any particular house—that the piece is so open to interpretation. A few unconventional decisions characterize this production, not the least of which is the addition of a chorus to represent the snow. While the stage effect of plastic snow falling can be lovely, this snow is a full participant in the action, emphasizing the “make-believe” aspect of the story. When Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote his short story “The Snow Image” in 1852, the world was much simpler. In working with this cast, it became clear how odd it is to envision inhabiting a world in which the imagination was still a child’s best form of entertainment. It is hard to be truly lonely in today’s world, where friends are a phone call or a brief e-mail away, whereas Peony and Violet are able to play with other girls their own age only once a year. When Violet exclaims, “I’ve been so lonely,” her words hold that much more resonance. Though Violet complains of loneliness in Hawthorne’s original story, the stakes are driven upward for the operatic Violet, as her age is raised to that of sexual awakening, stunted by her sheltered life. Elliott Stein further complicated matters when, in adapting Hawthorne’s tale, he switched the characters’ genders, making the siblings Violet and Peony both girls—and then cast the snow image as a boy whom they both love and covet. The layers of tension added to the story underline a Freudian element and point toward modern feminism, as opposed to the common-sense moral of the original Victorian tale. However, when all is said and done, the opera at its core revolves around the concept of fantasy suffering from, and eventually escaping the confines of reality. So, in that spirit, I invite you to leave your modern sensibilities behind, as you step into the world of children, and the miracles they create. As You Like It “Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence.” H.L. Mencken, a newspaper editor working at the dawn of the twentieth century, made this seemingly trivial yet incisive remark. To me, it sums up the philosophy that propels this play. If indeed love does not play a central role in As You Like It, what does? Here in one of Shakespeare’s latter romantic comedies, we see love in its various guises; sometimes the feeling is instantly reciprocated, sometimes it is left unrequited—all giving and no receiving. We see love driving rational people to write odes and anthems to trivialities. We see love practiced and dictated, much as some of us might wish to better “train” our significant others. We see love ridiculed for how it appears to those who are outside Cupid’s clutches. Just as love makes the world go ‘round, it sets into motion the machinations of the plot. Shakespeare is known worldwide as one of literature’s heroes, and yet, many people still feel an aversion to the Bard. Perhaps all-too-proper performance practice and snobbery have corrupted the original intent of these works: to entertain. It is most important for us to be able to see these characters as a reflection of ourselves so that we may relate to them as humans, but it is also important to be able to take leave of ourselves and simply enjoy the foibles of others’ holiday foolery for a short while. In that vein, I have tried to emphasize the “play” in this play, that the play neither feels like a museum piece, nor a didactic lesson, but rather like a very rich, very tasty “slice of life.” I can honestly say this is the most work I have invested in one production. For two months, I have breathed, eaten, drunk, slept, and dreamed Shakespeare. Hopefully this experience will prove rewarding for actors and audience alike, and we will be able to learn from each other as we share what makes us laugh and love. A…MY NAME IS ALICE A…My Name is Alice first really came to my attention two years ago, as a friend and I drove to Denny’s for a late-night study session. She had just gotten a tape of the show from a recent production at the University of Michigan. My ear was tired, and my mind was attempting to focus on the schoolwork that awaited my attention, but the infectious energy of the music distracted me. It begged to be heard. I fell in love with the score, and the stories it weaves together—of women’s lives in today’s society. While the show is indeed “delightful,” “warm,” “spontaneous,” and “witty,” as it has been called even by some of the theatre industry’s toughest critics, it also looks back to the past with hints of something more serious. A…My Name is Alice would not exist were it not for the efforts of some strong, less-than-well-behaved women in the past, who were often labeled with one dirty f-word: feminist. It is often easy to lose sight of the fact that something as simple as women’s enrollment at an institution of higher learning at one point was quite radical. Women in America today no longer have to keep their heads covered, speak only when spoken to, or abandon hopes of a career. Men and women alike are able to make use of the great tool of choice in guiding their lives. And quite frequently, that is all we ask. Too often, the issues of equal rights and special rights get mixed up. Our country was founded on the principle that all human beings are just that: humans. And as such, I personally hope that, one day, all human beings will be able to coexist without begrudging each other our happiness—and our right to individuality. With that, I invite you to enjoy this look into American womanhood. Take in the pleasure and pain that women experience every day, as these six very talented ladies play their roles. Perhaps you will feel a smile on your face, a tear in your eye, a toe tapping, or a gigantic belly-laugh. Do so freely. But in so doing, remember the work that has gone before us, and recall your part in all of this: Be true to what you believe—and don’t let anyone hold you back. “a…my name is alice…and i’m alright…amen!”
 
 
ACTOR  -  SINGER  -  DIRECTOR  -  DESIGNER
director Brian A. von Rueden • BARITONE director’s notes
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