Terrence McNally’s plays are all about connection, and I’ve felt a pull towards them since the first one I saw.

FSU staged Lips Together, Teeth Apart while I was a student; it was miraculous, and it led me to read more of his work.

In fact, I’ve read all of his works and millions of words about them–in graduate school, I wrote his 10,000 word entry in the American Writers encyclopedia.

Today, having learned that he’s gone due to Covid 19, I am heartbroken. Writing this is hard; I’m crying. I’m thinking about the beauty of his dialogue, his integration of music, his themes. I’m thinking of my favorite works, the already-mentioned Lips Together, Teeth Apart, A Perfect Ganesh (the Ganesha I have in my bedroom is an allusion to this play), and Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune. These works are all about our need for connection and about how fear keeps us from letting down our walls. My favorite quote is Johnny’s:

I want to kill myself sometimes when I think I’m the only person in the world and the part of me that feels that way is trapped inside this body that only bumps into other bodies without ever connecting with the only other person in the world trapped inside of them. We gotta connect. We just have to. Or we die.

It’s ironic that McNally was felled by a virus that preys upon physical closeness and connection. But it’s precisely connection that we need to build to save ourselves–not physical closeness, but emotional closeness. We have to resist those who tell us the stock market is more important than each other’s lives. Connection in this time of crisis is understanding why we need to be more connected as we move ourselves physically apart.

Lips Together, Teeth Apart–our souls are the lips, our bodies are the teeth, for now.

Each little decision to keep a stranger safe is “a tiny leap across that void between two people.”

Today, I’ll have to tell my students that McNally is gone. This term, we watched Frankie and Johnny figure out how to love.

And tonight, I’m going to reread A Perfect Ganesh.

For now, I’ll leave you with the end of my article:

Terrence McNally goes to the theater at least three nights a week (the other nights are for opera and the ballet). He believes in the vitality and life of the theater in an age when the majority of the American public ignores theater. His works are part of the reason why the rest of us can keep believing. Perhaps people do not picket anymore when a play should be seen, like they did for McNally’s first play. If America were populated with people who were willing to demonstrate for great theater, McNally’s plays would give them something to picket for.

Alabaster, written by Audrey Cefaly & directed by Kristin Clippard, is playing at CapStage until Feb 23rd.

This production is part of the Rolling World Premiere program, in which new plays are performed on many different stages in the same year, which allows the playwright to get feedback from lots of audiences and allows us to showcase new writers.

In Alabaster, a big city photographer comes to photograph a deeply scarred farm owner in Alabama.

But this isn’t The Odd Couple–their differences are ultimately small, while what they share as women who’ve had immense losses is what really counts.

One of the charming aspects of the show is that the two goats on the farm are played by humans. (They beautifully capture the goat personalities I saw when I was briefly growing up on a farm.)

The performances were great–I especially loved Amy Kelly as Weezy.

I don’t know how I feel about the ending (and I can’t tell you why because I don’t want to give it away), but I’ve been thinking about it for over a week. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about this play.

Which means it’s definitely worth seeing.

A few years ago, a student tried to change my mind about gangster movies.

“They’re all about family–and loyalty!”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t go into the business my family wanted me to. I was a screw up and a disappointment in their eyes. But they didn’t kill me. In a gangster movie, if you don’t do what the patriarch wants, you get killed.”

Gangster movies are about power. Toxic masculinity and violence are celebrated. For people like my student, watching the films probably enables a fantasy about having that kind of power, inspiring that kind of fear.

Today, in my quest to watch all the Oscar nominees, I’m watching The Irishman. Like most movies of its ilk, it’s well done. But it’s reminiscent of all the other gangster movies. It’s the same actors in slightly different makeup.

And I’m wondering, if these movies were about African Americans instead of Italians, would white people still manage to see them as positive representations of families?

Or would people see these as the tragic stories of violence and abuse that they are?

“Wow. That’s brilliant. I never would have seen that,” several of my students exclaimed after the day’s discussion leader had them rewatch the “set up the kids” scene at the beginning of Cabin in the Woods. The discussion leader pointed out that the jock wasn’t dumb, the virgin wasn’t one, etc.

And the other students were flabbergasted.

Which made me flabbergasted.

But it’s happened each time I teach this film. This class is designed for Film/Media Studies majors, and so my heart breaks when they can’t actually read a film correctly.

To watch Cabin in the Woods and miss that the kids are not actually archetypes, which a surprising number of my students do, means that they misunderstand the initial attempts at characterization, all of the clear references to the designers affecting their behavior and cognition, and one character constantly trying to understand what’s happening.

“And since when does Curt pull this alpha male bullshit? I mean, he’s a sociology major, he’s on full academic scholarship, and now he’s calling his friend an egghead?”

I used to teach this film last, but this term, it will be our first. We’re going to talk about it Wednesday. I even told the students why–not about what exactly other classes were misunderstanding, but that other students were managing to majorly misunderstand significant plot points.

So we’ll see how they do.

When I started teaching Writing in Film Studies a few years ago, I was surprised by how many horror films made it onto my viewing list, since I don’t really like horror films.

Or maybe I don’t like “typical” horror films. And I will admit that I really dislike the serial killer ones. Give me aliens, zombies, vampires, gods–I can escape. Watching regular men kill regular women doesn’t give me catharsis. It leaves me feeling upset for days.

Cabin in the Woods is one of the best of the horror films I love. I didn’t really know what it was going to be about when I headed to the theatre in 2011. But I knew it was a Whedon thing, so it wasn’t going to be ordinary.

The theatre was almost empty. A woman who appeared to have a nice buzz came in and sat down right beside me. Halfway through the movie, she yelled, “This movie is fucking awesome.” The other seven of us in the audience just laughed. Cause it was true.

I was disappointed that Goddard, the director, chose to open the way he did, since it gave away so much of the twist away. But I also know that moviemakers don’t worry too much about spoiling things for professional geek overanalyzers. And it didn’t spoil the fun.

I watched the film again over the weekend, flinching as one character makes out with a wolf head (ick–so much dust!–even though I know it’s actually sugar).

And I found myself even more mad than usual that the virgin has to suffer to save us. Especially when one of the people she’s saving is the married professor who seduced her and then broke up with her via email. Why can’t we ever have to sacrifice that guy?

And I watched the documentaries about the effects–the approximately 100 practical monsters they created, the little details like the glowing coals in the reanimated mother’s belly.

And this time, I found a new favorite line. When I get my students’ first screening response on Wednesday, I hope they present them in the right way: “This we offer in humility and fear.”

Desired spin-off: The Odd Couple, featuring Thor and The Hulk

Whom I most want to cosplay: Hela

Best Prop: Tony’s Duran Duran shirt, which Bruce borrows

Best music: whatever Flash-Gordony stuff is playing when they’re on the trash planet

Reason to watch the extras: More Jeff Goldblum

Line that sums it all up: Thor, what happened to your hair?

Why I like it: Thor is many things, but the mythology makes it clear that sometimes he’s an oaf. This film shows us that, with impeccable comic timing.

30 years ago today, I had the VCR all ready to go.

I had to record the very first episode of The Simpsons.

Today, I landed in Greece. Tomorrow, I will give a paper on Mr. Burns: A Post-Electric Play, based on The Simpsons.

There aren’t many truly spooky plays, ones that make you jump.

But Stephen Karam knew to write about one of the scariest things there is–Thanksgiving dinners with family.

The Humans started its run at CapStage on October 16; it runs until Nov. 17, making it both a Halloween and Thanksgiving play.

It reminds me of one of my favorite movies, Home for the Holidays (directed by Jodie Foster, 1995). Except the tensions and secrets in The Humans seem to be manifesting in the walls.

My favorite aspect, though, was the realism. Michael Stevenson, the director, and his actors captured all the ways families talk to each other. How each line is layered with a complete human past behind it.

One character, the live-in boyfriend of one of the daughters, is trying to ingratiate himself into her family, so he keeps trying to side with his love’s mother when the two start rubbing each other the wrong way. No one can irritate us as much as family can; we’ve had years to find all the rawest nerves and to create new ways to get on them.

The Humans has won many awards; I’m thrilled that its Sacramento premiere is in the hands of such talented actors, director, and crew. It also works well in the company’s intimate space.

We’re so close that we have dinner with them (I was tempted to put some ice cream away that was left out too long), we laugh with them about all of mom’s silly texts, and we cry with mom when her feelings get hurt because we laughed at her.

Ultimately, this is a play about family, not just about how they drive us crazy, but how we learn to love them and forgive them despite a crime they can’t help: the crime of being human.

Me: Where’s the bathroom?

Her: By the bar.

Me: My mother taught me to always pee before an adventure.

Her: That’s a good plan.

[A few minutes later.]

Me: Does the smoke ever bother you?

Hostess: [coughs for a while] I swear on my mom’s life that was real. Can I get you some champagne?

Me: I’m going to get some whiskey at the bar. If one is going to see a Scottish play-inspired piece, one should have Scottish whiskey.

Her: Yes.

[I hear multiple people ask her where the bathroom is.]

Me: You know–it would make your job easier if we hung the head of a traitor here. We could hang a sign on him that says where the bathroom is.

Her: I enjoy you.

[I get called into the performance space.]

Me: I wish you could go with me. Goodbye, dearest partner in greatness!

Her: [taking my hand] Goodbye, whiskey girl!

Yesterday, I sat with a few other lovely people in the gorgeous gardens of Wadham College, watching Wuthering Heights, adapted by April de Angelis and directed by Michael Oakley.

It was glorious.

The story about two difficult people in love is a classic, but the writer, director, and players made the play enormously entertaining, both funny and heart-wrenching in turn.

I spent a lot of the time trying to figure out where I’d seen Nelly (Helen Belbin) before. I bought a program just so I could ease my mind. (Call the Midwife!) I wanted to know about all of the actors, though, since they were all so good.

The set was simple, and there was no backstage. Instead, the costumes flanked the set, making it easier for the actors to change, to provide musical accompaniment and sound effects. It’s a wonderful lesson in how good theatre really is all about the script and the performances.

Get thee to the garden: fall in love.