Conditional, Theatrical Love

I know people who love the theatre unconditionally. For them, most plays are worthy, even magical. Revivals are cultural heirlooms dusted off. An empty space is a place of endless, meaningful possibilities.

I don't love the theatre unconditionally. I love my children unconditionally (beat) when they're behaving.

To earn my unconditional love, the theatre would have to be a place where writing and performing pays handsomely (Tyler Perry loves the theatre; he loves movies more), is filled with cut-throats and braggarts, pimps and whores, visionaries and vivisectionists - TV but on stage and crazy.

My creative impulse begins life as rage. I don't perk up until I get a whiff of blood. Sitting down to write has nothing to do with art, the exploration of a theme, an inner voice or some delusional need to express myself. I get past the hard part, the beginning, by indulging in a fantasy: I write a play that makes the audience laugh and/or cry and they all have a spectacular evening and I do it in a way that in no way resembles what contemporary theatre passes off as theatrical entertainments; I exceed the theatre's possibilities.

The only condition in which the theatre, or any entertainment, ought to be loved is when it meets or exceeds its potential. Today's theatre lumbers about in a 503(c)-induced stupor one step down stage left from oblivion.