Valentine’s Day, and what more can anyone possibly say about love? But Bryan Willis has pulled it off.
Twenty or more years ago, I keep refraining, Bryan and I were chatting down at Theatre Schmeater on Capitol Hill. He told me he left New York because the actors there put a pause at the top of every line, and it destroyed the timing of his work. I nodded. The tiniest thing can make a huge difference.
So here he is, in Olympia, near the pony farm where he grew up and where he learned to speak, to listen, and to write for the spoken medium.
It is, indeed, the most delicate prosody, and when he engages with his subject, it is an ecstasy to behold.
My teacher Edward Albee used to look away from the actors when he evaluated a play. His wiring was so auditory that he demanded we kill the eye to write for him. He used to say that a play is more like a string quartet than a novel.
Bryan Willis can make a string quartet.
The piece was gentle and genteel, perfect for a grand old house with fifty-dollar tickets, and it reminds me, a still-slugging fellow playwright who prefers the day job racket to the nerve-wracking BUSINESS of never having any real money, that I should nail it in the big house from time to time, not just throw things.
The other piece, by the late Linda Kalkwarf, was a short one, an exploration of a seasoned couple in a state of perpetual mild conflict that daily resolves into acceptance and enduring love.
The occasional quotes on love by poets and writers lent a frissón to the overall effect. I left nourished and inspired. I will be back to Harlequin theatre. The set for the running show spoke of extreme competence.
There is a McMeniman’s down the street still serving the inimitable $13 glass of Black Rabbit Red. Next time, before-show eats, and more of a sense of the house. I know how to get to Olympia.
Steam Spiegel 