The Dark Side of Theatre
Good God.
I just received an epistle containing a most dark and introspective discourse. It seems the poor author has succumbed to the Siren’s call, and gotten himself beached pretty damn good on the rocks of self-doubt. This is not the time to place any blame, but clearly this is the work of agents provocateur. Funny, how when we think of Agent, we naturally think of Orange? Anyway, sewing the seeds of discord among the ranks of a rival theatre company isn’t even considered rude in this day and age; it’s just good rucking. Whatever. The bottom line is, somebody got to one of us, and they got to him good. Polluting his head with the kind of questions that simmer in the cerebrum, only to be released by too much booze and allowed to rampage around the mind leaving fear and paranoia in their wake.
It’s no surprise, of course. Amateur theatre is a cutthroat and deadly business. Ambiguous threats in the mail, screams in the night, people disappearing, and much, much worse. But the Tin Ceiling hasn’t been privy to anything quite this sinister since a top-secret writer’s workshop was scuppered by some cunning brute carefully leaving a full bottle of Johnny Walker at the assigned meeting place. No sense, let alone creativity, came out of that night that’s for sure. It was a stunning victory for The Others. You could hear them laughing maniacally in the night.
As it is, the Tin Ceiling can only blame its own for this latest subterfuge. One of our members brazenly thumbed his nose at the wrong people not too long ago, and stirred up a mean viper’s nest of preternatural angst. Yes, the Weird Sisters don’t take kindly to that sort of male chauvinist bravado. They took down Macbeth, remember, and not even Kevin Kline was immune to their wily talents. They leave no score unsettled, and so it was only a matter of time before they wreaked their revenge. And wreak it they did, with a vengeance you might say. Nobody could have guessed that they would go straight for one of the main arteries.
I fear it’s too late for my comrade; the poison looks to have taken root in his brain. Back in the Old Country, there would have been no other solution but to take the poor fool out into the woods and put him out of his misery. As it is, we’ll have to strap the fellow down, rig up an IV drip of PBR to loosen up his confused mind, and hope we can talk him down from this terrible bout of sanity. Amateur theatre is no place to be sane after all; not if you value your creative integrity.
The Tin Ceiling will be putting on its infamous seven/24 at the end of this month. If you have any sense of decency you will all be there.
