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Here's the truth about reviews.

Some of it is actual constructive criticism. Some of it is just pulpy word play. Sometimes, it's based on personal likes/dislikes or preconceived expectations. And sometimes, it's just mean for no good reason.

Here's the truth about theater.

It's a group effort. You need a director with a focus to corral it all, but everyone has to hold onto their length of rope to keep the sail up and the boat headed toward the right destination. That's the actors, writers, technical staff, everybody. Everybody.



Photo by Sarah Jane Rhee

So when a review points out something grand, or less than such...it's a reflection on the whole, no matter which part was held to task.


I've performed in (or worked on) a lot of shows. LOTS. A few were heartbreakingly excellent, a couple were painfully bad and many more than I can count were quite entertaining (which is the very least a show should be at any given time.) All of them share one constant:

Artistic types (on the whole) seek response.

And, let's face it, positive response is 84% sweeter than negative.
We want our work to be appreciated and understood.
Or at least appreciated.

Some years back I was in a really great show. Audiences loved it, critics loved it...well, except for my character. There were seven cast members. One particularly glowing review mentioned how fucking awesome every single actor was by name (and they were)...with the exception of me. I was listed as an "also ran."

Let me tell you, years later, the thought of that review is still like a tiny splinter in my thumb. It doesn't really hurt, unless I jab at it, but it's there, just under my skin. A reminder.

The thing is, I was happy with my work in the show. (Still am.)
And thrilled that we got such a great response.

But actors are, well, we hate admitting it aloud, but we are needy, attention seeking motherfuckers. We play it cool (or learn to), but really, down deep, we just want you to tell us how fucking awesome we are.

24 hours a day.

Of course, that's highly unrealistic.
At some point, we need sleep.

So, I suspect that's why, while we try to ignore bad reviews (but sometimes can't), when we hear words that flatter our giant balloon animal egos (like the ones they use outside of car dealerships), we tend to let them wash all over us.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'm super proud of all the work everyone put into this show. More than once,my jaw has hit the floor at the display of talent and professionalism these folks have thrown down.

That said, if anyone could use some air in her giant balloon animal, it's me.

So, for today, I'm going to take it and run with it.
Enjoy it.
Let my brain explode, squeegee it off the wall and let it explode again.



Photo by Sarah Jane Rhee


Sun Times: Several scenes do justice to Hopper's paintings, including the winningly raw and poetic Nelson Algren-like riff that starts the show, and some exchanges of body language that capture hints of longing and disappointment.

DUDE. Nelson Algren is one of my all-time favorite writers and for someone to pick up on that tone and reference makes my brain explode and fills me with an excitement akin to Navin Johnson finding his listing in the phone book.


New City: There are eight million stories in the naked city, and WNEP lets us eavesdrop on a handful of them. Fragments, not full narratives, consistent with the mystique evoked by Hopper, create a mosaic of life. Not surprisingly, there’s a noir tone to it all, with spot-on night and the city costuming by Rebecca Langguth and a cinematic jazz soundtrack.

Although, I believe this reviewer was less keen on my writing "...the writing is spotty, ranging from clever meta-noir tone poems to ineffective melodrama."

I'm the only one (I'm pretty sure) who's pieces could be compared with a meta-noir tone poem. If you've seen the play, you'll find some ironic comedy in my writing being called "clever." Ah...callbacks.

Still, it's awfully nice to get a shout out for all the hours upon hours I spent digging through thrift stores and pulling my hair out when I lost on Ebay auctions.


So there you are.
Or there I am.
My ego. Sated for the moment.

Although...the day? She's still young.