Theatre Thursday: Fact and fiction

Six hundred and seven years ago today, Henry V was crowned king of England. You probably know him as that king from the movie with Kenneth Branagh, or the BBC series aired under the title The Hollow Crown.

Either way, you know him because of Shakespeare. He was the king who grew up in Shakespeare’s second tetralogy. Yes, that’s a set of four plays and since it was his second, Shakespeare sort of did the Star Wars thing first: he wrote eight plays on the subject of the English Civil war.

And, much like Lucas, he wrote the original tetralogy first, then went back and did the prequels. Richard II, Henry IV, Part 1, Henry IV, Part 2 and Henry V were written after but happened before Henry VI, Part 1, Henry VI, Part 2, Henry VI, Part 3 and Richard III.

Incidentally, Henry VI, Part 1, is famous for having Joan of Arc (aka Joan la Pucelle in the play) as one of the antagonists. Funny thing is, that name wasn’t slander on Shakespeare’s part. That’s what she preferred to call herself.

Meanwhile, Richard III, of course, is the Emperor Palpatine of the series, although we never did get a Richard IV, mainly because he never existed in history. Well, not officially. Richard III’s successor was Henry VII, and Shakespeare never wrote about him, either, although he did gush all over Henry VIII, mainly because he was the father of the Bard’s patron, Elizabeth I. CYA.

If you’ve ever seen the film My Own Private Idaho, directed by Gus Van Sant and staring River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves, then you’ve seen a modern retelling of the two parts of Henry IV.

Now when it comes to adapting true stories to any dramatic medium, you’re going to run into the issue of dramatic license. A documentary shouldn’t have this problem and shouldn’t play with the truth, although it happens. Sometimes, it can even prove fatal.

But when it comes to a dramatic retelling, it is often necessary to fudge things, sometimes a little and sometimes a lot. It’s not at all uncommon for several characters to be combined into a composite just to make for a cleaner plot. After all, is it that big of a difference if, say, King Flagbarp IX in real life was warned about a plot against him in November by his chamberlain Norgelglap, but the person who told him the assassin’s name in February was his chambermaid Hegrezelda?

Maybe, maybe not, but depending on what part either of those characters plays in the rest of the story, as well as the writer’s angle, they may both be combined as Norgelglap or as Hegrezelda, or become a third, completely fictionalized character, Vlanostorf.

Time frames can also change, and a lot of this lands right back in Aristotle’s lap. He created the rules of drama long before hacks like the late Syd Field tried (and failed), and Ari put it succinctly. Every dramatic work has a beginning, a middle, and an end, and should have unity of place, unity of time, and unity of action.

A summary of the last three is this, although remember that Aristotle was writing about the stage. For film and video, your mileage will vary slightly.

The story takes place in one particular location, although that location can be a bit broad. It can be the king’s castle, or it can be the protagonist’s country.

It should take place over a fairly short period of time. Aristotle liked to keep it to a day, but there’s leeway, and we’ve certainly seen works that have taken place over an entire lifetime — although that is certainly a form of both unity of time and unity of place, if you consider the protagonist to be the location as well.

Unity of action is a little abstract, but in a nutshell it’s this: Your plot is about one thing. There’s a single line that goes from A to Z: What your protagonist wants, and how they get it.

Now, my own twist on the beginning, middle, and end thing is that this is a three act structure that gives us twenty-seven units. (Aristotle was big on 5 acts, which Shakespeare used, but that’s long since fallen out of fashion.)

Anyway, to me, we have Act I, II, and III. Beginning, middle, and end. But each of those has its own beginning, middle and end. So now we’re up to nine: I: BME; II: BME; III: BME.

Guess what? Each of those subunits also has a beginning, middle, and end. I’m not going to break that one down further than this. The beginning of the beginning, Act I: B, has its own BME, repeat eight more times.

The end result is 3 x 3 x 3, or twenty-seven.

And that’s my entire secret to structure. You’re welcome.

But because of these little constraints, and because history is messy, it’s necessary to switch things up to turn a true story into a “based on true events” work. Real life doesn’t necessarily have neat beginnings, middles, and endings. It also doesn’t necessarily take place in one spot, or in a short period of time.

So it becomes the artist’s job to tell that story in a way that is as true to reality as possible without being married to the facts.

Although it is also possible to go right off the rails with it, and this is one of the reasons I totally soured on Quentin Tarantino films. It’s one thing to fudge facts a little bit, but when he totally rewrites history in Inglorious Basterds, ignores historical reality in Django Unchained, and then curb stomps reality and pisses on its corpse in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, I’m done.

Inglorious Misspelling is a particularly egregious example because the industry does a great disservice in selling false history to young people who unfortunately, aren’t getting the best educations right now.

Anecdotal moment: A few years back, an Oscar-winning friend of mine had a play produced that told the story of the 442nd Infantry Regiment. They were a company composed almost entirely of second-generation Japanese Americans during WW II, and joining the company was the alternative given to going to an internment camp.

Of course, being racists, the U.S. government couldn’t send them to the Pacific Theatre to fight, so they sent them to Europe, and a lot of the play takes place in Italy, where the regiment was stationed. And, at intermission, my playwright friend heard two 20-something audience members talking to each other. One of them asked, “What was the U.S. even doing in Italy in World War II?” and the other just shrugged and said, “Dunno.”

So, yeah. If you’re going to go so far as to claim that Hitler was killed in a burning movie theater before the end of the war, just stop right there before you shoot a frame. Likewise with claiming that the Manson murders never happened because a couple of yahoos ran into the killers first.

Yeah, Quentin, you were old, you were there, you remember. Don’t stuff younger heads with shit.

But I do digress.

In Shakespeare’s case, he was pretty accurate in Henry V, although in both parts of Henry IV, he created a character who was both one of his most memorable and one of his more fictional: Sir John Falstaff. In fact, the character was so popular that, at the Queen’s command, Shakespeare gave him his own spinoff, The Merry Wives of Windsor. Hm. Shades of Solo in the Star Wars universe?

Falstaff never existed in real life, but was used as a way to tell the story of the young and immature Henry (not yet V) of Monmouth, aka Prince Hal.

Where Shakespeare may have played more fast and loose was in Richard III. In fact, the Bard vilified him when it wasn’t really deserved. Why? Simple. He was kissing up to Elizabeth I. She was a Tudor, daughter of Henry VIII who, as mentioned previously, was the son of Henry VII, the king who took over when Richard III lost the war of the roses.

The other time that Shakespeare didn’t treat a king so well in a play? King John — which I personally take umbrage to, because I’m directly descended from him. No, really. But the idea when Willie Shakes did that was to draw a direct contrast to how Good Queen Bess did so much better in dealing with Papal interference. (TL;DR: He said, “Okay,” she said, “Eff off.”)

Since most of my stage plays have been based on true stories, I’ve experienced this directly many times, although one of the more interesting came with the production of my play Bill & Joan, because I actually accidentally got something right.

When I first wrote the play, the names of the cops in Mexico who interrogated him were not included in the official biography, so I made up two fictional characters, Enrique and Tito. And so they stayed like that right into pre-production in 2013.

Lo and behold, a new version of the biography of Burroughs I had originally used for research came out, and I discovered two amazing things.

First… I’d always known that Burroughs’ birthday was the day before mine, but I suddenly found out that his doomed wife actually shared my birthday. And the show happened to run during both dates.

Second… the names of the cops who interrogated him were finally included, and one of them was named… Tito.

Of course, I also compressed time, moved shit around, made up more than a few characters, and so forth. But the ultimate goal was to tell the truth of the story, which was: Troubled couple who probably shouldn’t have ever gotten together deals with their issues in the most violent and tragic way possible, and one of them goes on to become famous. The other one dies.

So yes, if you’re writing fiction it can be necessary to make stuff up, but the fine line is to not make too much stuff up. A little nip or tuck here and there is fine. But, outright lies? Nah. Let’s not do that.

Wednesday Wonders: Baby, it’s cold inside

April 8, 1911: Heike Kamerlingh Onnes makes an interesting discovery while futzing around with very low temperatures. It’s a discovery that will lead to many modern innovations that affect us just over a century later.

Strange things happen as the temperature drops toward absolute zero, which is basically the temperature equivalent of the speed of light in a vacuum (C) being the velocity limit for anything with mass. Oh, we’ve gotten really close to absolute zero — within nanokelvins — and in theory could get really close to the speed of light, although that would take ridiculous amounts of energy.

But… where matter can’t be is right at these two figures: Exactly absolute zero, exactly C. There’s nothing in the equations, though, that say that objects with mass cannot move faster than the speed of light or be colder than absolute zero.

Practically speaking, it would require infinite energy to jump from 99.99999% to 100.00001% of C, so that’s not possible, but scientists in Germany think they may have achieved temperatures below absolute zero.

Of course, these create weird situations like negative temperatures in an absolute sense, and not just as measured. That is, while we can say that it’s 24 below zero outside, that really isn’t a negative temperature by strict definition. It’s just a temperature that’s negative on the scale we’re using.

Remember: 1º on the Kelvin scale is actually –457.87ºF.

These kinds of negative temperatures are actually below that absolute physical limit, and so they represent thermal energy that behaves the opposite as temperatures above absolute zero. And, in all likelihood, an object moving faster than light would also travel backwards in time thanks to the time dilation effect being reversed.

These, though, are theoretical arguments. What we do know is that things get weird as the temperature drops. At a few nanokelvin, the only energy left in the system is quantum, and so these strange effects take over on a massive scale, pun intended.

The key here is that as atoms lose energy and cool down, they stop moving as much, eventually reaching a point where they’re just sitting there. But… there’s a principle in physics, Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, which says that there is a fundamental limit to the precision with which you can measure two connected properties of any particle.

For example, if you measure position precisely, you can’t measure momentum with much accuracy, and vice versa. The sharper one measurement is, the fuzzier the other one becomes. Not to get too deep into the science of it, but there are two classes of elementary particle, Fermions and bosons.

Fermions are elitists, and when they’re in a bunch, they don’t like to occupy the same quantum energy state. Electrons are totally fermions, which is why that whole concept of an atom as electrons neatly orbiting a nucleus like planets orbit the Sun is only a metaphor and very inaccurate.

Each electron in an atom occupies a different quantum energy state, which is why there’s the concept of electron “shells” filling up, but the location of each electron is not a unique point that changes over time. It’s a statistical probability of a particular electron being in a particular place at any given time, and so the “shape” of those shells can vary from a sphere to two squashed and joined spheres to distended ovoid shapes, and so on.

Bosons, on the other hand, are egalitarians, don’t mind sharing the same quantum energy state. In fact, they love to do it. This leads to a very interesting form of matter known as a Bose-Einstein Condensate.

Basically, at a low enough temperature, a bunch of atoms can suddenly coalesce into a single quantum particle with the same energy state and even become visible to a regular microscope.

Why? Because when we stop their movement, we can measure their momentum at near zero. Therefore, our ability to measure where they are becomes very inaccurate. It’s like the fermions all gather together and then balloon up into one entity in order to hide their individual locations.

This would be the equivalent of a bunch of people preventing GPS tracking of each of them by leaving their phones in one room and then all of them heading out in opposite directions in a big circle. Or sphere, if they can manage that.

The discovery that Onnes made in 1911 is related to this phenomenon. In his case, he dipped a solid mercury wire into liquid helium at 4.2 degrees Kelvin and discovered that all electrical resistance went away. That is, he discovered a property of matter known as superconductivity.

The same principle and the low temperature led to the electromagnetic force interacting in a different way — fermions meet bosons under extreme conditions, and electric and magnetic sort of separate, or at least keep themselves at arm’s length, as it were.

This can lead to all sorts of interesting effects, like levitation.

This is the technology taking maglev trains to the next level. But superconductivity is also used in things like medical imaging devices, motors, generators, transformers, and computer parts.

But the holy grail of the field is finding he so-called “room temperature” superconductor. All right. In some ways, “room temperature” is a bit of a misnomer, and the warmest superconductor yet found has a transition temperature of –23ºC. But a more promising substance could be a superconductor at 53ºC. That’s the good news. The bad news is that it requires ridiculously high atmospheric pressures to do it — in the range of a million or more times the pressure at sea level.

Oh, well.

Of course, the U.S. Navy did file a patent for a “room remperature” superconductor just over a year ago, but it’s not clear from the patent whether they used the “Not 0ºK” definition of room temperature or the popular press definition of about 77ºF.

It makes sense, though, that barring low temperature, some other extreme would be needed to achieve the effect. Nature just seems to work like that, whether it’s extremely low temperatures or very high pressures required to create superconductivity, or the extreme gravity and energy conversion required to create that other holy grail so beloved of alchemy: transmutation of matter, specifically turning lead into gold.

Ah, yes. If those alchemists only knew that every star was constantly transmuting elements every second of every day strictly through the power of enormous gravity and pressure — hydrogen to helium and so on, right down to iron — then who knows. One of them might have managed fusion centuries ago.

Okay, not likely. But just over a century ago, superconductivity was discovered, and it’s been changing the world ever since. Happy 109th anniversary!

Talky Tuesday: El-Al

No, the title of this post does not refer to the Israeli Airline, although it does allude to that part of the world. It’s just that the suffix –el and the prefix al– are often, but not always, clues that words in English and Spanish came from either Hebrew or Arabic respectively.

Hebrew and Arabic both use roots with prefixes and suffixes to indicate things like gender, number, case, part of speech, and so on. In the case of Arabic, “al” is a prefix that means “the.” Interestingly enough, in Spanish, “al” is the combination form of the preposition “a”, which means “at” or “to”, and the masculine singular definite article “el”, which means “the.”

So the phrase “el hombre” in Spanish means “the man,” while “al hombre” indicates giving or moving something to or at the man. The article “el” in Spanish bears absolutely no connection to the Hebrew suffix “-el”, though.

Let’s look at Arabic first. From 711 CE to 1492 CE, much of Northern Africa and most of Spain was under Muslim rule. As a result, the Arabic language and culture left a huge influence on the country, even after the Reconquista.

There are a lot of Spanish words that came from Arabic because of this, of course, but here I’m only going to look at a few of the “al” words. I find these a bit amusing if only because if you use them in Spanish with the definite article, you’re redundant. “El Alhambra,” for example, would be the the Red Fortress.

  1. Alcalde: al-qadi, the judge; Spanish for mayor. The feminine form is la alcaldesa. Originally, they were sort of assistant judges, but eventually became more municipal officers until the word took on the modern sense it has now.
  2. Alfombra: al-ḥánbal, a ceremonial tapestry. In Spanish, it means carpet, and if you watch awards shows in Spanish language media, you’ll hear the phrase “la alfombra roja” all the time: the red carpet. Now, since a tapestry is normally something hung on a wall, I have to wonder whether turning them into carpets wasn’t a little FU response by the Spanish once they threw off Muslim rule — “We’re going to turn your pretty wall hangings into something we walk on.” Hey, it’s not impossible.
  3. Algodón: al-qúţun, probably flax. The word is Spanish for cotton but, despite the similarity in sounds, there is no known connection between the Arabic and English words.
  4. Alhambra: al-Ḥamrāʼ, the red fortress, which describes the building in Granada, Spain It really is an architectural wonder, and must have been an amazing place to be during its heyday.
  5. Almoháda: al-mujadda, a word which means the same in Arabic and Spanish, and something I’m sure that all of us appreciate a lot more right now, if only it means we can stay in shelter and follow or increasingly vivid dreams. Una almoháda is a pillow.

As for English words that came from Arabic, here are a select few:

  1. Alcohol: al-kuḥl, which originally referred to kohl powder, which was used as an eyeliner. It was via the distillation process that the Egyptians used to create kohl that the word alcohol eventually came about. but eventually to any distilled or rectified spirit.
  2. Algebra: al-jabr, the reunion of broken parts, which is kind of what algebra does with its equations. Specifically, this referred to reducing fractions to integers in calculations. –
  3. Alkaline: al qaliy, referring to calcined ashes, which were the original source of alkaline substances, which is the current source of an ineffective fad Or, at least, misidentified. While the diet can have positive benefits, it has nothing to do with altering alkalinity in the body. Rather, the diet focuses on fruits, nuts, legumes, and vegetables, which is healthy regardless.

But I do digress. Onward!

The Hebrew suffix –el, which means god, is appended to names to create an attributive phrase. A lot of these names were applied to archangels in Hebrew tradition, and I’m sure you’ll recognize some of the more famous ones, many of which are very common first names in the Western World.

Just remember that in the original, the emphasis would be on last syllable so that, for example, the name Michael would be pronounced Mika-EL. Also, the name of the country Israel itself is an example of one of these words, from yisra-el, meaning “god contends.”

Yisra is derived from the word “sarah,” meaning to contend, and Israel was the name given to Jacob after he wrestled — or contended — with an angel of god.

To derive the female versions of these names, general just add an “a” — Daniel, Daniela, etc.

  1. Ariel: ari-el, lion of god. The Angel of Nature, Ariel is depicted as either male or female, depending upon tradition. They protected and healed animals and plants, and punished those who injured nature. Ariel was also the chief of the choir of angels known as the Virtures.
  2. Azrael: azar-el, he who helps god. Although not explicitly stated as such in Jewish tradition, Azrael is one of the Islamic angels of death. He’s not necessarily a malevolent angel, more of a civil servant, although not to be confused with the completely fictional Aziraphale from the book and minseries Good Omens. Okay, not that the other angels aren’t completely fictional as well, but… oh, you know what I mean.
  3. Daniel: din-i-el, god is my judge. Daniel is an angel in the apocryphal Book of Enoch, but not elsewhere in the Bible. He is, however, the quite human star of the Book of Daniel, where he is most famous for surviving being thrown into the lion’s den — an incident that happened because he happened to be good at his job and incorruptible, and it made the other satraps jealous and angry, so they set him up.
  4. Gabriel: gever-el, god is my strong man. One of only two archangels named in the Bible, he appears three times: The first is in several mentions in the Book of Daniel as Gabriel arrives to explain one of Daniel’s visions to him and to announce the coming of the Messiah. In the New Testament, Gabriel shows up to both Zechariah, husband of Elizabeth, and Mary, wife of Joseph, to let the former know that his wife was going to give birth to John the Baptist, and the latter know that she was going to give birth to Jesus, good luck explaining that one to Joe, apparently.
  5. Michael: micha-el, who is like god? The other archangel mentioned in the Bible, and one that I have an affinity with even though I consider myself to be a Catholic atheist. That might sound weird, but the idea is that I appreciate the trappings and customs of the religion of my mother (except for the kiddie-diddling) while believing in none of it. For me, though, St. Michael, the archangel depicted slaying Satan, is above all a symbol for each of us defeating our own dark sides. Since the two are always depicted together, they are sort of a Catholic yin-yang.
  6. Nathaniel: netan-el, gift from god. There’s no Jewish tradition of any angels named Nathaniel, but that hasn’t stopped modern woo culture from plowing on ahead and creating their own. He does show up in the Bible, though, as Nathanael, one of the Apostles, but is only mentioned in the gospel of John and nowhere else.
  7. Uriel: uri-el, light of god. Not an official archangel, although he possibly hung out with cherubim guarding the east side of Eden wielding a flaming sword after Adam and Eve were kicked out.

And there’s just a short survey of words and names that came from Arabic and Hebrew into Spanish and English. There’s a long list of English words that came from Arabic but don’t start with “al,” as well as a bunch of English words that came from Hebrew but don’t end in “el.”

The point is that English really is a melting pot of a language that loves to absorb words from other languages and cultures, and don’t let any schmuck ever tell you otherwise — especially not as you read that previous sentence with words born from Latin, French, German, Saxon, Greek, and Yiddish in it. Capisce?

Momentous Monday: Interesting times

There is an alleged Chinese curse that did not come from China at all and which may not have even been meant to be a curse when first mentioned by Joseph Chamberlain. The phrase goes like this: “May you live in interesting times.”

The implication, of course, is that interesting times are dangerous ones.

Right now, in the spring of 2020 C.E., the entire planet is living in interesting times, and I have a feeling that all of human history is going through a process of change that will be marked and noted by historians from here on out.

Congratulations, fellow humans. We are indeed living through a profound moment that will leave a different world behind, and those of us who survive it will be able to tell future generations, “Yeah. I was there. We never saw it coming, but it changed everything.”

At the moment, the day to day changes may seem weird and trivial — or not — but consider this. When was your last normal trip to the grocery store? When was the last time you found everything on your list? Why is there still no goddamn TP?

Or eggs and skim milk — those are the weird shortages, actually, because America just makes so goddamn much of both. Oh, sure, we’re lousy with over-priced “organic” bullshit eggs, as well as 2% and Whole milk, but if you’re into non-fat, you’re out of luck.

And get away from me with recommending any kind of “milk” that didn’t come out of a mammal, because that’s not milk. Coconut, almond, soy, whatever? Yep. Not milk. You’re drinking nut juice.

How does that sound?

Gas prices have dropped but that’s okay, because no one is driving anywhere. Those of us who can work from home are maintaining. Those of us who can’t… well, it’s a whole new world.

Certain people seem to think we can end the American lockdown by Easter, which is April 12. Cooler heads say, “Hell no.” This may go on through May or June, and seeing as how the U.S. suddenly became the most infected country in the world on March 26th, the idea of “It’s all over by Easter” is irresponsible as hell.

And remember that this is a pandemic, as in “It doesn’t just affect your town or county or state or country.” This is worldwide. And, as I mentioned above, this one is going to go into the history books along with some of the greatest hits of Events that Changed Everything.

For example:

476 CE: Fall of the Western Roman Empire. The long-term result of this little collapse was the creation of what would become modern Europe. Freed from the yoke of one oppressive empire, various local tribes — which had been allowed to maintain their culture in exchange for providing fealty, soldiers, and taxes to the mothership in Rome — were suddenly free to discover their own identities.

1206 CE: Genghis Kahn begins his conquest of Asia, and almost takes Europe as well. He wiped entire countries and civilizations off of the map, and changed the course of history in Europe forever.

1492 CE: Columbus is allowed to begin the exploitation of the New World, which will lead to an eventual super power that will basically become the new Roman Empire. In effect, this is the continuation of what the Fall of Rome started in Europe

1776 – 1815 CE: A motherlode, from the American Revolution through the French Revolution and the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo. The monarchical system is basically ripped out of power forever. It starts when those pesky colonists (in the land conquered by the Europeans who existed because Rome fell) rebelled against their mother country and won. France followed by rebelling at home and winning, only to wind up launching the next would-be dictator because they let the “party purity” assholes take control of their revolution. That would-be dictator (Napoleon) was defeated by the British, who had lost the American Revolution. Monarchy in Europe was mostly told to fuck off from this point forward.

1917 – 1918 CE: Double whammy of the Russian Revolution and The Great War. The former would lead to the first successful, long-term revolutionary state (France didn’t make that cut for reasons noted above), while the “Great War” would lead to a sequel, WW II, which would lead to all kinds of things, including the Cold War between the aforementioned Super Power and the USSR

1990 CE: The collapse of the USSR, apparently (but not really) ending the Cold War and pushing the U.S. into the number one spot.

2020 CE – ???: Worldwide pandemic and lack of leadership possibly ends in the collapse of the U.S., leaving China as the world’s last super power; and the independent Republic of California as a major player in the world economy, although we could also see the creation of the country of Pacifica, made up of Washington, Oregon, California, Nevada, and Arizona.

Or… we could somehow manage to get our shit together and survive this whole thing, but I’m not crossing my fingers at this point. We still have to figure out how to have a national election through all of this and, no matter what anyone might think, if the election doesn’t happen, the President doesn’t stay in power.

Rather, his time in office expires on January 20, 2021, along with the Vice President, and the Speaker of the House. Rules of secession would turn the presidency over to the President Pro-Tem of the Senate.

If we still have a government by that point, of course. Enjoy your sheltering in place, and I’ll see you on the other side.

Sunday Nibble #11: Political limerick cycle in 12 fits

I wrote this Limerick cycle a while ago to submit to a contest. I never did submit it, but it was written in response to the bank bailout of 2008, making it even more apt now than ever, even without any rewrites. Enjoy!

Fit the 1st

You know that American dream?

It promised us peaches and cream

And it was stolen by bankers

Those big greedy wankers

The rest of us? Thoroughly reamed

Fit the 2nd

“Excuse us, we’re too big to fail,”

They pled with a quite plaintive wail

So we bailed out those jerks

And they spent it on perks

While they should have just spent it in jail

Fit the 3rd

“Main Street not Wall Street,” we cried

“We hear you,” our Congress folk lied –

Then did lobbyists’ chores

(‘Cause they’re nothing but whores)

And that’s how Democracy died

Fit the 4th

We’re in need of more jobs, not more guns

We’re civilized ‘cause we’re not huns

Yet every day, more

Of our money to war

Not to mention dead daughters and sons

Fit the 5th

And they sit in their high lofty places

And stuff their fat overfed faces

The one percent sucks

For stealing our bucks

The Kochs, and the Morgans and Chases

Fit the 6th

Those bastards with riches don’t care

And we know that they’ll never share

So let’s make them pay —

Tax their riches away

And ignore their loud screams of “Unfair!”

Fit the 7th

“But no, that is pure socialism!

It’ll cause a societal schism!”

I don’t buy that talk

If they do, then just walk

Their only alternative? Prison

Fit the 8th

A prison built of their corruption

It’s time for a responsive eruption

Let those bastards get

Same as Marie Antoinette

Let’s end this systemic dysfunction!

Fit the 9th

“We the People” was writ long ago

But it’s still just as true, don’t you know?

So the only right course

Is to get rid of these whores

And the whole goddamn bunch has to go

Fit the 10th

Politics and money? Bad fits

But the fix is real easy, and it’s —

Vote with your wallet

It outranks the ballot

And boycotts give Wall Street the shits

Fit the 11th

The thing that we have to remember:

We stoke Democracy’s ember

The Dems are all for us

The GOP just abhor us

You know how to vote in November

Fit the 12th

The American Dream is not lost

Only momentarily tossed

Keep up the attack

And we’ll take the thing back

Which is worth it, no matter the cost

The Saturday Morning Post #9

Continuing excerpts from my novel of L.A. in Short Stories plus one Novela, here is part of Chapter 9. If you want to catch up, check out the first one here and the previous one is here. The one thing to remember is that each of the 13 short stories is narrated by a new character, and the novella is told from an omniscient point of view tying it all together. 

Last time, we met tailor’s assistant Finley as he was starting a relationship with newly promoted county official Tycho. In the excerpt from this chapter, Finley’s boss Jackson picks up the story, and an old character from Chapter 5 returns.

GREEN WEDDING

If everything had worked out as planned, we would have retired two years ago, and June and I would be traveling the world, but there seems to be little point to that now. I’m not going to meet anyone new at my age, and traveling alone has no appeal. This house has also become a hollow and constant reminder of her absence. Yet I still can’t bring myself to disassemble her scrapbooking and crafts room.

To this day, I still sleep with her favorite red quilted satin robe and matching slippers laid out on her side of the bed. The only comfort I have here is Shay, the dog I adopted after June passed, mostly so that I wouldn’t come home to an empty house. She’s seven now, and the perfect rescue mutt. About thirty pounds, an interesting mix of breeds (Terrier, chow, Akita, and German Shepherd) and she resembles a black fox or coyote — long snout, erect and pointy ears, a white “sword” on her chest, and white “spats” on her feet.

Since travel is out of the picture, I throw myself into work, and I find it comforting, actually. I do feel sorry for my chief cutter and seamstress, Arlene, though. She was the one I was going to recommend take over when I retired, but my dream canceled is going to be her dream deferred, I suppose. Of course, assuming that running a government-contracted tailor shop was her dream in the first place. I could easily see her looking to go into her own business and specialize in wedding and funeral wear.

It had become quite standard, among a certain class of people, to never rent anything for a wedding, because they saw it as tacky. Everything had to be custom made and designed. In the industry, we had started to use the British term, “bespoke,” a few years ago because it just sounded posher and allowed us to charge more. Surprisingly, they started doing the same thing for funerals, and a lot of places were doing a brisk business in bespoke morning (and mourning) dress and formal wear.

Thank god they don’t make top hats out of actual beaver felt anymore, but I don’t think I’ve seen this many being produced since I can remember, and I was born not long after the end of the era in which no businessman would even think of appearing on the street not wearing a hat. All right, not a topper, but a fedora or Homberg or bowler. Maybe a pork pie if they were… oh, what was the word? “Hep.”

There’s a funny thing about this business. If you describe yourself as a tailor, nobody assumes anything. But as soon as you veer away from that definition and say that you design clothing, or you work in fashion or the garment industry — and especially if you say that you design and create women’s dresses — a lot of people of my generation will just assume that you’re gay.

Not that it ever bothered me, but it is a really interesting distinction, and it doesn’t quite make sense. I mean, wouldn’t a gay man be more interested in dressing up other men and making them look good? Not to mention that measuring someone for a suit involves a lot of justified touchy-feely, and you do get to ask them directly which way their junk swings, although very coyly. “Do you dress left or right?” Although we stopped with “dress” and just stuck to the directions a long time ago, because people around my age and younger had no idea what it meant.

On the flip side, it seems like a straight man would be a better judge of how to make clothes that make a woman look sexy. Of course, given the usual materials used, the frequent difficulty of getting into and out of them, and the absolute lack of pockets or any kind of insulation, maybe the real secret is that a lot of dress designers actually hate women, regardless of their own sexuality.

I like to do my designs a little differently, and the major bespoke project I’m working on now — for the mayor’s daughter’s wedding party coming up in about five months — is going to follow the guidelines I’ve always used.

Season-appropriate material, lined and insulated if necessary.

Deep and wide pockets that are easily hidden within the lines without creating bumps or bulges.

The woman commissioning it gets to decide whether it buttons left or right, and I try to limit it to the same number of buttons as a man’s shirt, which is six to eight. None of this ridiculous 12 or 15 or more buttons, especially all down the back. Buttons are utilitarian, not decorative.

Speaking of which, I also prefer to put the zipper in front and hide it, so that a woman doesn’t need an assistant to get it on. None of this step into it like bunny suit in a clean-room at JPL. Pull it on like coat, zip it yourself, smooth down the Velcro pleat disguising the zipper seam, done.

I also lean toward very Art Deco, Streamline Moderne, and Belle Epoque designs, depending on the woman’s figure. I’m not against mid-century modern for wedding dresses, although fashion of the era, unlike the architecture and furniture, is a bit boring. I refuse to design for anyone gauche enough to think that any fashion design movement from the 1960s through 1990s should get anywhere near a wedding.

Fortunately, Valentina, the mayor’s daughter, is totally up for a very Erté style, which is right in the heart of art deco. I was already envisioning a streamlined sheath dresses with a swallow-tail train, armless but with a cuff and drop-sleeve on the left arm, maybe even a beaded turban and choker or, if she were up for it, a semi-circular, Aztec inspired headdress on top of a structured velvet skull cap.

Of course, that was going ultra-high art deco. I was already researching fabrics. From the waist up, probably forest green damask — her favorite color — worked in with rhinestone beaded tulle in seafoam green. For the lower part of the dress, I was thinking of layering in feather lace in a darker green to line sequin-embroidered mesh in emerald. Emerald jewelry — earrings, dark green choker with an emerald inset, and so on, and of course shoes inlaid with emerald sequins — the negative image of Dorothy’s ruby slippers — would finish it off. Tiara, turban, or headdress would come up later, but it would also be a dazzler in various shades of green.

The bridesmaids would get a simpler version of the bride’s get-up, probably rhinestone embroidered tulle or sequin embroidered mesh, emerald over Kelly green, without the swallowtail or drop-sleeve. Of course, the mesh would be lined with feather lace in a lighter green.

As for the men, well, we all know that men’s clothes are boring as anything, and why they haven’t evolved much, I have no idea. Since the wedding was going to be in Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral at 10 a.m. on a Sunday, it meant that protocol demanded morning dress for the men. I briefly considered giving them emerald green tailcoats with forest green velvet lapels, short toppers to match, and Kelly and seafoam pinstriped pants, along with white vests, seafoam shirts, emerald green ascots, and emerald cufflinks and tiepin. At least these outfits wouldn’t need a cummerbund.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that while the women would be able to wear their dresses anywhere and forever, I’d be limiting the men to only ever dragging these things out again on St. Patrick’s Day, so took a different tack.

Gray tailcoat, pinstripe gray pants, white vest, pale green shirt, with paisley ascot in forest and seafoam green, five emerald buttons on the vest, and matching emerald cufflinks. The groom would get a gray stovepipe top hat and the groomsmen would get a short-crowned version of the same. I was debating whether or not to give the men walking sticks with gray bases and large green crystal orbs on top, but that might be a bit much.

However, I was definitely going to give the men boutonnieres and the women wrist-corsages of green carnations to match. This was basically my tribute to my assistant, Finley, who is just a darling young gay boy and very talented. He once told me that in Oscar Wilde’s day, a green carnation was what gay men wore to tell each other, “Hey there!”

He’s met someone, by the way, in the wake of the recent earthquake I’m really trying not to think about. But I’m really happy for him. It’s so cute that he doesn’t want to tell me who it is, even though we both know that I figured it out immediately. Okay, I totally get that he feels weird about admitting that he’s going out with a newly appointed director of a county department who is also the youngest one ever and who has been all over the media, but I know the rules. Since Finley does not work directly for this guy at all and isn’t in any subservient position to him (well, at work; his private life is private), then it’s anything goes. I wish them all the luck.

And I wish myself all the luck after I get a text from… not Valentina, but her mother, Alejandra, aka Mayor Pérez. “Like the direction you’re going, need to see fabric samples. When? Thx.”

Well, I guess that depends on how racked up the garment district still I is, since the big one was only just over a week ago. I text my contact down on Santee Alley. “Fumiko, is your shop up and running now?”

She replies in five minutes. “Yes, but messy. What u need?”

“Samples, art deco, VIP. ASAP.” I reply.

“U come down.”

I reply to her with a thumbs up, then reply to Alejandra. “Going to get them now, but it’s late in the day. Are you free tomorrow?”

“Yes, if you can bring them up to Getty House.”

Well, I’m not sure about that, because while the Mayor’s House is only just under four and a half miles as the crow flies, as the car drives, it’s a rather convoluted route from downtown to there, at 6th and Irving. It shouldn’t be but it is because of the weird way that every street in L.A. tilts to the northeast as soon as it crosses Hoover. This is why even natives lose any sense of direction once they get into DTLA, because the simple East/West orientation of the numbered streets just goes away.

On top of all this, I’m not sure which streets are still impassable. Before I answer her, I text my assistant, Fin. “What is the fastest travel time by street vehicle from here to Getty House tomorrow morning?” I ask.

It’s less than two minutes before he replies. “A couple of streets still blocked, so best estimate is an hour and fifteen minutes.”

I tell him thanks, then reply to Alejandra. “What time?”

“11 a.m.” she replies. I give her thumbs up, then text Fumiko, “On my way,” and text Finley. “Errand. Meet me in the garage in five minutes.”

At least Santee was a short commute, and the only reason we took a car and I had Finley come along was because I’d be hauling samples back. And if you ever want to go to a part of L.A. that will most remind you of the Blade Runner films, this is it. Ironic that one of them was set a decade ago while the other is still twenty years in the future.

But, anyway, Santee is sort of the L.A. smuggler’s row. You can buy anything here, although most of it will be a knock-off or off-brand. Clothes, jewelry, electronics, toys, musical instruments, contact lenses, prescription medications (ill-advised), and various pets of the turtle, rabbit, and rat variety. You can also pretty much buy a bootleg copy of any major film that went premiered streaming the night before with a small fee and a phone bump with a sidewalk dealer who always has one eye out for the cops.

I guess that’s an improvement over fifteen years ago, when it was DVDs recorded in the theater to give people a really low-quality version of the latest film.

Now, Fumiko’s shop wasn’t in this den of thieves, but on the edge, in the respectable part of the garment district. It was a corner store with generous sliding glass doors to the street and tons of bolts of fabric lined up in cardboard boxes with price per yard labels prominent.

Finley and I went in and Fumiko spotted and greeted us right away. I quickly explained the who and what of the project, and handed her my fabric request list. She read it and smiled.

“Well, this is going to take care of both of us for a year or two,” she said. Then she called out, “Haru!” After a few seconds, her assistant came running and she handed him the list. “Please cut a yard of each of these for our very esteemed client.” Haru took the list, gave a slight head nod, and trotted off. Fumiko smiled at both of us.

“While we’re waiting, would you like some tea?”

The one thing I knew from experience. Never say no when a Japanese or British American offers you tea. “But of course,” I say. I notice Finley’s confused look, but he’s too good of an assistant to make any complaint.

Fumiko leads us to an area near the middle of the store and makes us tea as we sit at the square black-lacquer table that I’m pretty sure came from IKEA. I’ve worked with her for years, and she’s been one of my three main suppliers of fabric, even long before I landed the city and county job.

She almost immediately tunes in on Fin, gives him a smile, and says, “You’re in love, aren’t you?”

“Why do people keep saying that?” he replies and she just laughs.

“Because it shows,” she tells him. “And that’s a good thing.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, really.”

The conversation turns to my plans for the mayor’s daughter’s wedding, and she seems very excited by the idea that there’s going to be so much green in this wedding.

“It’s a favorable color in Japan,” she explains. “It’s the color of tea. But also of youth, eternity, vitality and energy. All good signs for a wedding.”

As I agree, a woman walks in from outside and calls out. “Hello? Anyone here?”

Fumiko stands and crosses to greet her. I look over and suddenly realize that she is, well, not identical to June, but of a type. Around my age, blonde hair and simple black dress. Kind of an Earth-mother vibe, and with a very raspy but sexy voice.

“I’m looking for green-screen material,” she explains. “It’s for a video shoot.”

“Of course,” Fumiko replies. “We have that exact color. How much do you need?”

“Well, how wide are your bolts? Because I need twenty-three feet wide by seventeen feet tall.”

“Double-bolts are twelve feet high,” Fumiko says. “Singles are six. It’s probably more economical to go for three by twenty-three off of a six bolt, rather than two by twenty-three off of a twelve bolt.”

“Great,” she says. “So how much?”

“Our chromo green is $6.99 a yard, so…” she did some calculations on her phone, “So seven and two-thirds yards wide, times three plus tax… We’re looking at $177.25, but I’ll make it an even $175.”

“Perfect,” the woman says. “And can you deliver?”

“Oh,” Fumiko’s face drops. “No, it’s what we call cash and carry here. Or credit or ePay.”

“Oh.” The woman also seems disappointed. “I came here on the Metro, and this is going to be kind of big and heavy, isn’t it?”

“Most likely,” Fumiko replies. “This is thick material.”

I see my opening and I take it.

“Hi,” I say. We drove here and have plenty of extra room if you’d like a ride back. Where are you going to?”

“Really?” she says, seeming genuinely touched. “Sure. I’m at a place in Korea Town, just off Wilshire.”

“Oh, perfect,” I tell her. “We’re running this stuff off down Sixth and so just north of there.” Technically not a lie. I just neglect to tell her we’re not doing that until tomorrow. I add, “Not a problem.”

Finley shoots me a look. Well, two looks. The first is “WTF?” but the second, as he gets it, is “Oh, you sly fucking dog.”

“What kind of video project is this for?” I ask.

“It’s for a theater company. Well, a theater, art collective, whatever. We do acting and improv and dance and music and so on and so on, but the woman who runs it decided that we should make a movie.”

“It sounds amazing,” I tell her. “And do you perform with them?”

“Oh god no,” she laughs. “I couldn’t act my way out of a box of Kleenex. But the kids we work with are… amazing.”

There’s a moment of sudden connection — pause, eye contact, and shared smile, and then her eyes dart away and look down.

“What do you do?” she asks.

“Make clothes,” I say. “I’m a tailor but contracted to the city and county.”

“Ah,” she beams. “So that’s why you’re here.”

“Yep,” I say. “Picking up samples for a wedding party.”

“Oh,” she says, and I can see her doing the “Fuck, he’s gay dance” in her head.

“Hey, I’ve got nothing better to do since my wife died,” I toss in, and I see her immediately brighten up.

“Your wife…?”

“Yeah. Cancer. Sudden. I’m still dealing with it.”

“Oh, you poor thing. I know what it’s like to lose someone suddenly.”

“Husband?”

“Son.”

“Oh my god. I am so sorry.”

“You want to know the ironic part? You know what killed him?”

“No.”

“Earthquake,” she said. “And obviously not here, because we’re a lot better at them than where he died.”

“Wh…” I started to ask but cut myself off, but she didn’t seem to care.

“Nepal,” she answered calmly. “Wow. Fourteen years ago. I’d just turned 50 when it happened, too.”

I do the math in my head, and realize, oh wow, definitely age appropriate.

“So, yeah, any fabric hauling or ride-sharing you need, it’s really not a problem. In fact, it’d be a pleasure.”

“You’re sure?” she asks.

“Oh, yes,” I reply, and then Fumiko returns carrying my samples over her arm, Haru following, struggling to haul the green screen cloth on a cart while keeping it steady.

“This is pretty heavy,” she says. “You probably couldn’t take it by yourself.”

“That’s okay,” the woman explains. “I’ve found a couple of white knights.”

Fumiko gives me a look that I clearly recognize because I’ve known her for so long: You go, you old dog.

“So… you said… wedding?” the woman asks.

“Yeah, for the mayor’s daughter. Very art deco, upmarket stuff.”

“Really?” she says, flipping through the samples. “Well, I’ve got to say, you have really good taste in fabric, at least.”

“And your green screen would actually fit the bride’s theme. Shall we?”

She nods, hands her credit card to Fumiko, and in three minutes Haru and Finley are wheeling the carts up to the parking lot, where they heft the fabric into the back of the car, the green screen stuff on top. I sit in the back with the woman, and Finley drives us out to Koreatown first.

I’m kind of surprised to find out that she’s living in a theater, but she gives me the whole backstory as Finley and I lug the fabric into the lobby. Like she told me, she’s not a performer, but loves the arts, and takes care of the pet collective here. She also explains that they’re still and always doing shows, and that there’s an improv tonight, if I want to come back.

“I’d love to,” I tell her. “I mean, if you’re going to see the show with me.”

“Of course,” she replies, and I feel the tingle of a connection. On the drive back with the wedding fabric, Finley says nothing, but just has this shit-eating grin. I say nothing until we’re pulling into the parking structure.

“Okay, what?” I demand.

“How soon is your wedding, and do I get to design it?”

“Oh, shut up,” I tell him, teasingly, and he just laughs…

Theatre Thursday: Theatre is the original VR

Something I’ve said for a long time is that live theatre is the original virtual reality, and the only shows you can see in 3D without special glasses.

Also, unlike their recorded and edited cousins — audio, film, video, and streaming — each live theatrical performance is a unique moment in time that will only be experienced by one audience ever, and will be experienced by each audience member (and each performer) in a completely different way.

In a way, I feel sorry for actors who do recorded and edited media, because they really don’t know which performance it’s ultimately going to be. They might do 23 takes of a scene in front of a green screen, have no idea that the director will ultimately settle on number 17, although maybe with a little tweak and morph so that the last beat or two of take 13 actually takes over.

And if it’s a two shot with another actor, the final shot you see on screen may actually use performances from two different takes, seamlessly woven together. It’s the film version of Photoshopping a group picture from multiple shots to make sure everyone’s eyes are open.

And that’s before all of the effects and whatnot are added, and maybe the actor was in a mocap suit anyway, because they’re really only providing the physical movement and overall kinesthetic emotion and facial movement to a performance that will turn into a twelve foot tall purple alien with big yellow eyes.

Meanwhile, a stage actor could play that same character with clever costuming, props and choreography — a couple of cast members lift them for height, a little light change and lots of fabric create the big purple body, and a pair of grapefruit with big black circles on them held Pale Man style become the eyes.

Not to say that one is better than the other. They’re just different. But the game kind of changes when all of the venues are shuttered because of a plague. No more movie theatres at the moment. No more live shows.

All we’re left with is streaming, and the question: Is this the end of both the cinema and live theatre?

Well, don’t bet on it. In 1606, theaters in London were shut down because of the plague, and this was in the middle of runs of three big hits that are still famous now: King Lear, Macbeth and Volpone.

This year, Broadway lost shows like Moulin Rouge: The Musical, Six, Company, Mrs. Doubtfire, Caroline, or Change and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, among many others. Some may be rescheduled. Others may never happen. And it’s the same in London, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle… everywhere.

In L.A., Center Theatre Group had to close The Book of Mormon revival tour early, for example.

This hasn’t stopped many of those performers from performing, and a number of Broadway stars have taken to singing to their fans from home via social media. In a way, this actually makes live theater even more intimate, because every single viewer has their own personal front row center seat — and they get to see the same show that everyone else does.

Can you imagine? Going to see the original staging of Evita on Broadway, and Patti Lupone sings every number right to you? Okay, except without all of that stagecraft, because she’s singing it to you solo and a capella from her living room. Still… rather intimate and impressive either way.

London certainly has a number of previously saved streaming performances to watch. And while it’s anecdotal because I can’t share the link here, two friends of mine managed to do live streaming improv, cell phone to cell phone, with the performance between the two phones put up via another friend’s third phone.

It was a very impressive and clever use of technology. And Zoom isn’t just for meetings. I’ve seen colleagues in theatre now use it for company meetings, as well as group practices.

Is it still theatre in this form, though? Yes. I happen to think that all performing arts are ultimately theatre, whether they happen on a stage or a screen. In 2012, I performed in a number of pieces around the city that took place in public spaces as part of Playwrights Arena’s Flash Theatre L.A.

We performed everywhere from a pet store parking lot to a cemetery in South Los Angeles; in a nearly dark public courtyard with only the uplights illuminating the walls to shine on us when we needed them, in Union Station downtown, and so on.

The cemetery performance and Union Station were two of my favorites — the first because we created a long and elaborate, intricately choreographer Danse Macabre in which I started out as a disgruntled grave digger, then snuck behind a tombstone to change into the guise of a skull-faced pope.

We also had La Llorna and a lot of Día de los Muertos style face-painting in a collision of Medieval Europe and modern Latin America, taking place in a cemetery with a large proportion of black residents, since for a long time in the city’s history it was one of the few places open to them.

What I loved about Union Station was how the show started and ended. We quietly came in and took our places as if we were people waiting for a train, but then slowly stepped out and joined the performance, which involved a twelve-foot tall puppet.

When it was over, after we read out a bunch of real-time tweets we had solicited beforehand, each of us then strode off into the crowd to make our exit by becoming “normal” people again.

We were never on an actual stage for those shows, but it was still theatre. It’s still theatre no matter how big the CGI effects are.

But it’s not only the film and TV people who can forget this. The theatre people can too, in the opposite direction, and sometimes ignore the concept that media and tech can work onstage — or that theatre can happen onscreen in real time — as well.

Back in about 2012, I saw a wonderful production of Arthur Miller’s After the Fall, which is basically his fictional biopic and guilty confessional about the death of Marilyn Monroe. Oh… he’s not confessing to killing her directly. He’s feeling guilty over not doing enough to save her life, seeing as how he was married to her at the time.

That’s right — the blonde bombshell dumped the jock (Joe DiMaggio) and married the smart nebbish. Nerds of the world, take heart! That would be like Scarlett Johansson dumping Ryan Reynolds for John Green.

Oh, wait. She did dump Ryan. Just not for John.

Anyway, as originally staged, when characters aren’t onstage, they sit in high backed chairs upstage. Occasionally, one of them will have a flashback monologue, which they deliver by standing in place.

The twist on this the director pulled was having everyone backstage, but when their monologues came, live ghostly video of the actor backstage would be projected on the two side walls of the actual stage. (It was performed on a partial thrust stage.)

Miller was probably borrowing from Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, which was the first major play to be performed without an actual set — in the days when Broadway was all about realism — and with the entire cast seated onstage when not performing.

This production of After the Fall just took the original concept and modernized it.

But long before video and high tech, tech has always been a part of theatre, from Grand Guignol’s elaborate illusions used to create shock and horror, to the elaborate stage machinery of 18th century opera and earlier.

The opening of the film The Devils by Ken Russell does a pretty good recreation of 17th century French theatrical staging and mechanics:

The interesting question, really, is which media are going to survive this modern plague? If our entertainment venues are limited for long enough — at least, as long as they really need to be to help us survive this — then this just may be the end of the cinema as we know it.

Sorry, Marty, and David. To paraphrase Norma Desmond: “Films are big! It’s the screens that got small.”

People may become too accustomed to just watching at home, and thanks to all of their online hanging out with friends, they may finally remember what the important part is. So expect streaming parties, either as virtual hangouts or IRL, to become the new norm.

Also expect an end to the blockbuster spectacle once people have been reminded through all of the scaled-down-to-mobile shows and performances what theatre is really about: the interactions between characters that happen because of an inciting event.

Notice, by the way, that in any online discussion of the latest hit streaming show, people aren’t talking about the effects or the spectacle or any of that. They are talking about the characters, what they do, and why people like it or don’t like it.

As for theatre, it will survive because, after all, it has for thousands of years and through many difficulties. Plus, when it’s not some overblown Broadway show with a ridiculous budget and inflated ticket prices, it can be cheap to do, easy to stage, and affordable for everyone.

It just may be that “too big to fail” turns into “too big to stay.” Movies and TV turn into intimate events at home or maybe in small clubs. Meanwhile, all of that small theatre that’s always been there goes on. Only, this time, people will have a renewed appreciation of it.

Think about this for a moment. What genre do escape rooms fall into? Not film, and not TV. Nope. They are a type of immersive theatre in which the audience is also part of the cast.

Image (CC0 1.0)