M E R I D I A N M A G A Z I N E
Handcart
Ensemble: A Young NYC Theatre Company
Part One
in a Two-Part Series
by Barrett Ogden
How, then, to consistently involve oneself in projects that present a viewpoint one can feel good about?
The squeaking and rattling noises outside of Scott Reynolds’ 103rd St East Harlem apartment window are due to rats rummaging through garbage heaped in the courtyard below (the immediate neighborhood’s zipcode is aptly listed "Hellgate"). Fancying himself an up-and-coming artist, these sounds, for him, are not without an oddly gratifying symbolism. The conceit that one is passing through a sort of existential abyss wherein only a hardy elect dare venture is the consolation prize when a career’s returns are other than monetary. And yet there are plenty of rat-free buildings in New York City that a person can live in affordably, another 100 blocks up in Washington Heights. Why live at East 103rd?
The answer is because he might get up the gumption to go for a jog every now and then, and Central Park (only three streets away) is a runner’s paradise. If you do a lap around the reservoir, the sensation is of New York’s every spire seeming to revolve around you. The effect is especially liberating when pressures mount and you begin to feel like an insect with the heel of somebody’s dress shoe looming overhead. For an exhilarating moment, you’re the one who appears to be in control of things.
Today, however, his knee is acting up and he’ll have to find inspiration through different means. Inspiration on an almost daily basis is important, because, as previously insinuated, his chosen career path as a theatrical producer -- to which he devotes the better part of his time and energy -- does not yet provide financial rewards. Reynolds fully intends to be able to quit his day job eventually, but morale in the meantime requires a deep belief in the inherent worth of making plays for people to watch and experience.
And he does. The theatrical moment is a highly concentrated one wherein all one’s attention falls upon a vision of life enacted by fellow human beings. The compactness of such moments, combined with their flesh-and-blood vitality, hold considerable potential to affect a person’s view of things, so he not only enjoys what he does, but believes it to be important.
Herein lies a problem. As a Latter-day Saint, his vision of life includes such features as the ever-nearness of divinity, a transcendent morality, and human beings as fascinating, beautiful creatures. Some of what is produced in the contemporary theater is consonant with this vision, but a great deal is not.
How then, to consistently involve oneself in projects that present a viewpoint one can feel good about?
Handcart Ensemble was formed in New York City in 1999 to address this concern.
My name is Barrett Ogden, an old compatriot of Scott’s from our days as Theatre undergrads at Brigham Young University. Between teaching seminary, the youth Sunday School class, and helping Molly (my wife of seven years) in the Nursery in our small branch, my schedule is tight. After temping 9-5, what little time left is too precious to buy, even for the Ivy-League bankers whose phones I answer. I’m also the co-founder and a core actor of Handcart Ensemble.
In 1998, I’d recently left Rutgers’ graduate acting program in central Jersey. Scott had just finished a writing workshop at Boston Playwrights’ Theater. In a series of phone conversations, we revisited the idea of starting up the theater company we’d discussed while at BYU. Now was the time to move to New York and do it, we agreed. Not merely as a mechanism for gaining exposure and landing gigs, but more importantly as an opportunity for actors, directors, and writers (LDS and otherwise) who value art as a means of accessing the sublime to create work that would have its own impact.
Accessing the sublime is at the center of Spencer W. Kimball’s 1976 First Presidency Message, entitled "The Gospel Vision of the Arts". Here the prophet framed in emphatic and fiery language compelling images of Mormon artists yet to come. These, he said, would rival or surpass the heights of Rembrandt, Beethoven, Shakespeare, and others whose names are equated with the greatest art of the western world.
Several would argue that the content of this message has been oft abused as license for "Mormon art" of middling quality to proliferate, relying on its subject matter to make up for its lack of excellence. Others would answer that in seeking to avoid this trap, several Latter-Day Saint artists unnecessarily steer away from including the fabric of religious belief in their works, even shunning the gospel altogether.
In seeking to combat bland mediocrity and cheap sentiment on the one hand, and a rising tide of morally corrosive counterfeits on the other, President Kimball’s words inspired us to consider another route. His references to the masterpieces of the past called our attention more carefully to them. The classics endure because of their inherent worth. In emulating the grandeur of their poetic splendor, perhaps new masterworks could be born. Even Shakespeare fashioned his plays in this way, using what had gone on before him as a model and point of departure.
One cannot assume the role of fulfilling prophecy. We can’t do God any favors; He’ll make use of us how/when He will. If revelation really is "99% perspiration and 1% inspiration", the finding can only be achieved in the doing. One must simply do all one can do and, in the words of the late Lowell R. Tingey (my former Mission President and an exceptional human being) "[pray to] be where we ought to be, when we ought to be there, doing what we ought to be doing."
We arrived at three simple artistic guidelines:
What to do that would satisfy our spiritual values and set us apart from the pack artistically? We wanted to create works that a) acknowledge the existence of a higher moral order and b) are possessed of or allow the possibility of being represented through formal elements (language, stage movement) whose bounds are not limited to those of day to day experience. New translations, new adaptations, or original works would be our focus. In this way, the material we selected would be exclusive to our company. The poetry of elevated language would support the heightened dramatic reality we sought to embrace.
We would focus on what is unique to theatre as an art form: the immediacy of living human beings, the actors with the audience. Rather than try to compete with film’s ability to dazzle the spectator with technological wizardry, or attempt a cheap approximation of the lavish sets and elaborate costumes afforded by a Broadway budget, we would focus on the actor-audience relationship by going in a different direction. Spectacle would originate in scenic effects produced through the actors’ bodies, encouraging the participation of the spectators with their imaginations in completing the picture. Rather than seek to reproduce reality (as evidenced in the naturalistic acting prevalent in film and much of western theatre) we would embrace the concentrated nature of dramatic action through a more theatrical, heightened approach; not wooing the audience or forgetting them, but recognizing their presence and co-creating with them.
Building our own theatre company would allow the creative freedom to find expression of that unique voice, to do the kind of work we would most enjoy, and to be a potential positive force in the world. Theatre being a collaborative art, creating a permanent group would be vital. The work of the 20th century’s greatest theatre innovators -- Konstantin Stanislavsky, Vsyevelyod Meyerhold, Bertolt Brecht, Peter Brook, Jerzy Grotowski, Eugenio Barba, and others -- had been realized through consistent, intensive, rigorous work, training, and continuing research building on a body of shared experience. This had been possible only through the establishment of permanent groups of actors working together over sustained periods of years, even decades, their energies and efforts focused and directed as a collective by leaders of a special kind. This would be essential if work of the caliber, scope, and positive force that we envisioned was to have the possibility of being realized.
Michael McCurdy, a Long Islander we knew at the Y, had just married and left a Company Manager’s job at the Shakespeare Theater in Washington, D.C. to work at the William Morris Agency. He was also serving on the Long Island District Council and therefore had no time, but we somehow talked him into being our Managing Director. Mireille Enos and Michael Burns, actor friends that we also knew in college, were recruited to be in our first production, slated for the summer of 1999. Next on the list: seed money. From who? The immediate Reynolds family agreed to a sum that would satisfy a minimum budget. Nothing left but to designate Scott as Artistic Director: a talented director and sober yet visionary leader, he was the obvious choice.
As our group’s existence solidified, we began looking for a play, which Scott would direct and everyone else would act in. "Shakespeare? Everyone does him . . . how about Jean Racine’s Phèdre?" People seemed warm to the idea. One of the greatest Neo-Classic playwrights of 17th Century France, Racine would provide a source of heightened language well suited to our aesthetic. And he’s not done much, not in the USA, at any rate.
Next thing we knew, a high-profile London production of two Racine plays swept into town, including Phèdre. Oops. "Let’s not compete with Diana Rigg," we decided. "How about a lesser-known Racine play?" Scott proffered. He’d read Andromaque, and was awed by the intensity of its plot. Michael McCurdy was worried about its obscurity. Reynolds held that writing a new translation would create novelty and help draw attention to the project. This, combined with enthusiastic persistence, finally won over the business-minded Managing Director.
This was a tremendously ambitious undertaking on the part of a new company with such limited resources. Aside from young actors tackling such heavyweight material for the group’s debut, Scott’s translation was to be the only extant English version to retain Racine’s original structure (rhyming Alexandrine verse). In addition, there would be no time to workshop or compose additional drafts. Reynolds would have to finish the new translation in time to meet a swiftly approaching rehearsal deadline, and then switch immediately to directorial mode.
At this point the question was raised of what our group should be called. "How about Handcart Ensemble?" the Artistic Director proposed. We liked it. Simple, distinctive, the obvious associations with our religious heritage were present and unapologized for. It was as a red flag to other Latter-Day Saints, piquing curiosity. The image of the handcart also spoke of dedication, determination, thrift, economy, and heroism in the face of poverty, all attributes characteristic of how wished to be or the conditions we would have to face in seeking to realize the dream. It was a reminder of trial, sacrifice, and weaknesses being transformed into strengths by God. That we must never cease to strive, never settle or give up the journey. That with our Heavenly Father there are no limits to what we can eventually do or become.
Those who did not share an LDS background associated "handcart" with simplicity, mobility, utility, and minimalism: all characteristic of our desired manner of presentation, dictated by choice as much as much as an extremely modest budget. The implicit refutation of glamour seemed fitting in response to the slick fashion consciousness prevalent in much of what is characterized as "avant-garde" today.
Our name decided, there was much more to be done. Michael, Scott and I continued to meet regularly and coordinate our efforts, searching for the right actors to complete the cast and other necessary personnel. This was a process very different from that usual in more commercially minded theatre. Talent and suitability for the role were not the only requirements. We needed individuals with enthusiasm for the vision behind this project, who respected the idea of transcendent moral truth. Generosity of spirit and lack of "showbiz" mentality were also important. This had to be a labor of love, rather than just a chance to be seen by an agent.
Angels do walk among us. Aware that the script had not yet been completed, eight actors, as well as two designers, a stage manager, and others embarked upon the project with no incentive other than the satisfaction of taking part. With one exception, the group consisted entirely of Latter-Day Saints, several of them BYU alumni. This was determined not so much by design as by the availability of those we already knew.
If casting and staffing a production doesn’t present enough of a challenge, securing the right rehearsal and performance space can be a precarious enough business to keep most anyone occupied. When you know that every dollar saved will be one more towards guaranteeing the next production, bargain hunting can take on all the shadowy intricacies of an episode from The X Files. Most theatre groups in town don’t own an actual theatre space. In NYC they don’t come cheap, rentals being no exception, and all carry a host of unforeseen challenges. Minimizing such hurdles is key in aiding a production’s success.
With space secured, and a complete cast and crew, Reynolds completed his marathon translation the day before rehearsals were scheduled to begin. We were all set. Andromaque would be Handcart Ensemble’s debut.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK…
*For further information on Handcart Ensemble, to contact us, or to find out how you can help or get involved, please see our website at http://www.handcartensemble.org, email us at handcart@handcartensemble.org, or call our information line at (212) 726-8054.
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