There exists, beneath bustling city streets and street fairs of culture, a secret society of extraordinary intelligence. They have their own architecture, ethics, aesthetics, and slang. Most people pass the grates without looking down. Or worse, they see piercing eyes in the shadows scream out “VERMIN” and run to hide.
Theatre is dead. Not merely playing dead. But perilously, spiritually dead. Lost its heart and its spirit: its very purpose. Flatlining in D minor. Who do we turn our double-edged swords to? To whom do we point the blame? The audience, who arrived hungry, craving something substantive, who were then handed cotton candy? Or is it the actor, who traded transformation for recognition? Perhaps we crucify the tastemakers — the directors, the producers, the artistic directors — who chose the spectacle and forgot what it was for. Theatre is not dying from a lack of spectacle. It is dying from sight, sound, and razzle-dazzle with no home to burrow away for the winters. Glitter that never flits down to the truest part of self. The remedy is not less wonder, but wonder in service of something greater. Wonder that takes up residence in the soul: staying put and transforming it for good. We must feed the audience substance and teach them to use their fork and knife — then wield that knife to surgically remove the cancers of complacency. It is as if these harrowed storytellers have forgotten their responsibility to move us toward something more meaningful — something heartfelt with perhaps eternal resonance, that pushes its audiences into the metaphysical and meaningful. Theatre was never meant for us to be purely delighted but requires more from us.
For centuries, actors have moved us with their performance. Similarly to how media and design move us the way great painters used to do from their frames. But lately, it's all slipping away. The sacredness of older actors (Willem Dafoe, Meryl Streep, Sigourney Weaver), and their undeniable common denominator: heart – is fading into obscurity. There is no denial that the adage of "Things being better in the old days" holds increasing merit as we witness a disconnect from the sacred "heart" of performance. All in favor of the fleeting vapor of celebrity castings or the pursuit of fame itself.
The heart of storytelling has evaporated and left a residue of fame lacking in substance. For some it's become mysterious and unnameable. So, let us pull it out of the shadows and name it: the "it" factor. "IT" is the elusive heart. "Heart" is not sentimentality or emotional excess. It is the full nephesh integration of body, imagination, and spirit. It is the spiritual and immersive place where technique and truth refuse to separate. It is exacting and precise.
That certain je ne sais quoi that starlets of old hold over culture, superseding the twinkle of their golden age. We are in search of that lost quality that, when it is void, makes drama teachers whisper to their peers, "Yeah, they won't make it."
Fourteenth-century theatre theorist Zeami Motokiyo noted that to not doom our future, we need to revisit the past, wherein the magnitude of the actor's spirit, the spirituality and "otherworldliness" of the actor, is at stake when you compare good acting to bad. Moreover, the future of theatre art itself is in peril. Now, in the twenty-first century, we find ourselves suffering the consequences of ignoring what Zeami described as "sacred" or of the spirit. He posits that "plays that succeed possess three qualities: Sight, Sound, and Heart." Which is not far off from the more contemporary musings of Stella Adler, who opines that "You cannot afford to confine your studies to the classroom. The universe and all of history are your classroom." And it is a class where the fatal modern actor plays the part of truant – favoring clout over clouds and the imagined shapes that make the world wonderful. This links Adler's philosophies of becoming a well-rounded spirit directly back to this enriched heart that Zeami cites as essential. What Zeami names as "heart," Adler reframes as rigorous attention to the world beyond the self. Both resist the same danger: an actor collapsed inward, and by consequence, an environment of self-centered art making. Which is to say that an actor whom concerns themself solely with the glory of their own art will lack the perspective of the place of their art within the greater zeitgeist of culture and the purpose that art serves: to serve “a spiritual and social X-ray of its time."
Circling back to expand on Zeami's point about successful plays containing "Sight, Sound and Heart," we have to address the current practices of the twenty-first century theatre community. There is no shortage of appetite for spectacle. Zeami's “sight and sound” fulfill that enough – in current theater; flashing lights, LED screens, flight rigging, expertly crafted immersive theatre spaces that curate specific smells for their space – to name a few. These experiences are almost expected by the modern theatregoer. Who can blame them? In an age where entertainment dwells in one's pocket and comes to life at their blue-lit fingertips. If one is going to shell out their hard-earned wages to see something live and in person (in the more prestigious spaces even need to forgo groceries for a week) it is completely reasonable to expect a spectacle worth bragging about. Audiences, by no fault of their own, crave the Instagrammable "I was there when…" moment. We have trained audiences to document or gorge themselves on sparkle rather than dwell in what the spectacle is for. To capture rather than be enraptured. The performance becomes proof of attendance instead of an encounter that transfigures the individual.
Yes, spectacle matters because spectacle begets wonder and wonder begets the incarnate heart change of storytelling. Spectacle, then, is not the enemy. Lazy spectacle is. Spectacle that terminates in itself is indulgence. Spectacle must operate as an invitation: cracking open an opportunity to teach and delight by first breaking down the barriers of the psyche so that education and heart change may be planted. Shame on us for digging the hole in the dirt with our hot pink bedazzled spade, and leaving the seed out in the sun to dry up or be carried away by the crow of another distraction. Shame on the theatre for forgetting the heart.
But, does that do what good art is meant to do? Does it "succeed" in its purpose? To move an audience in a way that matters? No. If the failure is spiritual, the solution cannot be purely technical. Rather, technicality holds accountability to be wielded as a clever device, slicing through mediocrity to enchant the audience into participation. Moreover, we must start training not only the actor's body but also their spirit. Encouraging engagement with art, literature, nature, and the like of soul (or "heart") fostering work. Maybe then we will see the resurrection of heart and soul in the theatre.
Furthermore, if we hold our actors to this heartfelt standard, our theatre makers must set a standard above reproach. But artists have a tendency to flirt dangerously with performative ego. Not ego as that confidence that shepherds ensembles and patrons into delight, but ego as obstruction to the greater purpose of theatre itself. The spotlight on self that is so loud it drowns out the importance of the work.
For example, not too long ago, I met this theatre artist. For his anonymity, let's call him Tom. Tom's work was self-described as "an extension of his ego." He went on to vapidly express that he was the center of art — or more acutely, the universe. So, naturally (with all attributed sarcasm), all work should serve him and his purposes, maniacal as they were. He was, by no stretch, the first artist I've met with this point of view. We've all stumbled across that person who claims "sad artists make good art" as an excuse for some perhaps much-needed therapy. Tom is not an anomaly. He is a symptom.
Theatre cannot go on this way: existing as a self-serving art form. In order for any theater, and any theater practitioner, to be successful or make anything of merit, they must selflessly consider their audience and the needs of humankind - perhaps by selling their million dollar buildings and developing nomadic theatre companies that do the hard work where it needs to be done.
Only by masking the self and one's own ego will truly meaningful art be made in service of pursuing the truisms of humanity: dealing with loss, the insufficiency of money, and other such universal themes.
Early Modernist theatre practitioner E. G. Craig, offers a solution in his essay The Actor and the Über-Marionette. If Zeami gives us the diagnosis and Adler the discipline, Craig offers something more unsettling: a stripping away. He states that his concept of "the uber-marionette" is a performer who is not won over by her own emotions but rather, so disciplined and precise that she operates more like a puppet, allowing her to transcend physical form. This is not a rejection of the human but rather an ascension of it. The body remains, but it is no longer in charge. "The actor is at the beck and call [of emotion]; he moves as one in a frantic dream or as one distraught, swaying here and there; his head, his arms, his feet, if not utterly beyond control, are so weak to stand against the torrent of his passions that they are ready to play him false at any moment."
"It will aim to clothe itself with a death-like beauty while exhaling a living spirit." The "living spirit" Craig refers to can be understood as the often elusive quality of what makes theatre feel "magical" — the collaborative and connected nature of performance in which actors, directors, and audiences together generate a shared experience. A kind of collective energy that emerges from the immediacy of live performance. Through the process of entering the "trance" of the Über-Marionette, ordinary actions are transformed into something that can transcend language, time, and space. What we describe as "theatre magic" is then the effect of this shared encounter: an experience that feels difficult to articulate, even as we continually try to define it.
The only way we can reach the zenith of performance transformation is by engaging enough self-control — enough Über-Marionette-ness — so that the purpose of telling the stories in the first place may be achieved. Craig explains that this isn't fully possible unless we harness the power of the Über-Marionette, because the limitations of the body are a result of the fall from grace. We are not divine – like the power of storytelling itself is. So, the actor must yield their power, lending their body to serve the truistic purposes of the art form. And the main obstacle to this is the ego of the artist.
Craig goes on to say that the actor is not the artist, but the "instrument of the artist". and, furthermore, of the art itself. It requires the utmost intention and excellence. For "acting is not an art. It is therefore incorrect to speak of the actor as an artist. For accident is an enemy of the artist." To "die" as an ego-driven performer is not annihilation. It is alignment with the greater good. Suffering ego death for the sake of the art – the art whose purpose is to transform – is a small price to pay.
How do artists die to their egos to favor the higher calling of theatre? Egos that have been created as a byproduct of the audience's idolatry of the actor who, positioned on a stage, is subconsciously defined as set apart. Perhaps acting, and by extension art making, requires such self-awareness that one might fall into the "trance" Craig describes. It is an introspection that allows the actor to set aside the physical form and ego in question in favor of the higher art form. Demanding both physical and spiritual involvement on the part of the artists. In other words: we must train actors and theatre makers alike to be so self-aware and precise that there is no room for ego to grow. Like bonsai trees – not stunted and pruned, but meticulously trained, spectacularly designed, and with the proper care, long-lasting. The artist must be so committed to the moralism of the plays being produced that they almost lose interest in their own success.
An incredibly practical approach might be not making playbills available to the public – as quiet resistance to the liturgy of self-promotion that theatre has begun to adopt. Having the playbills serve as purely historical documents, with emphasis added to "why this play? Why now?" not the all too familiar "look at how brilliant we are" spreads (and maybe be a bit more ecologically responsible in the process). The use of programs and playbills, while understandable in wanting credit for the work created (while the playbill operates as one of the few tangible ways of chronicling performance art) should not make the people involved the focus of the work. Too often are audiences scouring for meaning among ads and self-promotions amidst the center folds of a program.
I, for example, whenever I have directed a piece, have explicitly asked not to be brought on stage or to offer any sort of curtain speech. I would much rather the story we are trying to tell be told effectively and efficiently than draw attention to myself.
So this is a call to actors, artistic directors, and technical directors alike: challenge yourselves through the practical application of a humble, work-centric approach. This might include engaging with an extremely literal example of acting behind a puppet, or as a voiceover: an exercise in checking one's ego to see how much it matters that you receive attention and credit. Perhaps even experimenting with operating under a pseudonym so that people have no idea you are involved in the process, and observing whether your work is still good and effective. Not just your name. See if the "living spirit" Craig refers to is still alive or if it has been manufactured by your status, pedigree, and connections.
Theatre is currently self-serving – or serving a higher conglomerate – and it needs to shift into a die-to-self model in favor of the magic of storytelling that has the potential to affect and change culture at its core. For centuries, audiences have been trained to sit in the dark and receive. To consume spectacle milk rather than chew on meat of substance. Theatre theorist Augusto Boal's Theatre of the Oppressed is a direct assault on that one-sided exchange. His central argument is deceptively simple: the separation of actor and spectator is not a neutral aesthetic choice. It is a political one. And it must be undone.
Where Craig asks the actor to disappear into the work. Boal asks the audience to do the opposite: to appear within it. And both, taken together, begin to sound less like theatre theory and more like a call to mission. And in a way they are both right: we as practitioners, performers, partakers, and patrons alike need to disappear inside the purpose of the work and then appear within the need of the work thats created in the world stage - a la Shakespeare's “all the worlds a stage”. For example, an actor in the musical The Last Five Years would need to set aside their ego of “is my performance worthwhile/am I enough" to tell the cautionary tale about marital relationships with full authenticity - almost reminiscent of the old adage “leave it all on the stage”.
Boal's solution is the spect-actor: an audience member who enters the action, interrupts it, redirects it. "The spectator delegates no power to the character either to act or to think in his place," Boal writes. The stage becomes, in his framing, a "rehearsal for revolution", a safe space to practice what has not yet been possible in life. "The spectator frees himself; he thinks and acts for himself! Theatre is action!".
Boal was a Marxist. He was not inherently a theologian. Yet, his insistence that theatre must liberate rather than pacify lands on remarkably biblical ground. Not because it borrows theological principles, but because it arrives at the same insistence: that transformation requires participation. The prophets were not interested in passive audiences either. Neither was Jesus, who had an endearing habit of making spectators into participants mid-parable. The kinship between Boal's vision and liberation theology is almost tangible, down to their Marxist origins in South America in the '60s and '70s. Both rest on the fundamental ideal of participation as an agent of change. One is driven by class consciousness; the other by the image of God in every person. And both refuse to let the audience stay safely sheltered from the rain when freedom comes from within the eye of the storm. Some may see this as Christian propaganda, and it is hard to side-step that, so hopefully we can reframe it. Mission-driven theatre practitioners have a greater responsibility to dialogue and inclusion on the mission of drawing people to love and light.
This is what theatre should be — an agent of change, capable of having difficult conversations both in and out of faith spaces. In 2020, I devised a piece called Holy/Broken, created in response to the crisis of mental health stigma inside the church. A stigma that had pushed many people out of the faith entirely. The work couldn't afford a passive audience, because passivity is part of the problem. The church has, for too long, trained its congregants to receive: to sit still, to perform wellness, to keep the hurt offstage. Holy/Broken was a direct interruption of that arrangement. Spectators recognized themselves in the body of the work because they were retellings of their direct stories. They participated by no longer observing from a distance, but held in the room — breathing, interrupting, refusing to stay abstract. The project became something Boal might call a rehearsal space, but for us, it functioned more like a confessional — deeply intimate and honest. What could potentially be a redeeming place.
What Boal's framework clarifies is that this kind of theatre isn't a supplement to the real work of community. It is the work. When theatre moves from spectacle to participation, it stops being entertainment and starts being formation – even spiritual formation – or reconciliation, for those hurt by spiritual institutions. Applied theatre in a faith context doesn't simply rehearse revolution. It rehearses resurrection: the slow, communal, embodied practice of coming back to life together.
And yet. Theatre practitioners - or our socially advanced possums to return to our metaphor - have, by and large, stayed in their buildings. Their counsel chambers stand surreptitiously sterile. Columns stretched to a tall, bellowing ceiling, like marble sycamores protecting a clearing for forest animals to dwell. Costing sixty dollars just for the worst seats.
My theory of theatre is that it is not unlike a secret society of highly intelligent possums that live in the sewers – with their own complex architecture, hermeneutics, ethics, and aesthetics. However, we – the common people of this metaphor – only perceive these possums one way: as small, unblinking dumpster dwellers. The Common are blissfully, if not ignorantly, unaware of the nuances and intricacies of the world happening beyond our perception:. the power that theatre has to change the world. Applying theatre is no longer a niche but a necessity.
And yet, as it tends to go with unfathomable power, there is no telling how the world could improve with the implementation of such divine principles and processes. The possums cannot sit in their immaculately kept sewers any longer. They must return to the surface red light districts – the unassuming parts of their neighborhoods – and create lasting change. They must become missionaries.
Theatre practitioners have a responsibility — nay, an obligation — to serve their audience. Not as a courtesy. As a commission. Theatre has to have more than performance; it must have a mission outside of its own service of keeping the doors open. Maybe in an age where travel is accessible, all theatre should travel. Spending more effort on creating nomadic, missional theatre companies than pursuing a pedigree of its own right. The sewer grates to their worlds can no longer operate like proscenium stages. They must instead operate as portals into something greater.
Theatre must transfigure its audience members into ushers of transformation. Theatre must “go therefore and make” practitioners of all audience members. And there lies the second part of this theory - that theatre educators must be intentionally trained and set with purpose - but that is a different manifesto altogether.
If anything, we could utilize the underrepresented families of theatre to inform the Common and create a better world. What if our children knew that the world was so much bigger than they ever imagined? What if they went into the sewers?
Entertainment comes cheap these days. Theatre must transcend into something more: offering audiences experiences that promise more than delight. Delight is still included, but it is an appetizer to the work: a precursor and palate cleanser to the real thing. We have to make it neat enough to want to see and heartfelt enough to stay through intermission.
Here the possums must become missionaries. And missionaries, by definition, do not wait to be visited. The sewer grates are already there. The only question is whether the possums will climb through them or stay underground, brilliant and unseen, until there is nothing left to save.
