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The Oldest Actor: A Theatrical History of Fire on Stage

A man lies on a palace roof in Argos, bored past endurance, waiting for a light. He has watched a year of nights for the one signal fire that will tell him Troy has fallen. When the beacon finally flares, his cry opens the Oresteia, and Western drama begins with a man announcing flame. Aeschylus understood something in 458 BC that the theatre has spent twenty-five centuries relearning: fire is a performer. It carries news, changes fate, pulls the eye from every competing object on the stage, and refuses direction. Each age of the theatre has hired it, and each age has paid the bill.

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The Occupied Space from The Empty Space

There are two books on my desk tonight. One is thin, secondhand, printed in 1968, and it has followed me from apartment to apartment for fifty years the way certain arguments follow a person: quietly, patiently, refusing to concede. The other arrived this week in a shipping box with my name on the cover, and it exists because of the first. It is the answer, finally long enough. The thin book is Peter Brook’s The Empty Space, the most quoted stage doctrine of its century, and mine is The Occupied Space: Sixty Years After The Empty Space, and it is the longest answer I have ever written to anything: twelve chapters, a coda, and a half century of rehearsal rooms behind every page. This is the story of the quarrel, the trial, and the answer, told the way I can only tell it here, at home, at length.

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Haven’t We Always Been Friends?

Aristotle drew a ladder. I drew a circle. A scheming actor asked to climb, and I answered with a question built to end the conversation. Years ago, in a rehearsal room that smelled of coffee and radiator dust, an actor I will call Curtis said six words I have retold wrong for decades: “I want to be your friend.” We had known each other three years by then. We had built shows together, struck sets at midnight, shared the particular intimacy of people who fail in front of each other at ten in the morning and repair it by eight that night. His sentence cornered me. I laughed a little, the way you laugh when you need two seconds to find a door, and I said, “Curtis, haven’t we always been friends?”

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The Necessary Art: Taking the Title Back

Today I am publishing a book about a theft at the center of Western culture, one its victims were trained to take as a compliment:The Necessary Art: Aristotle’s Six Elements in the Clinic, the Courtroom, the Proof, the Blueprint, and the Republic. It runs 342 pages in paperback, it exists in a Kindle edition and a free reading edition you can download right now, and the audiobook will follow as soon as the voice is ready. Those are the facts of the launch. What follows is the case for why this book exists, because its central fact has stood in plain sight for two hundred and eighty years while the people it names were trained to take the theft as a compliment: the professions of the working world were robbed of a word, the robbery has a date and a paper trail, and the word can be taken back.

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The Rented Crowd: Nero’s Five Thousand, the Paris Claque, and the Box That Laughed for America

For the better part of two decades, the laughter of the United States lived inside a padlocked box. Charles Rolland Douglass, a CBS sound engineer who had spent the war helping the Navy develop shipboard radar, built the device in the early 1950s and guarded it the way a sexton guards a reliquary. The laff box, as he called it, stood a little over two feet tall and worked like an organ: keys for titters, chortles, belly laughs, shrieks, a foot pedal to let a wave of mirth swell, crest, and die on command. Douglass wheeled it from studio to studio himself. Clients heard the output and never saw the mechanism. Only his immediate family knew what the inside looked like, and when he finally stepped back from the work, his sons carried the trade forward like a guild secret. The industry word for what he did was sweetening, which tells you the industry understood the product. Sugar is what you add when the thing itself goes down easier disguised.

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Go On Singing, But Sign Your Name: Orson Welles, the Unsigned Cathedral, and the Most Seductive Lie in “F for Fake”

Picture the man. He is past sixty, vast, wrapped in a black cape and a wide hat, and he has just spent an hour lying to your face on purpose. He told you at the start that for the next sixty minutes everything would be true, and you believed him, because the voice belongs to Orson Welles and that voice could sell you the deed to a bridge. Then the hour ran out, and in the last seventeen minutes he spun a whole story about a young woman, her grandfather, and twenty-two forged Picassos, walking you through it as documented fact before turning to the camera to admit he had been, in his own phrase, lying his head off. The film is “F for Fake,” from 1973. With the trick still warm, Welles plants himself in front of Chartres Cathedral, goes quiet and grave and beautiful, and delivers the line everyone carries away: maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter all that much.

Go on singing. Maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter all that much. Orson Welles, “F for Fake” (1973)

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What the Dramatist Knows About Monsters

I sold my first paid byline to a Lincoln, Nebraska, newspaper at the age of ten. That was 1975. In the fifty-one years since, I have continued to be paid to construct figures that audiences will find frightening, or sympathetic, or contemptible, or laughable, on schedule, in plays and musicals and screenplays and novels and podcast scripts and editorial work. My Dramatists Guild membership dates from 1984. My MFA is from the Oscar Hammerstein II Center for Graduate Theatre Studies at Columbia University. A publishing house I founded in the same year I sold the first byline has operated without interruption since. The inventory exists for a single reason: the labor of figure-construction is something I know from inside the work, and the working-dramatist’s perspective on that labor is the perspective from which my new book is written.

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