I grew up only somewhat aware of what it meant to be Jewish. We celebrated what I think of as the Hallmark holidays—Hanukkah and Passover—but didn’t go to temple or talk much about religion. I’d tell friends I was “culturally” Jewish, not religious. That held for most of my childhood.

In the very white suburbs of Los Angeles County, I don’t remember having Jewish friends—though, given how little we talked about it, maybe I just didn’t know. I heard plenty of friends complain about being dragged to church. Never synagogue. I knew I was Jewish, but didn’t know what that actually meant. I also don’t recall encountering antisemitism. In a working Hollywood family, being Jewish didn’t register as different. No Hebrew school, no bar mitzvah. Did I consider myself Jewish? Yes. Did I present that way to the world? Eh—mostly Jew-ish.

Still, those holidays left a mark. I listened at the Seder table, absorbed the story of exodus, belted out “Let My People Go.” And when it came to my real obsession—Hollywood—I gravitated toward Jewish artists without fully understanding why. My dad introduced me to the Marx Brothers, the Three Stooges, Billy Crystal, Mel Brooks, Woody Allen—just as great entertainers, not as Jews. Looking back, there was clearly a pull. The same instinct that made me care a little too much about the Seder was at work in my love for those artists.

That curiosity turned into something like study. My version of Talmudic learning was devouring biographies of Jewish Hollywood figures—Lew Wasserman, Irving Thalberg, the original moguls. I wanted in. But my connection stopped at culture. Religion never entered the picture.

I could walk the Paramount backlot with my dad and imagine those early Hollywood years, but I couldn’t grasp the pressure those men felt as Jews trying to belong in America. I hadn’t experienced othering in any meaningful way. Beyond being a little nerdy and not especially masculine, I moved through the world without friction. The idea that Hollywood was, in part, a refuge from exclusion never quite landed.

That changed in the Air Force.

At Lackland Air Force Base, Sunday meant church—and a break from the drill instructor. Friday, technically, was for Jewish services. When our flight was asked if anyone wanted to attend, no one raised a hand. I didn’t either. I remember someone laughing when “Jewish” was mentioned. Not loudly, but enough to register.

I stayed quiet. Followed the group to Sunday services. It felt like self-preservation. Basic training wasn’t about standing out. It was about blending in, doing what you were told, becoming part of the unit. Still, that small moment stuck with me.

Later, at my first base assignment, I couldn’t avoid it. My roommate—loud, proudly Southern, devoted to college football—invited me to church. This time, I easily told him I’m Jewish.

He got animated. He told me he’d always heard Jews had horns.

At first, I assumed he was joking. He wasn’t. He kept going. I shut it down quickly, but something in me shut down too. I had grown up thinking antisemitism was history, not something you ran into in a dorm room. After that, I avoided him as much as possible. But the experience stayed with me. It forced a question I had never seriously asked: what does it actually mean to be Jewish in the world?

When I returned home, I went looking for answers. I found a reform temple, started talking with a rabbi, attended Torah study. It wasn’t God I was after. It was connection—to history, to something larger than myself. And as I dug in, the work of the artists I loved took on new meaning. The humor, the music, the storytelling—it all landed differently.

The tension remained. I was proud of the connection but hesitant to let it define me. That push and pull—between being culturally Jew-ish and wanting something deeper—didn’t resolve so much as begin to feel comfortable.

I later came across a passage that helped make sense of it. Writing in The New Yorker, Michael Schulman described how Hollywood’s early Jewish founders navigated their own identities:

“The Jewish studio heads were immigrants, or the children of immigrants, who had fled pogroms in Eastern Europe and faced pervasive antisemitism in America, where they longed to assimilate… Even as they lifted movies into the mainstream of American culture, they whitewashed the screen of minorities, including their own, in order to uphold a sanitized vision of the country.”

That word—sanitized—resonated.

Without realizing it, I had done the same. I downplayed my Jewishness when it felt inconvenient. Not out of fear for my safety, but to avoid discomfort. A softer, more modern version of the same instinct.

After the military, as I became more grounded in Jewish life, I briefly swung in the other direction. I wanted to marry Jewish, raise a Jewish family, draw a clear line. But over time, that didn’t feel right either. I loved the connection, but not the idea of closing off the rest of the world.

I thought about Lew Wasserman, who once declined to join Hillcrest Country Club—founded because Jews were excluded elsewhere—because it was restricted. He didn’t want in on something that excluded others, even in response to exclusion. That rang true for me. I valued being Jewish, but also the “ish.”

Today, I’m comfortable saying I’m a Jew. Fully. And outwardly, although not narrowly. I married a non-Jewish woman, and we’ve chosen to let our kids find their own way rather than impose one. At the same time, I know my connection to Jewish culture—especially through film and theater—will shape what I share with them.

I found a kind of mirror in Stephen Sondheim, who once described himself as a “West Side Jew,” raised with little formal religious knowledge but a deep cultural connection. He put it simply: “It’s the fact that so many of the people I admire in the arts are Jewish. And art is as close to a religion as I have.”

That resonates.

Recently, that connection came full circle with my oldest son. After watching the film version of 13: The Musical—Jason Robert Brown’s musical about a kid navigating a move just before his bar mitzvah—he started asking questions. About being Jewish. About whether he might want a bar mitzvah himself.

We’ve always marked Hanukkah and Passover at home, alongside Christmas and Easter. He’s grown up with a light touch of both traditions. But now there’s curiosity. Maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s something deeper. Either way, I feel a responsibility to meet it.

So we’re figuring it out together. I’ve also started showing him Seth Rudetsky’s Broadway Shabbat, part of the Jewish Broadway Alliance—a way of connecting his growing love of musical theatre with a sense of Jewish community. It feels like a natural bridge—an invitation to see that there’s a place where those two parts of him can live side by side.

Meanwhile, my younger son has started asking about Jesus, thanks to conversations at school. I’ve wisely turned that job over to my wife. My version would probably end with him singing Andrew Lloyd Webber tunes in class, which feels…off syllabus.

I’ve started building a small library for them—PJ Library books, films, stories that reflect Jewish life and history. The same way my father did for me, just a little more intentionally. As invitation.

And as I do that, I keep thinking about what it means to carry this identity forward. Unlike my younger self, I will no longer do so quietly or apologetically. But I also won’t use my identity as the only lens through which to see the world.

The weight I once felt—passing when it was easier—has lifted. The world my kids are growing up in is more complicated than the one I knew. Antisemitism feels less hidden now, more willing to show itself.

If my son chooses to step into his Jewishness, I want him to do it with clarity. Without hesitation. And knowing that there is a great community of artists and artisans he can find connection with in the life ahead.

From Harry Potter to Willy Wonka, what happens when beloved authors turn out to be worse than some of the villainous characters they created? Must we burn their books? Do we lock away the DVDs? Or do we make deeply personal decisions for ourselves and allow others to do the same?

Canceling each other for liking a book or movie may not be the cleanest road to redemption. It may just be one more way we avoid the far messier work of living with contradiction.

I went into Giant on Broadway, starring John Lithgow as Roald Dahl, with very little context—as I still stand by the idea that shows should be experienced with as few spoilers as possible. I knew only that the play dealt with the controversy surrounding Dahl’s antisemitism. I wasn’t old enough to have been aware of that moment in real time, around the publication of The Witches, and even as a Jew, I don’t recall thinking of Dahl as a controversial figure until recently.

Like many people, my experience of Dahl probably began with Gene Wilder’s portrayal of Willy Wonka. Maybe there was a school reading of The BFG somewhere in there. As for The Witches, which was published in the aftermath of Dahl’s antisemitic outburst in the press, I still don’t think I’ve read the book. But I was obsessed with the movie starring Anjelica Huston. It was sufficiently creepy for a kid who loved anything scary, albeit in full context of my adult understanding, the source is clearly full of antisemitic dog whistles.

Had I known as a child that the author of these books hated my kind, would I have continued enjoying his art? Likely not. But his art rooted itself in my creative imagination before that kind of disillusionment had a chance to set in.

Much like Harry Potter.

Another now clearly vile author. Another world that became foundational to millions of childhood memories. Clearly, we can blame my lack of exposure to the outside world during those formative years. While others were developing informed moral frameworks, I apparently had my eyes glued to a movie screen or buried in the pages of a book.

Am I to blame for not knowing?

And like nearly every parent of a certain age, I enthusiastically tried getting my kids to appreciate the art that shaped me. The stories that sent my curiosity and imagination spinning in a million directions. I’m not sure my personality would be quite what it is today without the wry wit of Wonka or the fantastical dreaming of my namesake James and his giant peach.

My oldest son got hooked. He loved Wonka. He burned through Potter faster than I ever could have at his age.

Walking out of Giant, however, I felt something close to shame. I simply had not understood the depth of Dahl’s reported hatred of Jews before setting my kids on a path toward appreciating Matilda, Fantastic Mr. Fox, and the rest of his strange little universe.

Lithgow is superb, delivering a chilling, villainous turn as Dahl in this historical look at the unraveling of a celebrated author’s public image. Ignorant of the detailed history before going in, I found myself leaning forward—and away—grabbing my knee and cringing at each escalation toward the full reveal of Dahl’s deep hatred and anger toward Jews.

There is no excusing antisemitism. Full stop.

But is there any ability to excuse an artist’s work? I’m left uncertain. Do I pull Dahl’s books from my kids’ rooms? Do I ban them from revisiting the world of Harry Potter as HBO’s new series readies itself for another round of wizarding-world cash extraction?

Much of Giant surrounds a debate over a review Dahl wrote of a book about Israel’s 1982 war in Lebanon. At first, the play seems to circle an argument that criticizing Israel is not the same as antisemitism. That is, of course, true. But Dahl’s argument keeps curdling. He escalates and escalates until he is no longer criticizing a government or a war but painting Jews themselves as the problem.

The most nauseating line comes near the end of the play, when Lithgow’s Dahl says, “Even a stinker like Hitler didn’t just pick on them for no reason.”

That’s all she wrote, I thought.

Time to dump some books.

And yet, I still haven’t ditched my DVD of Annie Hall. I still consider On the Waterfront one of cinema’s great films, despite my utter disgust with director Elia Kazan’s role in naming names during the Hollywood blacklist. I still watch Chinatown at least once a year, even though Roman Polanski makes my skin crawl. And when my kids are old enough, I’ll probably still make sure they understand why those movies matter.

So why was my instinct to torch Dahl’s books but not Rowling’s escapades through Hogwarts?

Because it’s personal.

Dahl hated my kind, so it hits differently. Just as Rowling’s attacks land with an entirely different force for the trans community. Of course they do. I understood that intellectually before. I think I understand it more viscerally after leaving the Music Box Theatre seething.

Lithgow now finds himself in an odd cultural split-screen: portraying the dastardly Dahl on Broadway while preparing to play a beloved character in HBO’s new Harry Potter series. In an interview with David Remnick for The New Yorker, Lithgow spoke about Rowling and the decision to still take part in telling her stories.

“I just felt the reasons to do it were much, much stronger than the reasons to protest against what Rowling has done and said,” Lithgow said. “I do disagree with much of it. Much of it I think has been twisted and misrepresented, and she has sort of doubled down on it at her own cost.”

That “twisted and misrepresented” bit made me wince.

Had Lithgow been transgender, perhaps he would have weighed the cost of playing Dumbledore differently. Just as I weigh Dahl’s books differently than Rowling’s. Attack the Jews? I can’t get around my own feelings. Attack someone else? I may hate your views. I may believe your actions are cruel. But I don’t always feel compelled to burn your books or trash your films.

Does that mean I’m not sympathetic enough? Does that make me a bad person?

I don’t think so. At least I hope not.

For me, connecting the love of art to the life of the artist requires a deep level of personal animus before discomfort turns into action. That is why I fully understand why so many people have cast the spell of Potter out of their lives. It is also why I haven’t been able to make that same leap across every affront.

I do sometimes wonder whether I’m sympathetic enough to the cause. A friend of mine has been vocal about his own reasons for turning away from Rowling’s creations as a show of support for the trans community. It is commendable. Truly. I respect the clarity of that decision.

I’m just not sure I’ve reached the same place.

Recently, my oldest son had to do a report for his fifth-grade class on a notable Black figure for Black History Month. He was given a list to choose from and picked Michael Jackson.

Like my son, I love Michael’s music. He was one of our greatest entertainers. He was also one of our most complicated. I did grow up at the exact right moment in history to know the accusations against Michael during his lifetime. Since those trials, I’ve always felt slightly uncomfortable returning to his music.

So when my son told me who he was covering in his report, I raised an eyebrow.

“Let’s make sure your research sticks to the ’80s, okay?” I told him.

I was not prepared that day to explain Neverland and adult sleepovers to my son. I had not had enough coffee for that particular parenting seminar.

Now, with a new Michael Jackson film out in theaters, I’m left wondering whether I should keep it away from my kids until they are old enough to decide whether they want to fawn over the King of Pop while knowing the full complexity of his story. From what I’ve read, the film is already being criticized as a whitewashing of Michael’s life—much like Broadways MJ the Musical—which hardly helps.

With the dialogue from Giant still ringing in my ears, and the cringeworthy nature of Lithgow’s dismissal of some elements of Rowling’s vitriol still sitting with me, I’ve been thinking deeply about how to handle art and artists in my household.

And I can’t bring myself to embrace book burning, especially when the art itself is not always the source of the rot.

There are limits, of course. I couldn’t imagine reading some charming entertainment book authored by Hitler, but that is such an extreme case that it hardly requires debate outside of the worst dinner party ever assembled. When it comes to Dahl’s writings—trivial and often empty as some of his books may be—or Rowling’s wizarding world, it does not feel urgent to excise them from my children’s memories.

My kids have already made an attachment to the art without understanding the artist. And like Chinatown and Annie Hall, I can’t quite imagine ridding my Blu-ray cabinet of those cinematic treasures because the people behind them have made me recoil.

This is the harder part of parenting through culture. The red flags are not always there before the attachment forms. Had Rowling’s views been clear to me before my oldest became enamored with Potter, I may have avoided introducing the books altogether. But the attachment is already there. It feels unfair to strip him of stories he enjoys before he is old enough to understand the context and consider that choice for himself.

So in this household, we will live in the gray area.

We will be empathetic to those who have made different choices. We will acknowledge that art and artistry are not always neatly separable. We will also acknowledge that sometimes an artist steps so far into darkness that the work becomes impossible to enjoy. The Cosby Show certainly comes to mind, though I didn’t form a deep enough attachment to the Huxtables before knowing the darkness of Bill Cosby to worry about any great rewatching temptation.

I’ll leave the book bans to religious zealots and extremist politicians in Texas.

As a Jew, I may not pick up another book by Roald Dahl. But I won’t yank them from my kids’ shelves. I will, however, give them context when they are old enough to understand the complexity. They can decide for themselves which art to consume, which artists to reject, and which contradictions they are willing to carry.

That may not be as satisfying as a bonfire.

But it feels a lot more honest.

America is once again confusing aggression with strength. Missiles across the Middle East. Political theater dressed up as resolve. A governing style that treats domination as leadership and assumes the rest of the world will admire a country forever performing toughness for the camera. Hard power has become the preferred language of American life, as though military force and perpetual menace are the surest signs of seriousness.

A strong national defense matters. Protecting allies matters. But this goes well beyond defense. The Trump administration and its allies are gutting the institutions that have long given the United States influence far beyond the battlefield.

The damage runs through the country’s cultural life, educational life, and civic life. While Trump and company indulge their appetite for swagger and war-making, they are dismantling the side of American power rooted in culture, democratic values, education, public trust, and the ability to attract rather than simply threaten.

The attacks have been both symbolic and specific: defunding PBS and NPR, gutting the mission of the Kennedy Center, treating public support for the arts and humanities as “woke,” and encouraging consolidation across film and television that will predictably lead to fewer creative risks and more slop approved by men who think art begins and ends with franchise management. A country that weakens its own cultural institutions looks less like a superpower than a bully with thinning skin.

Joseph S. Nye Jr., the leading thinker behind the concept of soft power, understood that American influence never rested on military force alone. It also grew through culture, education, diplomacy, alliances, values, and exchange. As he wrote in Foreign Affairs, the United States accumulated soft power “based on attraction rather than coercion.” That point says more about real strength than most of what passes for foreign-policy thinking in Trump’s orbit.

The damage lands here at home, too.

Take PBS, as a clear example. Public broadcasting brought the arts and humanities into people’s homes long before American culture was carved into subscriptions and paywalls. It gave generations of Americans access to Sesame Street and Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, yes, but also to Great Performances, Live From Lincoln Center, PBS NewsHour, Ken Burns documentaries, and a broader public culture that treated audiences like citizens rather than market segments.

Without Live From Lincoln Center, I may never have developed my love of classical music. I may never have fallen so deeply for the idea of a performing arts center that would later shape my career and even become the setting for my marriage proposal. That access mattered. Leonard Bernstein. Itzhak Perlman. George Balanchine. Alvin Ailey. Those artists should never have been accessible only to New York elites and the sort of donors who use “summer” as a verb. They were broadcast into homes across the country, free of charge, because there was once a broader belief that culture belonged in public life.

To me, that was part of the American promise.

Not only opportunity, but access to the country’s cultural life. A sense that the best of America should actually belong to the public. That also mattered internationally. Jazz, Broadway, public television, museums, universities, dance, and orchestras were part of American influence. They told the world the United States had imagination, ambition, beauty, and depth. They suggested a country with a soul, not just a military budget and a costly victory arch.

Now we are governed by people who seem to hear the phrase “cultural institution” and react as though someone has sentenced them to three straight hours of experimental theater in folding chairs. Their hostility is blunt and consistent. Public investment in art, history, libraries, journalism, and education is treated as weakness, frivolity, or ideological contamination. The Los Angeles Times put the logic plainly: “Bombs are in and art is out.”

Budgets tell stories. So do political targets. The story here is clear: force deserves investment, while curiosity, beauty, life-saving research, and public knowledge can fend for themselves. Under that logic, the country shrinks. Its vision shrinks. Its credibility shrinks. Its ability to persuade shrinks.

The same pattern is playing out in higher education. Universities, like arts institutions and public media, remain places where curiosity can give greater meaning to life. A spark first ignited by a PBS performance, a documentary, a concert, or a play can deepen into study and genuine intellectual growth. That is one reason higher education is under attack, too. A politics built on grievance has little use for institutions that encourage complexity or historical memory.

I have been thinking lately about Soft Power, David Henry Hwang’s musical, which we brought to life while I was at Center Theatre Group. Even then, the title felt like a warning. Hwang was clear when speaking to the Los Angeles Times as we were preparing to open the show: “I began to wonder to what extent is the goal of achieving soft power inherently incompatible with a government that also wants to control content and has a very top-down censorship relationship to its culture and entertainment.” A country cannot sustain cultural influence while policing and defunding the culture that influence depends on. It is self-sabotage with a flag pin.

Neal Shapiro, President of WNET, made a related point recently on “Here’s The Thing with Alec Baldwin” when reflecting on the original purpose of public broadcasting: “In 1967, Lyndon Johnson said, we need a public broadcasting system. He looked at it with envy like what Britain had with the BBC and said, we need that too. And it was part of the great society.” A democracy needs institutions not fully governed by the market and not perpetually threatened by political retaliation. It needs places where the purpose is to educate and elevate, even if that sounds unbearably quaint to people who think every public good should have to survive Shark Tank.

What makes this moment so maddening is the smallness of the people driving it. The rhetoric is huge. The imagination is tiny. The branding is patriotic. The actual vision is punitive and profoundly incurious. They want the aesthetics of national greatness without any of the substance. The flag, the flyover, the threats, the applause lines. The museums, libraries, classrooms, documentaries, orchestras, and public media systems that help form an intelligent democratic culture are treated as disposable, or worse, dangerous. Collateral damage in the long war on nuance.

As the United States approaches the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, the harder question has less to do with commemoration than inheritance. What kind of country is being prepared for the next 250 years? What will future generations receive from this era of chest-thumping and cultural vandalism?

Will they inherit a nation that still believes art matters, that public knowledge matters, that cultural life belongs to democratic life? Or will they inherit a country shaped by fear and war?

Trump has made America weaker. Weaker in the eyes of adversaries who can see the gap between bluster and strategy. Weaker in the eyes of allies who no longer know whether American commitments carry any real weight. And weaker in the eyes of its own children, whose pathways into art, history, knowledge, and civic life grow narrower with each fresh act of ideological demolition.

From attacks on public broadcasting to the broader dismantling of education and cultural institutions, the message has been relentless: imagination is expendable, learning is expendable, public-minded culture is expendable.

Those things helped make the United States influential in the first place.

A country that destroys them tells the world plenty about itself, and none of it says strength.

Before your kids make their way to college—or not—where one can only hope they’ll stumble into the orbit of a film professor, or maybe an entire program, that feeds their soul with the history of Hollywood, you can get started much earlier. Streaming has made that easier than ever. A child can now be introduced to old movie magic from the couch, one carefully chosen title at a time.

Humble brag: I had that kind of education at home.

I was raised in a working Hollywood family, which meant the craft and mythology of moviemaking were present from my earliest memories. My father gave me a childhood film education that would rival plenty of college survey courses. He told behind-the-scenes stories about filming on the notorious debacle that was Heaven’s Gate, shooting late at night on the side of a highway for Planes, Trains and Automobiles, and working on MGM’s backlot in its waning days. Those stories, paired with his own love of classic movies, made the old studio era feel not distant, but alive. I didn’t just watch those films. I inherited them.

And yes, there is a fine line between having the taste of an old soul and being a movie snob. I cross it regularly.

So when I had children, I had every intention of raising them on the good stuff. Not just “good” in the broadest sense, but good in the tactile, handmade, deeply felt sense. Films with matte paintings and practical effects. Movies where costumes looked lived in because they were. Animation that came from human hands rather than a rendering farm. CGI Mickey? No thanks. The original Mickey Mouse Club? Now we’re talking.

Of all the Hollywood magic that got under my skin, the movie musical may have had the deepest hold. I watched and rewatched everything from An American in Paris to Yankee Doodle Dandy. And then there were the Disney live-action films and musicals that fused old-Hollywood polish with a kind of family-friendly weirdness that still feels unmatched. Helen Reddy dancing on beer barrels oppose a sloppy Mickey Rooney in Pete’s Dragon. David Tomlinson selling his slipshod magic to Angela Lansbury while hurtling through the sky in Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Annette Funicello batting away Ray Bolger in Babes in Toyland. Even the opening songs from Davy Crockett and Zorro permanently reset the standard in my head for what a theme should do.

It was those classic Disney films, maybe even more than the cartoons, that sealed my lifelong affection for the Mouse House: The Apple Dumpling Gang, Pete’s Dragon, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Pollyanna, Swiss Family Robinson, Old Yeller, The Parent Trap, The Shaggy Dog. They all carried a certain texture. A warmth. A sense of place.

And in many of them, that place was tied to my own backyard.

Disney’s Golden Oak Ranch in Santa Clarita sits on the northern edge of Los Angeles County, in the town where I was born and raised and where my two boys were also born. My dad worked there on projects including Something Wicked This Way Comes. So every time I see those oak trees, that covered bridge, that old-town backlot, I’m not just seeing a movie location. I’m seeing a piece of home. A physical landscape that shaped the emotional landscape of my childhood.

Which is why, as I’ve started curating the films I’ll slowly introduce to my kids, I keep returning to those live-action Disney titles. They are my preferred gateway drug. I still haven’t had the heart to show them Old Yeller—I am not emotionally prepared to relive that one, much less manage the resulting childhood trauma—but I have spent this weekend successfully convincing my 2-and-a-half-year-old daughter that she loves Pete’s Dragon. I keep telling her that her brothers and I grew up right near Passamaquoddy. Is that a slight parental embellishment? Perhaps. Is it working? Absolutely.

As she gets older, I want to pass down the stories my father passed to me, and with them a love not just of movies but of how movies are made. Not who has the fastest processor. Not who can type the slickest AI prompt. The people who make practical magic. The propmakers, set dressers, makeup artists, scenic painters, puppeteers, matte artists, costume teams, and location crews. The artisans whose work gave movies weight and atmosphere and credibility. Even the most fantastical alien world once felt real because, in some meaningful sense, it was.

That matters to me all the more now because the culture is in danger of forgetting how much that handmade quality contributes to the emotional force of a film. Part of the reason audiences responded so strongly to Project Hail Mary this summer, as a recent Hollywood Reporter story emphasized, was its refusal to lean on a wall of digital emptiness. Director Christopher Miller said, “Not a single green or bluescreen was used,” and described building the ship as a real set while using practical backgrounds and an animatronic Rocky on set. That is exactly the kind of thing kids should be taught to notice: why something feels real, not just whether it looks expensive.

And there’s a bigger stakes question underneath all of this. Hollywood’s physical craft base and workforce need protecting, not nostalgic handwringing after the damage is done. As the Los Angeles Times reported, Sen. Adam Schiff argued that “the urgency could not be greater” when it comes to competitive incentives to keep production in the United States. He rightly framed the issue not around celebrities, but around the crews whose labor creates the illusion in the first place. Keep Hollywood in Hollywood. Get the tax structure in place before the industry offshores what remains of the real thing.

Because what I want my kids to appreciate is not just movie stardom but movie labor. I want them to understand why Vasquez Rocks matters. Why a backlot matters. Why a practical creature matters. Why a location carries memory in a way a green void never can. Captain Kirk fighting the Gorn meant something more when you knew that landscape actually existed just down the road.

If we still lived in Southern California, I’d probably nudge them toward the old Main Street magic-shop fantasy—learning sleight of hand for Disneyland guests, Steve Martin-style—instead of dreaming about coding the next digital universe. Though given the state of the business, I might also need to add a wing to the house where they could live forever while pursuing that noble artisanal path.

One thing is certain: I plan to send them into adulthood with Turner Classic Movies, shelves stocked with Leonard Maltin, Neal Gabler, and Sam Wasson, and enough exposure to old Disney that they’ll instinctively recoil when a beloved character starts looking too algorithmically polished. In our childhood home, we had a bust of Yul Brynner’s head that had once been used to prepare makeup for Westworld. Imagine growing up with that in the living room. It had gravitas. It had mystery. It was both décor and doctrine.

I don’t have Yul here with me in Connecticut, but I do have access to old Hollywood and a determination to pass it on. I also still have those glorious tins of Disney Treasures DVDs, the kind of lovingly curated physical-media object that now feels like an artifact from a more civilized age. Film historian and true mensch Leonard Maltin recalled pitching what became Walt Disney Treasures as a more organized way to reach “collectors, Disney buffs, and families and kids,” and later lamented that Disney never really gave that material “another lease in life” online. He was right. Those sets understood that curation is part of education.

And that, really, is the point.

You don’t have to wait until your child can appreciate film noir, decode aspect ratios, or understand why black-and-white photography can feel more emotionally lush than many films shot last year. The golden age of Disney live-action movies is sitting there waiting, full of craft, music, invention, humor, and heart. It’s a ready-made film school from the comfort of your couch.

And if your kid resists at first, do what I did: fib a little. Tell them how much they loved it last time. Hype it up. Try again. At some point, it will go down like a spoonful of sugar.

And if they still choose Barney over Pete’s Dragon, then I regret to inform you the situation may be dire. At that point, it may be time to revert to no-screen parenting, because there are some roads from which a family simply does not return.

The most alarming shift in Hollywood right now isn’t who’s getting famous. It’s who isn’t working at all.

For decades, there was a reliable, if unglamorous, path in the entertainment industry: the working actor. Not the star. Not the unknown. The person in between—the character actor, the TV parent, the recurring guest role that turned into a steady paycheck. The kind of career that didn’t require an Oscar campaign, just the ability to hit your mark and not ruin a scene.

That path is disappearing. Not by accident.

It’s the outcome of consolidation—studio mergers, streamer economics, and a creative ecosystem that increasingly treats every role like it needs to justify a press release.

Roles that once went to seasoned, mid-career actors are now routinely filled by Oscar winners or A-list film stars. Prestige television—once where careers were built—is now where already-built careers go to extend their shelf life.

At the same time, the economics that sustained the middle class have eroded. Residuals—once the closest thing this industry had to a safety net—have thinned out in the streaming era. As Backstage explains: “Once upon a time, actors aimed to get in on network TV residuals as a way to make passive income whenever work dried up. (Just look at the cast of Friends, who still make around $20 million a year from their time on the hit series.) But things have changed—and gotten a bit more complicated—thanks to the rise of streaming, an industry-shaking topic that largely led to the 2023 SAG-AFTRA strike.”

Even if you land the job, it doesn’t sustain you the way it used to. And increasingly, you’re not landing it anyway—because Nicole Kidman is.

If this feels sudden, it isn’t.

One of the earliest warning signs didn’t happen in casting—it happened in production. Runaway productions.

Long before actors started talking about vanishing opportunities, jobs for crew—property masters, set dressers, electricians—were already being shipped out of Los Angeles and New York in search of tax incentives and cheaper labor. As Variety has detailed, studios steadily moved work elsewhere, chasing savings while hollowing out the communities that built the industry.

Producers learned they could save money by leaving the people who sustained them—and nothing would really stop them. This is where the collapse becomes structural.

The mid-budget film—once the backbone of the industry—is vanishing. In its place: IP-driven tentpoles and low-budget swings that either break through or disappear before you’ve opened the app.

But that “in between” is where careers were built.

Without those films, you don’t develop actors into recognizable presences. You don’t get the slow accumulation of credits that turns someone into a Noah Wyle or a Reginald VelJohnson. You don’t get the people who make a movie feel lived-in instead of algorithmically assembled.

You get a polarized system: the elite and everyone else auditioning for them.

And as The Economist puts it, that “everyone else” is already struggling: “Young, ambitious actors will no doubt appreciate words of encouragement. But for all the talk of dreams, many actors are finding show business a nightmare.”

At any given time, a majority of actors are unemployed. Production is down. But sure, tell the next generation to just “stick with it.”

The uncomfortable question is simple: If you can’t build a career as a working actor, where do the next generation of stars come from? The industry still assumes talent will rise. That the system will replenish itself. But break through what, exactly?

A system with fewer roles, fewer productions, and fewer chances to be anything other than instantly successful or immediately forgotten. You can’t skip the middle and expect excellence at the top.

Just as Hollywood’s working actors are now scraping by on dwindling opportunities, the original playing field—the stage—has already been here.

Beyond Broadway—which is unapologetically commercial and not designed to solve this problem—the real ecosystem for working actors once lived in regional theatres across the country. And those institutions have been in quiet crisis for years.

These were the spaces where an actor built a career, not just credits. Where you cut your teeth on meaty work—new plays, old plays, risky plays—and got paid (modestly, but consistently) to get better.

That system has nearly collapsed under the weight of shifting audience habits and broken economics.

As the Los Angeles Times writes: “The challenge of figuring out a workable business model as production and personnel costs rise while old revenue streams dry up is bad enough. But the quagmire is made worse by the question of what audiences want in an age of abundant at-home entertainment options, tighter budgets and general fatigue from the merciless grind of modern life.”

There was a time when writers like Arthur Miller and Neil Simon would premiere or develop work in regional houses like Center Theatre Group’s Ahmanson Theatre before bringing it to New York. That pipeline didn’t just serve playwrights—it sustained actors.

It gave working actors real jobs. And, crucially, visibility. Because those productions were where industry eyes showed up. That’s how careers moved.

Take Matthew Broderick. Before he became a film star, he moved through that exact ecosystem—off-Broadway, regional theatre, the kind of steady, visible work that made him legible to both audiences and decision-makers. Without that pipeline—without places like the Ahmanson serving as a “home away from home” for writers like Neil Simon—it’s not hard to imagine a world where WarGames or Ferris Bueller’s Day Off either don’t get made…or don’t find him.

And if those mid-budget films don’t exist today—and those theatre pipelines barely function—where exactly is that version of a career supposed to happen now?

Just as the middle vanishes, here comes the next efficiency play: AI.

Studios experimenting with synthetic performers. Digital extras. The ability to turn 20 people into 20,000 without craft services. The industry is already trying to get ahead of it.

As Bloomberg reports: “A so-called ‘Tilly tax’—named for controversial AI actress Tilly Norwood—would levy a fee on “synthetic” performers to make using them cost as much as using real actors.”

The fact that we’re workshopping taxes on imaginary actors tells you how this is going.

It won’t wipe out the top. It’ll just finish off whoever’s left in the middle. It’s tempting to call this an industry correction. The price of innovation. But it’s also a set of choices. Familiarity over discovery. Scale over sustainability.

A system where the only reliably employable actors are the ones who already don’t need the job.

The “working actor” wasn’t just a job category. It was infrastructure—the way the industry trained itself and discovered people who ended up mattering.

Without it, something else thins out too—the texture of the work. Because when every face on screen is already famous, you’re not watching a world. You’re watching an IMDB listicle.

This is what I think about when reflecting on my dad’s career—he was a longtime property master who built a real career in a version of Hollywood that actually functioned as an ecosystem. He worked steadily for decades, including nearly 14 years across Star Trek: The Next Generation and Star Trek: Voyager—the kind of long-running television model that didn’t just create iconic shows, but sustained entire communities in Los Angeles.

He retired just as that model began to disappear. Before the shrinking seasons. Before the work itself became something you had to follow across state lines—or countries—just to stay afloat. He got out before it became a battle for survival. And that feels less like inevitability than timing.

Because every now and then, you see a glimpse of what this industry could still look like if it wanted to. HBO’s The Pitt, as Wyle recently argued at a hearing organized by Senator Adam Schiff in Burbank, proves production can still be anchored in Los Angeles—that jobs can still be local, that a show can still function as a stable employer instead of a content burst.

The old model isn’t extinct. It’s been deprioritized.

Which leaves the real question: If Hollywood knows how to build a system that supports working actors and working crews—why did it decide to stop? And what happens to the art form when it does?

For those of us who grew up inside the world of the nonprofit arts, the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts was never just another venue.

It was an idea.

I felt that long before I ever set foot in Washington. I felt it growing up in Los Angeles, experiencing theatre through the curatorial lens of Gordon Davidson at Center Theatre Group. Davidson didn’t just produce plays—he built ecosystems for artists. He treated theatre not as product but as civic life.

So, when I first learned that Leonard Bernstein tapped Davidson to stage Mass to inaugurate the Kennedy Center in 1971, it always struck me as perfectly fitting. One visionary artist inviting another to help open the nation’s performing arts center.

That’s what the place was meant to represent.

Which is why watching the past year unfold has felt less like a leadership transition and more like a cultural demolition.

Now Richard Grenell is stepping down after a disastrous tenure leading the Kennedy Center, following the political takeover engineered by Donald Trump and a loyalist board. The upheaval began when longtime president Deborah Rutter was abruptly pushed out, signaling that something fundamental had changed. The nation’s flagship arts institution was suddenly being treated less like a cultural trust and more like a political asset.

Or perhaps more accurately, like a branding opportunity.

Trump has spent a lifetime putting his name on buildings—towers, casinos, hotels. But cultural institutions aren’t real estate deals. You can slap a name on a skyscraper. You can’t manufacture cultural legitimacy.

The MAGA board that swept into the Kennedy Center seemed to believe the arts ecosystem would simply keep functioning. That artists would still perform, organizations would keep partnering, and audiences would keep showing up.

Instead, artists pulled out. Organizations canceled appearances. Ticket sales seemingly plunged. The Kennedy Center, already fragile after the pandemic’s devastating impact on the arts, suddenly found itself in a downward spiral of its own making.

Grenell eventually found himself presiding over a shrinking stage. When the artists leave and the audience stops showing up, even the most enthusiastic political appointee begins to look for the exit.

Blowing things up is easy. Running the institution afterward is the hard part.

There’s an irony here. For years, many of the country’s economic elites convinced themselves that supporting Trump was a manageable gamble. Money talks, after all, and perhaps they assumed that if they could get his ear, they could steer him away from the chaos.

But they appear to have badly misread the arts.

The cultural ecosystem runs on trust—between artists, institutions, donors, and audiences. Once that trust collapses, the ripple effects move fast. The places people once assumed would always be there—the orchestras, theatres, and national stages—suddenly look far more fragile.

There’s also a small detail worth mentioning.

The building on the Potomac is still officially called the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, vanity signage or not.

Not the Trump Center. Not the MAGA Cultural Complex. Not whatever gilded rebrand some political consultant might dream up next.

Just the Kennedy Center.

It was named for John F. Kennedy, a president who believed the arts mattered to democracy. During his presidency, artists were welcomed into the White House not as decoration but as participants in civic life.

So, forgive many of us in the arts community if we decline to participate in any gaudy attempt to rename or rebrand it.

The initials on the building are JFK.

They will still be there long after the latest political vanity project has faded.

The Kennedy Center must return to its roots—celebrating the diverse arts of this country and elevating artists whose work might never survive in a purely commercial marketplace. Not all art is meant to turn a profit.

Some of it is meant to turn a culture.

Which is also why it’s worth pushing back when even the culture industry itself takes cheap shots at the arts. Recently, Timothée Chalamet sparked backlash after dismissively suggesting that ballet and opera are art forms “no one cares about anymore,” a snarky remark that drew swift responses from artists across those communities, not to mention becoming a trolling meme across social media.

Perhaps someone should invite him to spend an evening at the Kennedy Center once it remembers what it’s supposed to be.

Because the institution was never meant to chase popularity contests or quarterly metrics. It was meant to give a national stage to artists like Leonard Bernstein and Gordon Davidson—artists who believed the purpose of art wasn’t simply to entertain the moment.

It was to shape the culture that comes next and celebrate the arts that make America great.

And that is a mission far more enduring than any political takeover.

For audiences attending the most recent Broadway revival of Our Town, which closed in January, a souvenir program revealed the moments many of the show’s cast and creative team would hope to relive. Alongside reflections from stars like Jim Parsons, Zoey Deutch, and Katie Holmes, one particularly striking entry belonged to the show’s producer, Jeffrey Richards ’69. “It was the end of March, my senior year at Wesleyan. Snowing. 2:00 a.m.,” Richards wrote. “I wanted to see the campus for the last time blanketed in snow.”

It’s a moving reflection from a producer who has spent his career bringing stories of profound human connection to the stage. From his days as a theater critic for Wesleyan University’s student newspaper, The Wesleyan Argus, to becoming one of Broadway’s leading producers, Richards has created an enduring mark on American theater. “Not since the heyday of the legendary David Merrick has a single producer had such an influence on Broadway,” The Los Angeles Times once noted of Richards.

For Richards, Broadway isn’t just a career—it’s his family’s business. His mother, Helen Stern Richards, was a Broadway press representative, company manager, and general manager. She handled publicity for the original production of West Side Story, was the company manager for Purlie Victorious during its 1961 Broadway premiere, and later, was the general manager of a Broadway revival of The Pajama Game starring Cab Calloway.

More than six decades later, Richards produced the acclaimed 2023 revival of Purlie Victorious, working with director Kenny Leon. Poignantly, his revival of Our Town—also directed by Leon—holds another connection to his mother. One of her final jobs as a company manager was on a production of Our Town starring Henry Fonda. These revivals not only honored his mother’s legacy but also reaffirmed Richards’s lifelong commitment to bringing essential stories to new generations.

Richards’s journey as a producer has been defined by his instinct for identifying emotionally compelling narratives and his ability to build lasting relationships with artists. His latest project, Maybe Happy Ending, had been on his radar since 2016. “I got a correspondence from somebody who had worked in my office . . . inviting me to see a reading of a musical called What I Learned from People,” he recalled. “They described it as a romantic comedy set in the late 21st century that imagines the magical and bittersweet reawakening to the things that make us human.”

Richards was immediately excited by the show’s potential but bringing it to Broadway was complicated by COVID-19 shutdowns and evolving creative direction. Securing a theater was difficult due to post-pandemic scheduling following an out-of-town run in Atlanta, but “when Darren Criss came aboard, it was essential,” Richards admitted. Producing an original musical on Broadway is riskier than adapting a recognizable story or brand, making the involvement of Criss, who starred in the hit television show Glee, that much more important, according to Richards. Ultimately, the musical love story about two retired androids, now re-titled Maybe Happy Ending, found its way to Broadway and earned critical acclaim. The New York Times has called it “astonishing . . . a joyful, heartbreaking, cutting-edge production.”

While Maybe Happy Ending represents an innovative future for Broadway, Richards’s revival of Our Town pays tribute to its past. Once again collaborating with Leon, they worked to bring an inclusive vision to the storied play.

“I wanted to do this play because it has grown with me over the years,” Richards explained. “Kenny’s vision was to bring diversity to Our Town . . . we have a Native American. We have a deaf actor. We have a Black family playing the Gibbs.” The vision worked—The New York Times described the revival as “an Our Town for all of us.”

As a former Broadway publicist, Richards still knows what makes a great media pitch. Case in point: Our Town’s first rehearsal. Instead of gathering in a Times Square studio, Richards arranged for two buses to take the entire company to Peterborough, New Hampshire, where Wilder finished writing the play.

The trip was not just a great publicity moment—it garnered coverage from The New Yorker and NPR—but also a way to immerse the cast in the world of Our Town. “When you drive from Manhattan to New Hampshire and leave at 7:45 in the morning, and when you come back at 1:30 in the morning, it’s a great bonding experience for everybody involved with the production,” Richards said.

Producing in today’s Broadway landscape is not without its challenges. Richards, like many in the industry, has had to navigate post-pandemic uncertainty, shifting audience expectations, and economic pressures. But that hasn’t slowed him down. “The six most dangerous letters in the English language,” he joked, “are R-E-T-I-R-E.” Instead, he remains busier than ever.

He’s currently working on a revival of David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross starring Kieran Culkin, Bob Odenkirk, and Bill Burr, which opened in March. “David calls me his producer at the theater, and he’s been very loyal to me,” Richards says. Over the years, he has worked on many Mamet productions, including Speed-the-Plow, American Buffalo, and November, the latter of which Mamet dedicated to him. He is also looking ahead to upcoming Broadway productions of The Diary of Anne Frank, Bug by Tracy Letts, and Data by new playwright Matthew Libby.

Whether exploring new facets of a classic like Our Town or championing a bold new work like Maybe Happy Ending, Richards continues to shape the theatrical landscape with a care for what moves audiences and celebrates artists. “When I have an idea to either revive a play or when I’m sent a script of a new play, and I’m riveted or taken with it, it’s inspiring.”

I wrote this article for Wesleyan University Magazine.

It’s refreshing to talk with Max Wolf Friedlich ’17 on the heels of a buzzy opening night for Job, his hit new play on Broadway. You won’t get any type of exaggerated excitement or the false pretense of platitudes, which may seem surprising when you realize you’re talking to a 29-year-old playwright who has already appeared in the pages of Vogue, earned a New York Times critic’s pick, and has been attracting the highly coveted under-40 crowd to the theater. Instead, Friedlich is matter of fact in his reaction to such success. While there’s just the right amount of appreciation, he’s much more candid in describing what one hit play means in the grand scheme of things. Because for Friedlich, he knows he’ll likely need to keep up his do-it-yourself approach to making it in show business.

“Theater has always been something I had to do myself,” Friedlich said without any sense of frustration while reflecting on the rounds of rejections—or lack of responses—he received while writing Job. “I’ve never been very institutionally supported in my theater-making.” Instead, he has turned to crowdfunding, self-producing, and an overall scrappiness to get his creative ideas off the ground.

While in high school, Friedlich was hustling like any entrepreneurial child of the digital age. He ran a Kickstarter campaign to fund one of his early plays, SleepOver, which ran as part of the New York Fringe Festival. “My first foray into professional theater was like, ‘You have to raise $10,000 by yourself. You have to figure out how to cast actors. You have to find a director,’” he said.

That’s not to say Friedlich is without means or opportunity. His parents, artist Melissa Stern ’80 and media executive James Friedlich ’79, have provided moral support for his artistic aspirations along the way. “I’m not like some crazy lone wolf, but theater has always been something that, to me, was something I had to figure out myself.”

Figuring out Job was a similar learning experience. While Friedlich arrived at Wesleyan University in 2013 with his affinity for theater in tow, ever the resourceful artist, he took note of a new wave of opportunity blossoming in Hollywood around the same time that could possibly provide a more structured platform for his creativity. “The four years I was in college were the beginning of the golden age of television when streaming really picked up,” he said. “So, I started going out to Los Angeles on spring breaks and taking meetings.”

Those trips to L.A. on spring break would turn into a relocation after graduation, resulting in some TV writing success. And while Hollywood paid better than theater, it didn’t always give Friedlich a sense of artistic fulfillment. “I’d worked on [a TV project] for seven months, and then I’d get a call that they weren’t moving forward with it because the network had just been bought by Disney,” Friedlich said of his frustration in knowing some of his hard work and writing was shelved. “Having that experience pushed me back towards theater… If you fail in theater, you still have [the play], it’s still yours.”

But Friedlich didn’t have to return home to find his next playwriting opportunity. In fact, it was a conversation at a party in Los Angeles that inspired the idea for Job. The play centers on Jane (played by Sydney Lemmon) as she navigates a tense and paranoid session with her work-appointed therapist (played by Peter Friedman) following a breakdown at the office. It’s no wonder she reached her breaking point—Jane’s job is to moderate the darkest corners of the internet to keep social media safe for everyone else.

Friedlich followed up on that thought-provoking party conversation with another fortunate encounter—this time over coffee—with Stefanie Black, a founder of the L.A.-based IAMA Theatre Company. When Black mentioned her desire to start a young playwrights’ group, Friedlich eagerly offered his help. “I said, If I handle all the logistics, can I be part of it?“

Bringing that DIY spirit to the table, Friedlich handled recruiting the other writers, printing scripts, and the like, joining the ranks of the inaugural IAMA Under 30 Playwrights Lab cohort in 2019. He would later go on to direct the program. With his fellow under-thirtysomethings, he hurriedly wrote the first draft of Job and presented a loosely staged Zoom reading—thanks to the sudden COVID-19 shutdown—of the work in progress. And, like many new plays, that’s where it could have ended, had Friedlich not taken things into his own hands.

After Job was rejected for further development by other playwright groups and MFA programs, according to Friedlich, he landed it in New York by winning a SoHo Playhouse writing competition that turned into a multi-week downtown production. Yet again, he found himself having to self-produce before others took notice. “No one thought it would be anything,” he said.

No one, perhaps, other than his friend Hannah Getts, dramaturge, and close collaborator; the play’s director, Michael Herwitz; and fellow Wesleyan alum and theater producer Alex Levy ’08, who would partner with Friedlich and Getts as they learned how to promote Job from being a downtown competition winner to an off-Broadway smash and ultimately a Broadway success.

Levy and Friedlich met through the Wesleyan alumni network, resulting in a coffee meeting in Greenwich Village. After landing the SoHo Playhouse opportunity, Friedlich and Getts called Levy to ask for advice on raising money. “At the end of the call, Max and Hannah said, ‘This has been so helpful.’ And there was this pause, and I said, ‘Guys, first mistake. You never let someone get off the phone without making an ask.’ I said they should have asked me to donate. And I did donate. I was their first check in the door.”

That first check gave Job an early boost of confidence for a play that would become a runaway hit, which translated into a run at a larger theater off-Broadway, for which Levy joined as lead producer. And that relationship would remain as they looked to capitalize on the play’s continued success, thanks to tremendous word of mouth—a viral TikTok moment included—and critical praise. Their next move was transferring Job to the Hayes Theater on Broadway.

Speaking with Friedlich that morning after Job opened, he was already preparing to turn his attention to the next thing. “I don’t wake up and spend 14 waking hours thinking about my name on a marquee. I’m just eager to do something else.” He was even considering heading back to Los Angeles. “The phone is ringing there in a way that it isn’t in the theater.”

Friedlich credits his ability to easily move between film, television, and theater to his time at Wesleyan. While thinking he would double major in film and theater, he ultimately majored in American studies. “It’s a testament to the spirit of intellectual curiosity that I have a career in this field without majoring in those things,” he said while also recognizing the importance of influential teachers. “I will say that Amy Bloom ’75, as my television writing professor, changed my life. I’m eternally grateful to her, as she taught me more about how to be a professional writer than anyone ever could.”

Job ran on Broadway at the Helen Hayes Theater through October 27.

I wrote this for Wesleyan University Magazine.

As Charles Newell ’81 walked across the 75th Tony Awards stage at Radio City Music Hall to accept the Regional Theatre Award, he was keenly aware that this accolade signified much more than industry recognition of his Chicago-based theater company. It represented the fortitude of regional theaters across the country that were still reeling from a pandemic that had shut down performances and decimated the industry. Along with its regional theater peers, the Court Theatre (where Newell has led as Marilyn F. Vitale Artistic Director since 1994) had only just begun a tentative return to in-person performances.   

“We think of this award as the Nobel Prize for a regional theater,” Newell remarked while speaking from his office in Chicago. “There is no higher national recognition that leads to such exposure for a theater company.”  

Newell’s path to the Chicago theater scene began while in high school, learning from a prolific theater educator, Ted Walch, who would go on to inspire the likes of Allison Janney, Maggie Gyllenhaal, and Wesleyan alumna Beanie Feldstein ’15. During his first semester at Wesleyan, Newell audaciously applied to join an advanced directing class. “I thought, there’s no chance in hell, but it’s a directing class, so I tried.” It was there he met William “Bill” Francisco, professor emeritus of theater, and found a spark of inspiration. Newell recalled the precise moment that Francisco observed him responding to a final dress rehearsal of a play. “He said, ‘You have a director’s instinct.’ That was the first time that somebody said you could do this if you wanted to, and so I share this award with him as well. That’s where my path started.”  

Beginning his 29th season at the Court, Newell can now proudly declare that this 251-seat intimate venue on the campus of the University of Chicago shares the title of Tony Award–winning regional theater with five other storied Chicago-based arts organizations, including the Goodman Theatre and Steppenwolf.   

“This award is a tremendous affirmation for this company and my colleagues who have all been part of our journey in continually exploring what is meant by classic theater,” said Newell.  

Beyond the pandemic, artistic directors like Newell have been confronting a similarly existential reckoning over the last two years, with Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC) theater artists, including more than 300 theater makers under the banner We See You White American Theater, “demanding a more equitable and safe space for BIPOC communities in our nation and inside of the American Theater.”  

These concerns remain top of mind for Newell, noting that throughout his tenure, the Court has been able to increase its audience of color from what was once five percent to now a third across all of its productions. He also recognizes that diversity amongst the theater’s actors over the last 15 years has improved, with 60–70 percent being from BIPOC communities. “The work that we have been doing these last few years has been about dismantling systems and structures that are so harmful to everyone, particularly artists of color within the staff,” said Newell.  

The Court’s mission includes a commitment to exploring the African American theatrical canon and Newell sees such work as a vital component of its commitment to serving the company’s South Side of Chicago community, which is a predominately Black (75.3%) and Hispanic (20.6%) neighborhood, according to the US Census Bureau.  

“If our purpose is to serve our community, and we are a classics-based company, what we define as ‘classic’ must resonate and connect to their lives,” said Newell. “Our entire theater is currently engaged in strategic planning, creating a new mission statement that incorporates a more inclusive and equitable response to the question, ‘What is classic theater?” Leading that process alongside Newell are Executive Director Angel Ysaguirre, Director of Engagement Kamilah Rashied, and newly appointed Associate Artistic Director Gabrielle Randle-Bent. The company’s resident artist, Ron OJ Parson, has also focused on opening doors for artists and stories to better serve the theater’s diverse community. “As we look ahead to what’s next, we are always focusing on the culture of the Court Theatre and the art that reflects that culture,” Newell added.  

Newell is excited as he speaks about the Court’s future, partly because of his team’s artistic ambition as well as the theater’s financial stability, thanks in part to the University of Chicago’s annual $1 million of in-kind support towards the theater’s overall $6 million operating budget. “With that kind of financial backstop, we are always asking ourselves if we are taking enough risk. Are we challenging ourselves and our audience enough?” Newell recognized as he pointed to an upcoming, ambitious production of The Gospel at Colonus that will push the theater’s limits. “We’re going to do it with 15 performers and five musicians, which will be the largest number of people we’ve ever had on our stage. It is going to blow the roof off.”  

Extolling the intimacy and experimental ambitions of the regional theater scene, Newell proudly reflects on his career at the Court. “I would tell any theater major graduating from Wesleyan today to move to Chicago. There is no other community that I know of, and I include New York and Los Angeles, where there are so many opportunities for you as an early career theater artist to get in the door.”

I originally wrote this article for Wesleyan University Magazine.

Is the American Dream a reality or fallacy? And if it still exists, who does it belong to? For Alma—the title character of Los Angeles playwright Benjamin Benne’s newest work—dreams for her first-generation daughter Angel’s future are built upon a universal hope of a better life with a slice of more immediate concerns of deportation and security. For Angel, the journey towards understanding why her mother is pushing for a perfect SAT score and admission to a good college are revealed through a bit of typical teenage angst, but ultimately through an emotional breakthrough for this mother daughter duo. While bonds are tested, and trust is broken, Alma’s vision for her daughter’s future never wavers. For the sake of the family, Angel simply must achieve the American Dream. After all, that’s what Alma’s visions have shown and what she believes society demands of this immigrant family.

While the bond between mother and daughter reaches heightened levels of fantastical realism in Benne’s poetic new play, it echoes a grounded familiarity for some of the women bringing Alma to life onstage and their own mothers. Director Juliette Carrillo and designers Carolyn Mazuca and Tanya Orellana recently joined with their mothers in conversation to reflect on the dynamic between Alma and Angel along with their own family dynamics growing up under the shadow of the amorphous American Dream.

Q. How do you define the American Dream, and do you see it as something that is still attainable?

Costume Designer Carolyn Mazuca and Mother Diane

Diane: Having an opportunity to and freedom to pursue that which the individual chooses, and not to have roadblocks because of race or because of religion, is my understanding of the American Dream. And to accomplish what one is willing to put the effort into trying to achieve.

Carolyn: I think some people don’t consider the American dream achievable, but I don’t know that they’re necessarily defining the American Dream the way my mom and I are. I do think that there is still a lot of people that are like, “oh it’s a house with a fence and a dog and the whole thing.” I think that people can work towards finding a dream that they like, and a dream that they can support, and in that way, I’m very optimistic.

Director Juliette Carrillo and Mother Sheila

Sheila: It makes me think back to my parents, who were first generation. My mom wanted me to have a good life and wanted me to have a career, because she didn’t have one…I probably protected Juliette against the American Dream more than I would have promoted it. I didn’t want it imposed upon her…the traditional way of being in the world. I wanted to keep the doors open rather than have a prescription for what was defined as success.

Juliette: Both my parents were artists. So, when I chose to go into the arts, there was never any concern or hesitation or fear around it. I also teach college, so I’m seeing a lot of first-gen kids come through our arts programs. The kids that end up in the arts are particularly strong because they know what the cost is. They have parents that have certain expectations, and some students know they are going against their parents’ ideas of the American Dream.

Scenic Designer Tanya Orellana and Mother Evelyn

Evelyn: I never thought of the American Dream. I’m an immigrant from El Salvador that came to this country when I was five. I’ve always just followed what I can. I took steps forward, and whatever was happening, that was the dream. I’m glad that Tanya has been following her dream—not the American Dream. She always wanted to read and go to the theatre, and I was there to provide a way to go. I was just happy to support that she had many interests.

Q. Alma’s vision for her daughter’s path towards an education and career is made clear in the play, and she applies great pressure when she senses resistance. Did you experience similar pressures while growing up?

Tanya: My mom’s support gave me the confidence to do whatever I wanted to do and to know that everything would be okay. Sometimes I look back at my life and realize that when I was 18 or 19, I just decided I would make this a career. It takes a lot of confidence or security to think you can do something like this. At my age now, knowing what it means to make this a career seems much scarier. It was because of my mom’s support that I felt I would be okay dreaming whatever I wanted to dream.

Sheila: Probably the opposite. I was young, and I wasn’t very aware, and Juliet was more mature than I was, and she was so self-directed and so passionate about everything she did that I didn’t even pause to think about how to direct her. I valued her drive and her instincts.

Diane: My grandmother would talk to Carolyn about opportunity and that she had to finish school and had to do well. My grandmother only made it to the fourth grade before she had to stop going to school and support the family. So, Carolyn heard those stories and knew what was out there. When I was finishing high school, my father would say I had to go to college. I felt that growing up, and I wanted my children to be able to go to college, so I was very in tune with their intellectual abilities. I tried to push them based on their capabilities.

Carolyn: When I was young, I didn’t know why my mom was pushing me to get good grades. Then it occurred to me that it’s not just within her and my generation—I realize my grandma and great grandmother didn’t finish all their schooling. I’m really happy that my mom pushed me in that way and that she had this sense of protection, the same way Alma does for Angel. Now that I’m older and have both perspectives, I think, okay, I get it.

Q. In Alma’s pursuit of a perfect life for daughter the play includes moments of raw emotion, but also memories of love and shared culture—including a constant serving of rice and beans—between this mother and her first-generation daughter. Did that sharing of culture play a role in your upbringing?

Juliette: There was conscious choice to keep us connected to Mexico. We lived in Mexico, when I was a child and there has there been consistent pilgrimages to my father’s mother’s home town.

Tanya: As first-generation person, there’s always a sense of longing for a place that you don’t know a lot about, except through your environment through your parents, so I was obsessed with it. I would ask my mom all these questions. I still feel I have a constant search for my identity as a Salvadorian American.

Diane: I have to say, the part about the rice and beans [in the play]—it was absolutely hilarious because when times were tough, we ate a lot of rice and beans. I remember, one time, my little one was asking what’s for dinner, and I say, “well, we’re going to have chicken and rice and beans.” And she was so sick of it. That is still our little funny thing we say, “I’m sick of rice and beans.”

Angel’s journey towards understanding Alma’s love and tireless pursuit of perfection on behalf of her daughter will take center stage at the Kirk Douglas Theatre from March 6 – April 3, 2022 in Center Theatre Group’s World premiere production, produced in cooperation with American Blues Theater.

I wrote this article for Center Theatre Group’s program for the play Alma at the Kirk Douglas Theatre in Los Angeles, CA.

The post Alma and the American Dream appeared first on James Sims.

Amidst endless Zoom meetings and pivoting every possible direction while planning seasons across three iconic theatres, Center Theatre Group’s artistic team has been asking itself profound questions. How do you program art for the stage that effectively wrestles with the unpredictable world outside the stage door? And who should be at the table to make those important artistic decisions. While these important discussions have been mostly taking place over Zoom these past two years, they are the same questions Center Theatre Group has been asking since it began in 1967. And they have been asked by artistic leaders at theatres across the world since the inception of the art form.

Today, those voices at Center Theatre Group’s table are a team of associate artistic directors, and they are deciding the artistic path for one of the country’s largest theatre organizations. Their roots in Los Angeles and at Center Theatre Group run deep, with a few having been with the organization under both its founder, Gordon Davidson, and now second artistic director, Michael Ritchie. While the leadership style of Gordon and Michael differed, what remains constant is the collaborative effort of programming seasons for the Ahmanson, Taper, and Douglas. “It is impossible for one person to be responsible for the success of Center Theatre Group,” said Associate Artistic Director Tyrone Davis. “Theatre is the most collaborative art form. It takes so many people to make the stage come alive.”

Davis, along with fellow associate artistic directors Luis Alfaro, Lindsay Allbaugh, Neel Keller, and Kelley Kirkpatrick, are now in the midst of shepherding through the long-awaited return season to Center Theatre Group’s stages while planning for a yet-to-be-announced lineup for the following year. Such overlapping programming efforts across multiple stages are standard practice for an organization as large as theirs, although it is not often that a team of associates are working in the absence of a lead artistic director. Ritchie stepped down at the end of 2021, having led the organization since taking over from Davidson in 2005.

Before departing, one of Ritchie’s final decisions was to expand his team of associates so that they could easily handle programming duties during a transitionary period as the organization seeks its next artistic director. His final hire was Alfaro, whose history dates back the furthest, having joined the organization in 1995 when he helped guide artistic development under Davidson. “Center Theatre Group has been my artistic home for nearly my entire career, so to return at such a pivotal moment in the history of regional theatre, the organization, and Los Angeles, is quite invigorating,” Alfaro said when he returned in July.

“Michael’s doing was to bring a strong team together to ensure strong leadership remained in place,” said Allbaugh. “We have spent most of the pandemic team building and reaffirming our artistic vision so that Center Theatre Group’s mission can continue. It’s exciting to be at the table with a team that bring unique experiences.”

“It is really a model for shared leadership and inclusion. This moment in time will open the doors to a new and wider group of artists,” said Keller. That sentiment of team work is shared amongst all of the associates, which is further reinforced by the organization’s previously shared commitments to change, which were published in response to calls for theatres across the country to reform their practices and to fully embody a sense of anti-racism. “We are committed to working within a model of power sharing and transparency,” said Kirkpatrick, who spoke of the meaningful work they have been continually undertaking over the past year.

With the associate artistic director team comprised of directors, playwrights, and producers with deep ties to both Los Angeles and the broader theatre industry, they are optimistic and excited about the programming lined up for the stages, around the community, and in the pipeline of artistic development, as they reemerge from the pandemic shutdown and a period of unrest in America. “We are tasked with implementing an artistic vision after a global pandemic and a civil rights moment. The vision will be informed by these two historical events with the goal to serve the myriad needs of Los Angeles. Between the five of us, we have the institutional knowledge, lived experiences, L.A. roots, and artistic prowess to handle programming until Center Theatre Group identifies new artistic leadership,” said Davis.

First up for the team is the season that marks a triumphant return following the pandemic-forced shutdown. From plays including Slave Play, Tambo & Bones,and Blues for an Alabama Sky to musicals Everybody’s Talking About Jamie and Hadestown, the 2021/22 season will push boundaries, open the stage to provocative new voices, and celebrate the power of live theatre. “Taken together, they are a glorious reminder of why theatre is a meaningful, unique experience and why gathering in person to listen to artists reflect on our shared experiences is nourishing to us all,” said Keller.

And while they continue to plan for Center Theatre Group’s next season announcement, they have already signaled an exciting framework that grew out of their commitment to spotlighting underrepresented communities. In October, the associates announced that the 2022/23 season at the Taper would feature works entirely by women-identifying or non-binary playwrights that are majority BIPOC. “We are unwavering in our commitment to cutting edge art and diversity of all perspectives,” they collectively wrote in the announcement.

As Ritchie wrapped up his tenure, the associates continued on their path, actively listening, seeking, and experiencing the art and artistic voices throughout the community while continuing to program for the future.

“During this period, we are working collectively to inspire, but not to change the institution in a radical way,” said Alfaro. “Let’s face it, existing and recovering from a pandemic is taking a toll on everyone in the arts, from Broadway to the regional theatres. Our job right now is to be clear about what Center Theatre Group’s values are, and how we respond to the world around us is in our choice of the art we present. Which, by the way, has no choice but, first, to be excellent, and conscious about the story we tell, to whom, and how to do that in a way that does not endanger the artistic, financial, and producorial life of the company.”

The associates will continue doing that important work as the search progresses for Ritchie’s replacement. “We want to set the table for our audiences and also for a future artistic leader,” said Allbaugh. And they are doing so as a collective, benefiting as a team from each other’s experiences while also working within the greater artistic landscape. “With the support of our community, we will continue to produce and curate art of the highest caliber that reflects and serves the beautiful city of Los Angeles,” said Davis.

I wrote this article for Center Theatre Group’s program.

The post Building an Artistic Path Forward appeared first on James Sims.

After leading Center Theatre Group for more than 16 years, Michael Ritchie will retire as Artistic Director on December 31, 2021, following the long-awaited return to live, in-person performances after a devastating year-and-a-half shutdown of its three historic theatres.

In 2004, the neon lights sitting atop a once historic movie house in Culver City flickered on to illuminate a new name and mark a new chapter for one of the country’s most prolific nonprofit theatres. The Kirk Douglas Theatre became Center Theatre Group’s third permanent venue in Los Angeles, albeit far across town from its roots of the Mark Taper Forum and Ahmanson Theatre at The Music Center. The Douglas’s grand opening was a manifestation of
Founding Artistic Director Gordon Davidson’s vision to push boundaries and expand the company’s offerings to include exciting new works in a more intimate setting.

But there was an even bigger change to come just a few months later as Gordon soon passed the baton to a new artistic director after having led Center Theatre Group since its founding in 1967. Michael Ritchie, who started his professional career in theatre running a follow spot in New York City’s Greenwich Village in 1979, began as Center Theatre Group’s Artistic Director in 2005 with a literal splash—his first play at the Ahmanson, Dead End, featured a swimming pool filling the orchestra pit in which actors would dive into from the stage. It was an auspicious beginning that included bold new works by powerful artists like Culture Clash (Water & Power), Roger Guenveur Smith (The Watts Towers Project), and Robert Schenkkan (Lewis and Clark Reach the Euphrates), plus a pre-Broadway premiere of The Drowsy Chaperone starring Sutton Foster.

It has been through that dynamic range and sincere love of the craft of theatre that under Michael’s leadership, L.A. audiences have experienced celebrated world premieres including the musicals Soft Power (Pulitzer finalist), 13 and Sleeping Beauty Wakes, and the plays Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo (a Pulitzer Prize finalist which moved to Broadway), Water & Power, Yellow Face (Pulitzer finalist) and Marjorie Prime (Pulitzer finalist). He also produced many notable productions, including Black Rider, Clybourne Park (which moved to Broadway), Red, the revival of Zoot Suit (which also had its world premiere with Center Theatre Group) and

such celebrated musicals as The Drowsy Chaperone and Curtains, a reimagined production of Pippin with Deaf West Theatre, as well as Leap of Faith, Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson and 9 to 5: The Musical, all of which moved to Broadway.

And just as important, Michael invested in artists beyond the mainstage, having inaugurated Center Theatre Group’s Artistic Development program designed to foster the creation of new works and to nurture the field’s existing and next generation of theatre artists. Through this program, Center Theatre Group formed many long-standing relationships with leading artists. Recent Associate Artists include Sir Matthew Bourne, Danai Gurira, Casey Nicholaw, Phylicia Rashad, Anna D. Shapiro and Paula Vogel. More recently, Ritchie formed the CTG Creative Collective, which includes Luis Alfaro, Culture Clash, Elephant Room, Lars Jan, Daniel Alexander Jones, Miwa Matreyek, Dominique Morisseau and Kristina Wong. Ritchie also launched the Edgerton Foundation Playwrights Initiative in 2017, establishing individual co-commissioning partnerships with Chicago’s Goodman Theatre and New York’s Second Stage Theater as well as London’s Royal Court Theatre and National Theatre to develop multiple works over the next decade from artists including Jon Robin Baitz, Will Eno, Young Jean Lee, Lynn Nottage, and Paula Vogel.

For more than 16 years, Michael has led Center Theatre Group through some of the most significant moments in the powerhouse organization’s 55-year history. 266 productions. Four Pulitzer Prize finalists. 59 Tony Award nominations. 49 World premieres. An illustrious 50^th Anniversary Celebration. And, perhaps most devastatingly, an unprecedented shutdown of more than a year and a half in the face of COVID-19.

Now, as Center Theatre Group reemerges from the pandemic and looks to reimagine the role a regional theatre must play in the rebuilding of community, it is also looking for its next artistic leader(s). In June, Michael announced that he would depart as Artistic Director at the end of the year, once in-person performances were finally able to resume at the Ahmanson.

“With so much vital attention and focus being placed on the future of theatre leadership across our field, I recognize the need for new and diverse voices,” Michael said while announcing his departure. “I’ve had the incredible opportunity to run major regional theatres for the past 25 years and have always believed that our art form has the power to transform society. I’m absolutely certain that Center Theatre Group’s next Artistic Director will expand that vision in ways that will enrich Los Angeles and the American canon of theatre.”

I wrote this article for Center Theatre Group’s program.

The post Passing the Baton: Michael Ritchie’s Final Season appeared first on James Sims.

“Art has the power to transform our perception, attitude and behavior,” said Los Angeles Mayor Eric Garcetti. In a city of more than 4 million people—over 10 million including all of L.A. County—affecting change through art is seemingly no small task, and yet, in this socially fragmented time, Los Angeles theatre companies are increasingly taking on that challenge, as are organizations in New York and beyond.

As a way of continuing its now 50-year tradition of connecting audiences through provocation, Center Theatre Group recently launched Community Conversations—a new program allowing audiences to explore the divisive and complex themes of productions at the Ahmanson Theatre, Mark Taper Forum and Kirk Douglas Theatre.

Beginning with Community Conversations focused on the play “Disgraced” in 2016 at the Taper, these free events have included thought leaders ranging from renowned writer Reza Aslan and Grammy winner-turned-activist Ani Zonneveld to cultural historian and MacArthur Genius Josh Kun.

On March 9, Center Theatre Group held one such conversation, “Has News Ever Been Fair and Balanced?,” which explored the topic of media bias as it relates to the revival of “Zoot Suit” at the Taper and the current lack of confidence Americans express toward news outlets.

“Zoot Suit,” a play written and directed by Luis Valdez, which made its world premiere at the Taper in 1978, portrays the infamous 1942 Sleepy Lagoon murder and subsequent Zoot Suit riots in Los Angeles. The 1940s media bestowed those monikers, among others, on the events of the day—a narrative point addressed in the play through the character Press.

“Press, the personification of yellow journalism, tries to persuade the jury that Los Angeles is ‘in the midst of the biggest, most terrifying crime wave in its history. A crime wave that threatens to engulf the very foundations of our civic well-being.’ If these words sounds familiar, it’s because society is always looking for ‘bad hombres’ to scapegoat,” wrote Charles McNulty in the Los Angeles Times.

Fake news and alternative facts have been in the spotlight these past few months—NPR recently called the issue “a big problem”—but headlines that bend, stretch or completely disregard the truth are nothing new. In the 1940s, the Los Angeles press called Mexican-Americans in zoot suits “hoodlums” and “gang members,” and played a role in the conviction of the young men on trial for the Sleepy Lagoon murder and the Zoot Suit riots that followed.

“There couldn’t be a better opportunity for the arts to respond to so much nonsense and ignorance and stupidity,” actor Demian Bichir said in The New York Times about his interest in playing the role of El Pachuco in this revival.

Realizing the currency of staging “Zoot Suit” at such a significant time, and understanding that live theatre remains a space where people of all ideologies can come together to unpack complex ideas, Center Theatre Group programmed six pre-show Community Conversations throughout the play’s run.

“Community Conversations are that moment when we ask people in our community to help us make relevant the themes and ideas that are alive on our stage,” said Leslie K. Johnson, Center Theatre Group’s Director of Social Strategy, Innovation and Impact. “Asking thought leaders to come and spark that conversation is exciting. By inviting them into the room, we are able to hear someone who lives these topics every day discuss them in the context of the show.”

As Center Theatre Group’s Director of Communications, I moderated the conversation “Has News Ever Been Fair and Balanced?,” which explored the history of American journalism and whether it’s ever truly been objective. Panelists were Dr. Lisa Pecot-Hebert, a lecturer in broadcast and multimedia journalism at the USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, Reed Johnson, managing editor of Zocalo Public Square, and Maura Walz, KPCC’s education editor.

“Theatre has always created an extraordinary connection between artists and audiences,” said Center Theatre Group Artistic Director Michael Ritchie. “Nowhere is that more clear than in the uniquely intimate space of the Mark Taper Forum. And that connection continues well beyond the curtain call in plays like Luis Valdez’s ‘Zoot Suit.’”

Center Theatre Group’s revival of “Zoot Suit,” presented in association with El Teatro Campesino, is onstage at the Mark Taper Forum through April 2, 2017.

I originally wrote this article for The Huffington Post.

The post Through “Zoot Suit,” L.A. Theatre Engages a Community with Provocative Conversations appeared first on James Sims.

When actor Kevin Spacey took to the stage at last year’s Content Marketing World conference, he reminded the audience of marketers that their customers want great content, no matter the platform. YouTube and Netflix are two bold examples of platform agnostic approaches to content consumption. Audiences no longer discern between watching “House of Cards” on an iPad or “Between Two Ferns” on a Smart TV. Audiences just want to consume their content. If your brand isn’t providing it, they’ll look elsewhere.

For a theatre company, its primary product – art on stage – remains platform specific, despite the always-encroaching live streams in movie houses. Ideally, audiences will continue to appreciate the unique nature of watching theatre live on stage. However, the content surrounding a play or musical should be far from a fixed experience. And audiences are craving context.

Triple Play, a nationwide project created by Theatre Development Fund and Theatre Bay Area investigating the relationship of audiences to new plays, unearthed important details about what audiences want when experiencing a world premiere. New play audiences cited “a strong interest in knowing why playwrights chose to write about certain topics, suggesting that this deeper context would make the play itself more appealing,” according to Howlround.

When audiences crave context, and when the in-house programs or pre-show emails don’t provide it, they will seek it out on their own. Imagine looking around the theatre before the curtain comes up and realizing more and more people are Googling your play title rather than reading your program. It’s a reality.

If audiences trust Wikipedia more than they trust the theatre company, the game is over. Keeping in mind that audiences don’t care about platforms, it’s the theatre company’s job to ensure contextual content is at every possible touch point.

With the need for robust content comes the need for dedicated brand storytellers. This past year, we at Center Theatre Group created a dedicated content team within the Marketing and Communications umbrella, positioning itself to better serve an audience that is increasingly reliant on content before, during and after a touch point with the organization.

Through this specialized team, Center Theatre Group is striving to better serve the organization’s needs for content generation and take a platform agnostic approach to those materials. Various members of the content team attend departmental meetings throughout the organization, so as to understand all messaging needs. Historically, content was created for a single use — articles written for a show program or learning guide were often not shared across platforms, creating a roadblock for patrons to have a deep dive experience.

Denver Center for the Performing Arts continues to deliver on its vision of being “the most engaging theatre organization” by creating local and national content, as part of its dedicated online News Center. The non-profit arts organization hired former Denver Post theatre critic John Moore with a mission to develop a positive, insightful experience for audiences. And Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts recently expanded its scope of owned messaging by creating positions for a Chief Content Officer and Editorial Director, both aiming to create quality content that engages patrons as well as attracting new audiences.

These new structures understand that audiences want more than a listicle when approaching live theatre. Authentic experiences aren’t limited to the stage. Once a content marketing team is in place, they must avoid falling into the trap of looking for keywords or quick hits to bolster search results. Strong storytelling and varied message length and form are essential to the success of a brand’s owned messaging.

YouTube has spent a significant amount of time working with its most successful content creators in developing the “Hero, Hub, Hygiene” framework. Gone are the days of “viral videos” being key to a brand’s content strategy. This insightful model is built like a pyramid: “At the top is the Hero content: this is your beacon seen by the masses, but most of the content you create can’t, and won’t, fall into this category. From there you have your hub content – there is far more Hub content than Hero, but often is a content series, or video created around brand events and/or product launches. Lastly, the foundation of the content pyramid is the hygiene content. Hygiene capitalizes on existing user interests and is designed to pull users in based on search.”

The next time you are in a theatre, will you pull out your iPhone to search for a synopsis or the playwright’s perspective? Or will that theatre company have a deep dive experience at the ready?

“Stay true to your brand and true to your voice and audiences will respond to that authenticity with enthusiasm and passion.” —Kevin Spacey

I originally wrote this article for the National Arts Marketing Conference.

The post Audiences Shouldn’t Trust Wikipedia More Than a Theatre Company appeared first on James Sims.

It has been eight months since we set foot in the labor and delivery unit of this hospital — we lost our baby girl in room 13 last May, following a nightmarish few months consumed by trips to the emergency room, bleeding with unknown causes, and bouts of contractions.

A fluke. Random occurrence. Not likely to repeat itself. Those are the words our doctor used in describing the loss of Angel Belle at 23 weeks gestation (read more about our loss on The Huffington Post). Comforting? Not really. Yet, as we approached our next pregnancy, I tried using that theory as a mantra. For the first 25 weeks of Hugo Christopher’s time in my wife’s stomach, that belief held true.

Textbook. That’s how my wife has described our second pregnancy. Textbook. Gone were the late-night sprints to the emergency room. The uncontrollable bleeding was a distant memory. I started to believe our doctor’s “fluke” diagnosis. Then came week 26. Bleeding. Again. Cue the crippling sense of dread.

I found myself cautious to exude optimism on Facebook as Hugo’s growth progressed — I don’t do in person emotion. It certainly wasn’t superstition. Not my cup of tea. Bottom line: I didn’t want to explain another nightmare, should the worst take place. I could handle the loss. What I couldn’t handle was another wave of comfort.

When we lost Angel Belle, the flood of comfort from friends, family and strangers was truly appreciated. I cried. I screamed. I attended a support group. It became an emotional cleanse. A leech had been placed on my heart, and now that bloodletting was complete. Any further comfort would suck me dry. Just the facts, ma’am. My heart had adopted a Joe Friday disposition.

Just the facts — Fact: I’m writing this while we sit in labor and delivery. Fact: At week 25, my wife started bleeding. Fact: It wasn’t a fluke. Fact: Hugo Christopher has made it past the stage of viability. Fact: We’re remaining positive!

Actress Emily Blunt was recently quoted as saying the process of raising children “is such a fear-based industry.” If raising children is full of fear, then what would one call pregnancy? Fact: Following the loss of Angel Belle and throughout the trials of Hugo Christopher’s pregnancy, my belief in normalcy is shattered.

We’re now approaching the third week of hospital bed rest. Unsettling? Certainly. And yet, I also find it somewhat comforting. Three weeks in the hospital means three weeks of growth for Hugo. That’s three less weeks of time he’ll need to stay in the NICU.

Fact: As I walk by room 13 each time I leave for work, I’m reminded of our loss, but also of our future. Hugo made it over the threshold of 24 weeks gestation — until 24 weeks, a baby is not viable outside of the womb. Despite what are now weekly bouts of bleeding, all scans point to a healthy baby. In three days, Hugo will reach 28 weeks gestation. Fact: At least 90% of babies who are born at 28 weeks survive, according to the National Institutes of Health. That’s a comforting fact.

I originally wrote this article for Medium.com.

The post Back in the Hospital: Our Rainbow Baby’s Pregnancy is Nerve Wracking appeared first on James Sims.

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Could a bottle of water truly be the catalyst for my emotional breakdown? Sitting in the waiting room of a funeral home with my wife — we had lost our baby girl two days earlier — I found myself confounded by the most inane details scattered throughout this somber place of business.

Beyond watching five seasons of HBO’s Six Feet Under, I had never stepped foot inside of a funeral home. Pop culture touch points had certainly prepared me for the overall look and feel, but much like a movie set, those glimpses were merely facades. This was no Fisher household. It was a corporate entity.

Business cards stacked neatly at the reception desk — a reception desk, for that matter. Brochures and pamphlets on display. And, the pièce de résistance — bottled water and napkins emblazoned with this funeral home’s corporate logo. There we were, confronted by the reality that our daughter, Angel Belle, at just under 23 weeks gestation, died after a placental separation and exhaustive delivery, sipping from a funeral home water bottle.

Looking back at the emotionally draining week my wife and I went through last month, bottled water seems an extremely trivial detail to belabor over; yet, it speaks to the surreal feeling I still have when reflecting on our experience. Once the inevitable had gotten underway — following a challenging pregnancy, my wife had started feeling painful contractions on a Friday evening, beginning what would be a three-day odyssey at our local hospital — everything seemed like another checkmark on a large list of corporate procedures. Emotions were never part of the equation.

We arrived at the hospital Friday evening and were admitted to Labor and Delivery after a quick assessment. Check. Contractions were timed at three minutes apart. Check. My wife’s cervix was measured at 3cm dilated. Check. We were rushed into a labor room. Check. Up to this point, corporate efficiency was working in our favor. As soon as the severity of my wife’s situation was known, the hospital staff responded swiftly.

The next check, however, was anything but favorable. At 22 weeks and 6 days gestation, the corporate rulebook deemed Angel Belle a lost cause. The doctors on call — my wife’s Ob/Gyn was off that weekend — informed us that, once delivered, no measures would be taken to keep Angel Belle alive. Not unless she was at least 23.5 weeks along. That corporate checklist required a plus six in the life column in order to have their response shift to life saving mode. Born six days too soon. Check.

Angel Belle was alive during the entire delivery process. My wife felt her kicking throughout. Her heartbeat was strong. And then it was not. After being delivered, Angel Belle took a single breath while her heartbeat slowly faded. I watched as the nurse took our 1 lb. 6.93 oz. baby girl to a table and counted off the slowly decreasing heartbeat. She called out, “doctor?” I watched as the doctor nodded in the negative, and with that, it was over. Angel Belle died on May 5, 2014.

Beyond the truly empathetic and comforting nurse that took care of my wife and baby that evening, there was little to no glimpse of emotion or understanding in the process. Were it not for my mother-in-law’s advice that evening — she went through an eerily similar loss of a child on that exact day in 1991 — my already irrational state would have been made worse by the next round of corporate checkmarks.

The death certificate needed a name. Angel Belle. Check. A funeral home needed to be selected — any child born after 20 weeks requires an official burial or cremation. Cremation. Check. If we wanted photos of Angel Belle, we would need to take them that evening. Check. My wife needed to be moved out of the delivery ward and sent to the post-partum ward. Check. Angel Belle, now lifeless, was left alone in a bassinet in the delivery room as we all were moved upstairs. Check.

Nearly a month later, as Father’s Day approaches, I am left wondering about another checkbox. Am I still considered a father? Do I recognize that part of my life while celebrating with my own father? I find myself yearning for a clear box to check off. Perhaps, that corporate mentality, from branded water bottles to 23 ½ week guidelines, helps sort through what would otherwise be a chaotic, emotionally destructive period.

Nothing is left to interpretation during those moments. Instead, interpretation is left to the living. I’m now left with choices and uncertainty. Do we try again for another child? Will the next pregnancy end in heartache?

Perhaps I’ll look back to my first brush with death, Six Feet Under: “Everything – death, life, everything – it’s all completely suffused with static. You know? But if you listen to the static too much, it f%$s you up.” So, I’m going to cut out the static and proudly check the box next to Father this weekend while bidding farewell to our little Angel Belle.

The post Am I a Father? Check — Bidding Farewell to My Baby Too Soon appeared first on James Sims.