Early in the film Shakespeare in Love, a businessman, Hugh Fennyman, is persuaded to invest in a theatre. When the theatre is abruptly closed, Fennyman demands an explanation of the theatre’s owner, Philip Henslowe, as to how he plans to repay the investment. Henslowe responds:

Henslowe: Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.

Fennyman: So what do we do?

Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.

Fennyman: How?

Henslowe: I don‘t know. It’s a mystery.

Audiences laughed, of course, as the idea of a problem working itself out by a process of complete inaction is preposterous. But to those who work in the theatre, these words, penned by Tom Stoppard, carried a far greater weight. Sometimes in the theatre, simply pressing on with your work and hoping for the best is the precise formula by which great theatre is created. No one knows exactly what makes great theatre great. It is, and will always remain, a mystery.

Unfortunately, Mr. Henslowe’s paradoxical formula doesn‘t always work. Sometimes—actually, a great deal of the time, sadly—the magical spark that kindles in every great production never comes into being. All of the necessary parts can be in position—a great script, a creative director, a sterling cast, a top-notch crew—and the play can still fail, leaving the audience disappointed, and the cast and crew baffled. What was missing?

That, too, is a mystery.

If you are fortunate enough to be involved in one of those special productions, you know it. You can feel the electric exchange between the players and the audience as a palpable, if indefinable, sensation. These are the most satisfying moments in an artist’s career.

But then....there are the turkeys. For every play that you might eagerly rush to the theatre to perform, there will be a number of thundering and unavoidable failures, where you find yourself off stage, waiting for your entrance, and dreading the inevitable awfulness of the experience. Being in a dud is a soul-sucking experience, and without the life-sustaining memories of the great plays, the great productions, continuing on in this business would be impossible.

Being an actor myself, it has been my honor to be in some truly special productions. It follows that I also have enjoyed the dubious distinction of having been in some truly house-stinking, heart-rendingly bad plays. But like everyone who loves the theatre, my fondest theatrical memories have been enjoyed from the other side of the footlights. It is as an audience member, not as an actor, that I have been the most inspired and moved. And it is here that I must make a confession:

I‘m a blubberer. I don‘t cry much in real life, but in the theatre, I‘m liable to burst into tears at the drop of a hat (particularly when the hat is being dropped by a sweet looking, doomed child).

I wept through the last half of As Is, sobbed through Arcadia, and left Les Miserables (yes, that’s right, I said Les Miserables) with tears streaming down my face. Here in town, I can recall the astonishing productions of Road at the Remains; ...And Neither Have I Wings to Fly at Seanachai; Powertap’s Missing Angel Juan; 500 Clown’s Macbeth; and, if pressed, can happily list about a half dozen other truly revelatory plays that I have witnessed in Chicago. (I regret having missed a great many more.)

What did these wonderful productions have in common? At first glance—nothing. Each play sported a different cast, different directors and the plays themselves bore no relation to each other. So what made them so good?

First, each of these plays involved an enormous amount of risk. The scripts may have held great promise, but there were no guarantees that they would work until you got them into rehearsal and brought them to life. Sometimes risks pay off, sometimes they result in catastrophe; but without the risk, there is no reward.

Next, there was the level of commitment displayed by the actors. They knew they were performing something unique and unforgettable and their joy at doing so gave them an aura of confidence that broke over the audience in waves.

Then there was the direction. Whether the result of a light touch or an iron fist, each play had unified themes, moments of inexpressibly beautiful resonance and, perhaps most importantly, the actors had been given that rare opportunity to completely explore their characters and bring them fully to life. Not many directors allow their actors this luxury.

The production values varied widely, but in the end, each production made the most of their limitations. If the company could only afford a few propped-up walls, they made sure that what took place in front of that ramshackle set more than made up for the deficiencies.

Finally, there was the writing. It is my experience that you can, if you try hard enough, make a good production out of a bad play; but if you take a play that is great on the page and manage to live up to that potential on the stage...there simply are no words to express the service you have done your audiences, your community and your culture.

Trying to create great theatre is like looking for a diamond in a mountain of coal. You need to dig for your prize diligently and with unwavering faith. It is best, in such situations, to surround yourself with all of the talented help you can muster to assist you.

And, if you complete your search and discover that this particular mountain did not yield up the treasure you were searching for, you have to have the fortitude to tackle that next mountain, and the one after that, certain that the goal is not merely attainable, but that the rewards of finding it will far outweigh the effort.

Kevin Theis is a veteran actor, writer and director in Chicago. 

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