We were in a motorboat, on our way to snorkel, when we came upon a pod of dolphins.
The captain stopped the boat so that we could watch them.
A guidebook I’d read had said not to do that, because it terrorized the dolphins. But they didn’t seem terrorized. They stayed near the boat. Had they left, we wouldn’t have chased them.
Todd made fun of me because I said that I thought the dolphins actually liked having us around, that the ocean must be sort of boring for animals so smart.
Water water water water fish water fish water water eat water water.
Any regular theatergoer knows an entire ecosystem of boredom.
There’s Head-bob boredom: your chin touches your chest and you snap it back up (“Still awake!”) There’s Anxiety boredom (“Why is there a bump on my tongue?”) and the always-painful Rictus boredom: the boredom that requires you to smile because you’re one of twelve people in the audience of your friend’s bad play.
Cuticle cuticle exit sign cuticle cuticle dialogue cuticle exit cuticle cuticle leave.
Art that takes place over time has a moral obligation to engage its spectators. Boredom is a form of torture. I’ve known two people—sensible, strong people, one man and one woman—who’ve told me that when they get really bored they start to cry.
Audience boredom happens in all theatre, small or large, professional or high school. School theatre alleviates the problem by filling the audiences will loved ones, but it also exacerbates it since a certain portion of the attendees will be there as an assignment or for extra credit. It’s on their behalf that you might rethink that all-day production of the Oresteia that you were planning as a Theatre-in-Our-Schools month surprise.
Happy 2016.
As theatremakers, let’s make sure to stop the boat at least once an evening.
Given the option to terrorize the dolphins or bore them to tears, let’s err on the side of fear.