http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8LWtb621DRg

WHY. I mean, what is this. Seriously. It’s among the worst music I have ever heard. It sounds like someone threw a bunch of electric guitars, fuzz pedals, and percussion instruments into a room full of orangutans, held Lou Reed at gunpoint, and forced him to dub his voice over the whole thing. And the best part? It’s a completely sincere, serious work of art.

I’m surprised I hadn’t heard of this album earlier, to be honest. Apparently it was a pretty big deal. So much of a big deal that Metallica found themselves breaking down into tears during recording sessions because what they heard was so beautiful. I can’t make this stuff up.

But all judgments on the quality of the music aside, this collaboration brings up a damned interesting question for me. Because if, in the end, the album succeeds in exposing thousands of people to a theatrical work they would never have otherwise read, isn’t that a good thing? If Lulu moved these guys so much that they felt compelled to invest months of their time and millions of dollars into recording and promoting an album dedicated to it, doesn’t that show artistic integrity?

I guess it would be easier to defend them if the album wasn’t so terrible. (I dare you to make it more than halfway through that video.) Having a quality final product goes a long way towards justifying a concept, after all. In the end, though, can I – or anyone else, for that matter – judge Metallica or Lou Reed for making such a bold choice? They found something that inspired them and went into it full-force, probably knowing from the start that what they were trying to accomplish was both unconventional and altogether odd. That’s what I need to know, I suppose: does having good intentions for a work of art justify its creation? Or are there subjects and genres which certain artists need to stay out of, regardless of how much they want to participate in them?

I would rather they stay away from the theater in the future. Yet I wonder if it’s a little harsh to bash them for making an attempt at adapting Wedekind’s story. After all, the Lulu plays are excellent plays, and there’s no rule against interpreting them however one wishes.

And what happened next came as a great surprise. Here I am, sitting, minding my own business, and one of the guys milling about notices me. I’ve met him before, and I always took him for a cool dude, but someone who had interests far removed from my own.

“Hey. Yo, dude. You’re into acting and all that, right?”

Yeah, I suppose I am. “Sure.”

He takes a seat across from me. “Well…I was just wondering what shows are going on right now that would be worth seeing.”

What? “Um…there’s -”

“Cause I’ve been seeing stuff – posters – for House everywhere. Is that good?”

“Oh yeah! Yeah, I’ve heard it’s great. Definitely check it out.”

From there, I learned that not only was he taking the acting for non-majors course with Steve, but that he’s looking to expand his knowledge of theater and acting throughout the rest of his time at BU. And this fascinated me. I was floored. I even got one of his friends in on the conversation. We talked for over half an hour about our perceptions and experiences with acting, and found myself in the – admittedly uncomfortable – role of adviser for his future theatrical plans. It was fantastic, and much more interesting than what I would have been doing at the party otherwise. Here was a guy who was the polar opposite of the kind of person I’d expect to be into theater, yet…he was.

Then after I left, I wondered why the hell I was so surprised. Why shouldn’t I expect that people who don’t fit the typical “theater-goer” profile don’t enjoy live performance? What is a typical “theater-goer” anyway? We talked in our discussion of Outrageous Fortune on Thursday about how the people who write plays are the same people we might run into at the grocery store. So why couldn’t we run into theater fans in the most unlikely places. I can’t speak for everyone, but there’s something strange about the way this program has twisted the way I think about who needs to see theater more than anyone else. I think we discuss a lot about how we can use our art to benefit others, to bring awareness, to expand our boundaries. But the stuff we work on in SOT feels so insular to me anymore. Aren’t we performing because we want to give to others? Don’t we often complain about a lack of public interest or investment in theater? How do we think this interest is built? All I had to do was talk to someone for thirty minutes, and I reinforced one person’s interest, and sparked another’s. Who cares if it doesn’t amount to anything in the long run. The point is that there are many, many students at this school who would love to have the opportunity to see the kind of performances we get to see every week. I invited the both of them to come see the Director’s Project this week, and I hope it challenges them and they leave with an enjoyable experience.

I was inspired by Caroline’s post last week to explore what it is about the music I like that causes me to become attached to it. Ever since I picked up my first pair of drumsticks at age 9 (and recently, bought my first guitar), musical performance has been an integral part of my life, and will likely remain so as long as I have the physical ability to hold an instrument. So it was interesting for me to take a look at musical taste from the perspective of someone who doesn’t have experience playing anything at all. My personal journey through genres and artists has been a short yet complex one, and I hope to continue to be challenged the more I delve into my favorite performers.

1. Rush – Limelight

I suppose it would make sense to start from the beginning. I’m not sure I had a sense of musical “taste” until the summer of 2000. That’s the summer I heard this song on WDVE (FM 102.5 if you’re ever near Pittsburgh), and I realized I wanted to play music, too. It’s strange to be fan of a band like Rush. They’re polarizing – it seems people only love them or hate them, with no room in between for compromise. It isn’t hard to see why, either. Their songs, even their radio hits, are complicated and rarely give listeners time to catch up. With fluid ease, the band (only three people, at that) switches back and forth between time signatures and keys, with Neil Peart’s lyrics overlapping throughout. On that note, NEIL PEART, whom I have a man-crush on likely the greatest drummer in the history of classic rock, is the reason I play. There were famous drummers before Neil Peart, but he is one of the first drummers to not only be known, but to become an integral part of the band’s composing process.

2. Streetlight Manifesto – Point/Counterpoint

And now for something completely different! I suppose what draws me to ska/punk is the raw energy the music has. Nothing about it feels forced or overdone, it’s loud and powerful and makes you want to run around and break things. But the great part is the camaraderie the music promotes that goes beyond the boundaries that separate us from complete strangers. I went to one of their concerts a couple years ago, and every single person in the audience knew the lyrics to every song. The dancing was wild and practically out of control, and I’m fairly certain I participated in a mosh that lasted for over half an hour. Any time a person was knocked to the ground, however, everything stopped and three others were there to pick them back up again. The audience looked out for each other; no fights, no injuries, just a general feeling of awesomeness. I went to the show alone and I felt like I made 2,000 friends that night.

3. Red Hot Chili Peppers – Suck My Kiss

I’m discovering by doing this piece that the bands I enjoy listening to are ones which tend to blend several genres of music together, rather than playing towards one specific audience. I like music that pushes boundaries and isn’t afraid to mix and match a variety of influences together, and RHCP fits the bill perfectly. The RHCP I grew up listening to isn’t the RHCP of today, and that says something about their ability to evolve in and of itself. I was introduced to this album in middle school by a friend who had become obsessed with Flea’s slap-bass technique, and I fell in love immediately. Everyone should give Blood Sugar Sex Magik a complete listen at some point; it’s violent, sexy, and beautiful, and has a sense of humor that can’t be matched. I read Anthony Kiedis’ autobiography, Scar Tissue, this summer. It told a tale which was already too evident within the themes of RHCP’s music, that of addiction, uncontrollable lust, and a desire to bring joy to every human being on the planet. RHCP is one of the few bands which was able to confront the lifestyle of the “rockstar” and emerge even stronger than before, and that alone warrants a listen.

4. Porcupine Tree – Anesthetize

I also like music that tells a story. Whether it be Pink Floyd’s The Wall or Dream Theater’s Scenes from a Memory, I have a soft spot for artists who attempt to paint a complete thematic picture through their albums. Porcupine Tree is no exception, and they are a band that I’ve been giving a great deal of attention to lately. Many of their songs – including this one – are in excess of ten minutes long. They are constructions weaving in and out of electronica, metal, acoustic rock, and pop. I can’t help but become drawn into the sonic worlds that they create. It says something that in an era of music more suited for persons with severe ADHD (I’m looking at you, dubstep),  someone is still creating music that takes patience and a careful ear. One cannot simply put on their ‘phones and listen to a few minutes of Porcupine Tree.

5. Dredg – Bug Eyes

These guys give me hope for the future. I often worry about where the state of music will be in ten years or more. I worry that all I’ll have to listen to in the years to come are albums which have been created long before, and that nothing new will be able to spark my interest in the same way that the music of past generations has been able to. But at least I know I won’t have to worry about Dredg. They are a strange combination of Rush, The Police, Panic at the Disco, Tool, and Coldplay. And at the same time, they don’t sound like anything I’ve heard before. There’s something in the atmosphere their sound creates that sucks me in, however, and is plain addicting, to be honest. I like groups that are well-rounded. Anyone can become good at performing in a niche, but bands that transcend their limitations and can switch freely between styles truly impress me.

I guess that’s all I have to share, for now. Give these artists a listen, and most importantly, share your own! I want to hear what you’re all listening to. I want to hear where your influences come from. Use that comment section and tell me, and everyone else on the blog, what music is currently flowing through your life.

One of the questions I’ve been exploring this semester is what I desire to become as a result of my theatrical training. I don’t want to speak in terms of “defining” my future role in the world of theater, but sometimes it is difficult not to. The conundrum that I’m in is whether or not I wish to be called, first and foremost, an “artist.” It sounds like a simple problem, but believe me – this is not so (at least as far as my process is concerned). I struggle with this notion because I like to think of myself primarily as a storyteller. What drives me as an actor is the conveying of thoughts, images, and words within the context of a bigger picture. I’m less concerned with what I do and say on stage, and more interested in how, as a singular actor, I fit into the world of the plays I’m involved in. Now, this could seem like comparing apples to apples, because certainly, anyone who considers themselves an artist would likely share the same concerns. But to myself, personally, the idea of being an “artist” implies an attitude towards the work that doesn’t quite jive with my perceptions on what theater can and should be.

This is probably why I struggled so greatly with Dollhouse this past weekend. It struck me as art for the sake of art, and not for the sake of its audience; the performance was visually and aurally striking, and certainly held my attention, but I was left feeling rather empty. It’s like that feeling you get when you gorge yourself on carbohydrates and then feel hungry two hours later, regardless of how much you consumed. When I left ArtsEmerson, I felt as though I had seen something of great significance. So why can’t I put a name to that significance, two days later?

I must clarify immediately that the production was, by no means, a bad one. Each actor had a deep physical connection to their characters, and the sets – I mean, there are no words to describe some of the stage pictures I witnessed Saturday night. But I found my reaction, and the audience’s collective reaction, far more fascinating than the play itself. I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. I enjoyed the way the performance challenged my perceptions and presented something new. Yet I didn’t understand the significance of the text itself. If Dollhouse had been a movement piece, or an opera of sorts (in its entirety), I would have been far more receptive to its style, but it wasn’t either of these things. Ibsen’s text was still retained, and I came to see a play, to witness the telling of a story. I could not have been more engaged in the action on stage, but I feel like I barely caught the basics of what actually happened to the characters over the course of two and a half hours. Perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration, however, I still don’t feel like I had any sort of investment with the characters at the end of the night.

That may very well have been the point of the whole thing. Exaggerated, doll-like actors re-enacting a classic play in the confines of their over-sized dollhouse. I’d like to think that my reaction is what Mabou Mines was trying to coax from audience members like myself. If that is the case, then they were entirely successful. But what if they weren’t? What if the entire point of the production was to loom over its audience like the nurse-on-stilts and mock their confusion, instead of inviting them in to experience it fully? That’s what scares me about referring to myself as an “artist:” because when I think of performers as “artists” in the classical sense, my mind immediately jumps to productions like Dollhouse which have left me utterly confused.

The creation that I speak of comes not from the likes of Miller, Picasso, or Scorsese. It was developed over several years, beginning in 2004, by 2K – a company based right here in Boston, Massachusetts. It’s title? BioShock.

That’s right. Although it may be hard to believe, and to some, seem entirely impossible, a video game has a place among my greatest artistic influences. BioShock is the perfect illustration of the potential which games have as mediums of creative and narrative expression. It has the distinction of being one of the few game titles which is not merely inspired by a philosophy, but constitutes a philosophical statement in and of itself. This epic twelve-hour adventure goes above and beyond its contemporaries, crafting a living, breathing world around the player – a tragic realm that only grows more visceral as one explores deeper into its darkest, dankest recesses.

On the surface, BioShock’s narrative reads like a typical “man-alone” adventure story. The player assumes the role of Jack, a mild-mannered, non-descript man travelling across the Atlantic Ocean on a jet liner, circa 1960. As the plane journeys high above the blue-green void, it suddenly takes an inexplicable nose-dive into the water, snapping in two and flinging Jack into the icy darkness below. As Jack struggles to the surface, surrounded by flaming wreckage and soggy remnants of luggage, his eyes are drawn to a beacon of light hovering over the water a hundred yards distant. Desperate, he swims through the frigid waves and discovers a lighthouse, jutting inexplicably out of the ocean in defiance of all rationality. Jack climbs the structure and, with no other options apparent, opens the door to the house.

And this is where the real story begins. For what Jack has uncovered is – quite literally – the mere tip of the iceberg, the sole entrance to the elaborate underwater city of Rapture. Concealed inside the lighthouse is an ancient bathysphere, waiting ominously for a passenger to order it downward into the crushing depths. As Jack, the player is left with no other option except to climb in and pull the lever, not knowing what they are accomplishing or why.

(I would like to delve into further detail about the story and setting of the game, but I don’t think my words could adequately do it justice – considering the full experience is subjective and quite lengthy to begin with. This short video should suffice, however.)

There is something to be said about the unique experience one has when playing a video game, as opposed to any other form of entertainment. Games do not rely on the passivity of their audience, but – much like the turning of the pages of a book – requires their players to actively pursue the resolution to the story, or to accomplish a tangible goal. Here is where the greatest wealth of possibility in gaming-as-an-art-form lies, and the one thing that many developers have been forgetting over the last several years. Games are not movies. They are not plays, and they are not books. If a video game is described as a “cinematic” experience, great. Now I know what game to avoid purchasing. Games are, at their core, an interactive experience, and the most successful titles are the ones which allow players to enter into a conversation with the world of the game itself.

Here is where BioShock really shines. It doesn’t need to urge the player forward with a commanding officer barking orders into a radio (although one is given to the player as a means of communication), or with a linear environmental design consisting of corridor after nondescript corridor. When one steps out of the bathysphere and into the unfamiliar territory of Rapture, the player is compelled to explore from within. Of course, the game does provide a subtle nagging presence from the get-go in the form of the Splicers, mutated ex-humans who stalk the player from the shadows throughout the game. But the sense of urgency is provided by the environment, and not fed artificially to the player. Hell, everything about the game’s story is provided through environmental context: through audio logs, diaries, graffiti, posters, and an ever-present PA blaring “helpful” propaganda messages to the citizens of Rapture. It is entirely possible for several people to play through BioShock from start to finish and have each individual recall a different version of not only the story, but which characters were good, evil, or somewhere in between. The only thing limiting a player’s immersion into the role which BioShock hands them is their curiosity and willingness to explore.

And exploration – also unlike many similar games – is a reward in and of itself. Rapture is stunning, even four years after being released (which in video game years is practically two decades). Rapture is a psychedelic blend of art deco and late-1940s New York City in its public areas and facades, with a sharply contrasting steampunk aesthetic in its maintenance and industrial sectors. I’m currently completing my third play-through (hence the writing of this reflection on BioShock specifically), and yesterday I discovered three different areas that I had somehow neglected to find the first two times I played the game. The city is a veritable maze, a dystopian society of crumbling shopping malls, restaurants, spas, and luxurious suites, all intertwined with each other in a claustrophobic cacophony of wood, plastic, and steel.

The truth is that BioShock is the first game I ever played that feels more theatrical than it does cinematic. Each interaction the player has with friends, enemies, and antagonists feels less like watching a movie and more like playing a scene. Choice in tactics and approach to reach one’s goals is critical, especially with the unpredictable nature of Rapture’s residents. Consider an encounter early on in the game, after recently escaping the bathysphere. The player is instructed over the radio to take a rickety elevator up to an abandoned plaza. On the way up, the disembodied voice reminds the player, in chilling detail no less, of the evils which lurk beneath the city’s surface. He tells you of the madness spreading through Rapture and the need to watch one’s back at all times, regardless of what one believes to be safe. Immediately after departing the lift, the player sees the vast shadow of a woman leaning over a baby carriage, projected onto a wall around a nearby corner. The woman giggles and laughs, reaches into the antique stroller, and coos at her child. When I turned this corner for the first time, I was perplexed. She didn’t seem terrifying to me, at least with her back turned, gazing at her baby. I decided to slip around her unnoticed. As I approached the woman, however, her head snapped around at the sound of my footsteps. Her face was covered in a grotesque, bloody mask, which seemed to have fused to her skin. She shrieked and attacked me with a pipe; I dodged around but she was too fast, and I could not escape. I quickly threw a blow with my wrench (the only weapon I had managed to scrounge at this point), and she collapsed. I ran to the baby carriage in horror. As I peered into its cover, I saw no baby. The woman had been fawning over a loaded revolver, tucked away under the blankets like a small child. This kind of encounter will happen over and over again in different forms throughout BioShock, drawing the player into the nonsensical madness that is Rapture’s daily existence.

It would be a travesty, as well, not to mention how damned fun the game is, too. A good quantity of games only succeed in looking beautiful, or playing beautifully, but BioShock does both with relative ease, thanks to a whole array of gameplay innovations. Part of the backstory of the game involves the discovery of Plasmids, supernatural abilities granted to ordinary humans who inject the extract of a rare sea slug into their veins.  There’s no shortage of outlandish or sadistic combinations of Plasmids at Jack’s disposal, and he’ll need to utilize every single one of them if he wishes to survive. Shoot swarms of angry bees out of your fists? Check. Set enemies ablaze, forcing them to flee into pools of water…and then throwing bolts of lightning into the mix? Check. Freeze aggressors solid and then smash them into tiny bits with a wrench? Why not?! They’d only do the same to you if you gave them the chance. The catch with plasmids, however, is their addictiveness; the player soon discovers after a couple hours of playing exactly how the city went from booming utopia to a leaky, vacant shell. (Hint: the results of heavy Plasmid use ain’t pretty.)

I’ve spent a couple weeks reflecting on the ongoing discussion over whether or not games can truly be called art, and it’s difficult to say who is right or wrong. It seems to me that while art can find its way into video games, not all video games can be considered art. So how can one know what games are art, and which are not? As I played BioShock this past week, I began to develop a concrete method to determine whether or not a video game constitutes a work of art, and not just entertainment – a set of three rules composing a unified theory on games as art.

Arthur Siegel’s Unified Theory on Video Games as an Artistic Medium

1. The game must have a narrative.

To be considered a form of art, a game must have some sort of journey. The journey doesn’t have to be large, complex, or even deep – it just has to exist. Tetris does not have a narrative; nor does Pac-Man or Space Invaders. Games like The Elder Scrolls and Fallout have incredibly detailed, multi-layered narratives with enough information to fill a thousand-page book. Half-Life has a simple narrative, but it is a journey nonetheless.  The journey can also be abstract or created entirely by the player; Minecraft has no scripted story, but the experiences each individual has while playing it is a story in and of itself.

2. The player must be placed in an active role in the world of the game.

By this I mean that the player character’s presence in the game must be critical to the progression of the game’s narrative. In order for a game to cross from entertainment into art, it must allow the player to make choices, interact and change the world (either physically or atmospherically), and/or play a vital role in solving whatever crisis faces the world of the game. Games like Call of Duty and Battlefield 3 railroad the player into a singular story path, and oftentimes place the player character in a subordinate role to the rest of the cast. In these games, the player must wait for allied companions to make decisions for them, and sometimes open freaking doors for the player. Not only that, but it is a recent trend to interrupt gameplay periodically with semi-interactive cutscenes, which give the illusion that a player is solving a puzzle or fighting an enemy – when in reality, they are simply pressing buttons when prompted to do so. On the other hand, games like The Legend of Zelda, Grand Theft Auto, and Far Cry give players real, palpable choices which have a profound effect on how the narrative progresses. There are a myriad of ways that one can go about completing their objectives, and how you treat non-playable characters can drastically alter both the difficulty and story of the game. It is also possible to make a game in which the player does not necessarily change the world of the game, but instead makes the player feel increasingly helpless or alone as the story progresses. Amnesia: The Dark Descent is the pinnacle of this type of narrative, as is Silent Hill. Both games feature environments that are not only unsettling, but actively seek to destroy the player around every turn. The fact that one can do nothing to fight the evil surrounding them is equally powerful in comparison to a game in which the player has the power to change everything. (It’s important to note, however, that it must be a clear choice to give the player little control in this respect. Making a player feel helpless is different than taking control away from them altogether.)

3. The game must have a central question which it is responding to.

It is not enough for a game to have some kind of story and give the player an active role in order to be considered a work of art. The game itself must be creating either as the result of a dramatic question or as a possible answer to one. For example:

BioShock asks, “What would happen if someone built an Objectivist utopia on the ocean floor?”

Assassin’s Creed asks, “What if one could re-live the experiences of their ancestors by plugging their brains into a machine?”

Silent Hill asks, “What if there was a town that brought its visitors’ worst nightmares to life?”

These questions do not even have to pertain to the world of the game. They can apply directly to their audience as well.

Grand Theft Auto asks, “What if we gave players the power to commit whatever crimes they wanted in a virtual city?”

The Sims asks, “What if we allowed players the chance to craft their dream home and simulate social interactions in a microcosm of our own world?”

Portal asks, “How can a player solve a series of puzzles if all they are given is the ability to teleport through walls?”

There are probably several things missing from this list, but it’s certainly a start. A wealth of opportunity to create moving, passionate works of art using games already exists. It is the full application of these tools that is far rarer and much more difficult to accomplish. Games that exist purely for their entertainment value have worth, of a kind (Gears of War, Street Fighter, Quake Live, etc.). But there are things that games can do much better than other forms of expression. They can give their audience choices. They can prey on our deepest fears by having us actively flee them, or pluck at our heartstrings by allowing us to chase our wildest desires. They give ordinary people the ability to experience, to embody the extraordinary. Anyone who claims that games require no imagination are mistaken; mistaken, because to suspend one’s disbelief that the world on your screen is merely an array of polygons and shaded pixels is an exercise in imagination in and of itself. What goes unwritten and unrevealed in a game can affect a player just as much as what he or she is told and shown, like any other sort of storytelling. A good game – an artful game – gives its players the power to have an adventure.

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Useful Resources:

PBS short documentary on games – http://kotaku.com/5853739/this-video-might-convince-your-doubtful-friends-that-games-can-be-art

Extra Lives by Tom Bissell – an academic examination of games and game theory; I think there’s a WR100 class that studies it, too.

There’s two things I find intriguing about discoveries like these. First is the excitement that comes with new work being published by deceased individuals whose writings were thought to have been cataloged in their entirety. Such discoveries breathe new life into established canons, and have the potential to challenge expectations and expand our perceptions of a particular playwright. I was touched by Pinter’s widow’s reaction to the finding; it was as if she was paid a visit by her late husband through his forgotten words. Secondly, the opportunity to re-examine a well-produced playwright in a fresh and exciting way. I’d like to give the script for “Umbrellas” to several groups of people for a day and just see what comes out of it. Reading through the script alone made me want to get up and perform it with someone else, out of pure curiosity. And O’Neill’s play…wow. It almost feels wrong to want to read a play he worked so hard to destroy, but there’s something in that motivation he had to demolish his work that makes me want to reconstruct it! It would be an incredible opportunity to learn about O’Neill to perform a work that was so deeply personal to him. There’s no precedent for the interpretation of either of these works, and I find a sense of freedom in that knowledge. I’m excited to see if either of these plays will be professionally produced at some point in the near future (if so, they’d likely be a part of a revue, as they are rather short in comparison to other works by Pinter and O’Neill).

I’m happy I ran into this article at this particular point because of the examinations of Antigone we’ve been having in class (not to mention my own personal challenges). Both the original version (regardless of translation) and the various adaptations have had some truly unsavory roles. In particular, I was having trouble with the Governor from Tegonni. The man is written as an absolute monster,  and I couldn’t help thinking over and over how daunting it would be to direct or act such a part. In playing the villain in the past, it’s been my own tendency to downplay the evil, turning the part into comedy as a way to defend myself from my fear of the character itself. What Langella has to say on this matter was helpful:

“I have to see it all from his point of view,” Langella says. “I can’t judge him. I can’t say, ‘Oh, how terrible of him to do this, wink wink, let me find a way to soften what he’s doing.’ ‘Cause when you’re inside yourself, no matter what you are, you believe in what you’re doing. You don’t say, ‘I just screwed somebody over in business. … I’m a really mean person.’ You lie to yourself and tell yourself all the reasons why it’s OK for you to do what you do.”

It’s a fascinating look into human nature and an important lesson for any aspiring actor. Maybe it’s something I’ve known subconsciously all along, but to see it in such simple terms did a lot to clarify the concept. To play at being evil is one thing, but it is something else entirely to internally justify the evil actions one’s character takes. From the villain’s point of view, he or she is not the villain, but the hero of their own story.

Listen to the interview and remember:

The cathartic possibility of the theater needs nothing more than the actor and the stage.

Mean it.

Leap empty-handed into the void.