The Bridge of Twenty Lanterns

originally posted August 25, 2006

I've decided to call the new singing historical comedy 'The Bridge of Twenty Lanterns.' In the story that the farce recalls, the moment of comeuppance occurs on that high bridge in my city, Ar. As there are no real sets or major prop pieces other than the flair of costuming and allusion, the bridge is mentioned, sung about, briefly in the play but not actually shown. Thus, in my mind, by dedicating the title of the play to the bridge, it is well remembered as the place said history took place. I have instructed the Naked Slave to labor at transcribing the original script that the girl troupe will have their copies to study from. They will sing. The timing and delivery of their lines, sung, becomes much more important. It will not be enough to remember their lines and their cues. Humor, I have found, is a far different medium to entertain people with than others. What makes one fellow laugh, will often be different than what lifts the spirits of another.

"A black bina?" Lucius asked me.

"Indeed," I answered.

In addition to making people laugh, it is well, in any sort of play, whatever the genre, to challenge and surprise them. While there are expectations on an audience's part, is it wrong to show them something unexpected? I do not think so. I look forward to seeing it. Another aspect of the play that differs from much street drama, indeed from even legitimate theater, is the lack of a true 'principal'. While one could argue the expected comeuppance of the Brigella and Bina would place them firmly in the spot of principals, the audience will be hard placed to decide if the serving girls in the play are not the true stars. I think that is fitting as, true to history, the serving girls enjoyed a brief turnabout in status. Much will depend upon how the girls sing their lines. Often one writes a play and one finds that his vision, his intent, is enhanced, evolved from the players readings. They cannot help but breathe a bit of themselves into the characterizations. The best actors, in my mind, are those who do such. Consider Locutius. Are there any who fill the theaters and playhouses of the world that wish to see none of his fiery personality, nothing of his arrogance, his brilliance? Of course not. Yes, they wish to see his characterization delivered true to the author's intent, to honor the story within which it is performed, but they also wish to see something of the man for whom they paid their admission.