Yes, I cried. Yes, I laughed.
Last week, Ania and I took a trip on Metro North to see Molly perform in The Diary of Anne Frank at the Westport Country Playhouse. What a wonderful production! The theatre and its grounds, built in what looks like an old barn, is the sort of community space that channels the aesthetics of a small rural boarding school. Lately, I've been reading about John Cage's premiere of 4'33" at Woodstock, New York and when I picture the concert hall, it looks a lot like this Westport playhouse. As a pleasant surprise, there were free sandwiches, drinks and snacks laid out for all of the guests to eat and drink before the afternoon showing!
Oh, and the show. Wow. I came away shaken and moved. The cast was uniformly superb. The dramatic and emotional intensity that such a story demands was present without any sacrifices in portraying the honesty of Anne's adolescence. Perhaps one of the most psychologically daunting aspects of this story lies in the thought of prolonged and crowded confinement. To convey this from the stage effectively requires a dept feat of dramatic irony since a performance stage is so literally antithetical to the notion of a closed and secret space. This director and cast proved more than up to the challenge. The audience laughed but was far more often (as I think is appropriate) forward in their chairs, shocked and engaged, mouths slightly ajar. This really happened.
The story is, of course, one that is well-known to most in our society. Nevertheless, like all good stories, something new is revealed or discovered with each retelling. For me, what was most apparent watching the play was the sense that my life is a charmed one. At the risk of sounding cliche, we tend to take things like space and mobility for granted. Who among us has been so openly, callously and horrifically isolated for his race or for any other reason. Who among us has literally been selected for extermination. I say these things not from any profound insight, but because we have to say these things. We have to remember and art is one way we can do so.
When I was on a road trip last year, I was involved in a minor car accident. A friend of mine was upset by the accident for most of the trip; I tried to comfort him by reminding him that things "could be worse"-- nobody was hurt, for example. He bristled at my reasoning, noting correctly (to paraphrase) that I could use this logic to argue against feeling bad about most anything. At the time I thought "exactly: that's the point." Now, I wonder: maybe there are times when even this logic cannot stop one from feeling bad. We have the story of Anne Frank, trapped hiding in an attic against a regime that said Jews, you really should not exist. Silence and stillness during the day. Not even allowed to peer through the window. Exasperated, I kept asking myself in the theatre: can things get worse than this?
The wonder of her story is that in spite of all of this, Anne's voice does reflect a measure of optimism and even levity. Certainly, The Diary of Anne Frank teaches us about human resilience. About the nature of family.
But it's tragically about so much more.
And we ought to remember that this really did just happen.
Thank you to the spectacular cast and crew for a moving performance and for reminding me that my life is charmed.
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