When I start a project, the first things that come to me are usually about sound. Whether it’s a particular song or album that becomes the soundtrack to my work, or the way an actor reads a specific line, my process is almost always audio driven.
It was a surprise for me that Whale Fall broke this trend.
Admittedly, I had been assuming I’d be pulling inspiration from whale songs, and that’s been true to a certain extent, but the main touch point for me in this project is a photo I took on our first day of rehearsal. I’d borrowed an instant camera from a friend for a trip that I was getting ready to take with my family (more on that later), and decided to bring it along to our first read. After a work through of the script, we stepped outside onto the rooftop deck at the Hamilton Conservatory for the Arts, where I took this picture of Ray and Stephanie.
It’s not really that remarkable, two people standing on a balcony, but as it developed slowly, I could see so much of the show in it immediately.
One of the things that Whale Fall about is the strain of trying to hold a moment in time. The characters in the show are both holding a version of each other that’s more about a memory than a reality. Or maybe a wish of who that person might be, or might have been. It’s often this way in families. Especially looking back, we remember our parents or our children in both kind and less than kind ways. But when it comes to memory, we tend to be pretty unreliable narrators. We don’t get it exactly right in the retelling or the remembering.
There’s this thing that parents do with their babies (or at least what my partner and I did when our kids were smaller), where they spend much of the day and night just trying to get them to sleep. You’re really just completely focused on getting through, and then the minute you’re out of the room you find yourself looking at pictures of your kids, or talking about how cute that thing they did was, even though it was making you crazy.
You’re already busy remaking and cleaning up the hard stuff, to try and hold on to the moment in your mind, because before you know it, it’s day one of school, or they’re rolling their eyes at you in front of their friends, or they’re going off to do the thing they dreamed of doing. My kids are still pretty young, so I won’t pretend I totally understand the really big shifts that are coming down the road. But the feeling at the core of those moments is something I think I’m starting to get.
There’s this quote, often attributed to Heraclitus: “No one ever steps in the same river twice, it’s not the same river and they aren’t the same person”. I guess I bring that up to say that, even if we capture a moment in an instant photo or in our minds, it’s only that very second. It’ll never be that same thing ever again.
For me, that is the big question of Whale Fall. What’s the thing on the horizon, and how do we get there together?
It’s that reality that each of the characters in Whale Fall are grappling with, both forwards and backwards in time. Becca wishing that she was able to return to some moments with her dad, and Stephen wishing he could help direct Becca’s way forward more than he’s able. Both are rolling over memories in their minds, trying to find the spot that if they ‘could just change that one thing’ something might be different. But you can’t change the past. You just get to choose what you do with it going forward.
For me, that is the big question of Whale Fall. What’s the thing on the horizon, and how do we get there together?
This is the second part of a roundtable discussion about the upcoming production of Whale Fall by Same Boat Theatre produced in partnership with the Hamilton Conservatory for the Arts as part of the 2022 Hamilton Fringe Festival. The first part can be viewed here. The participants in the discussion are playwright Stephen Near (SN), director Aaron Joel Craig (AJC) and performers Stephanie Hope Lawlor (SHL) and Raymond Louter (RL)
Please note: This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
AJC: A good story will give you a jumping-off point of a longer, different kind of conversation and it also gets inside of us in a different way than raw data does. Steph, I’m interested, you said earlier that so much of the orca information is kid-oriented and we talked about Stephen thinking he thought his Rebecca might grow out of that, and I was thinking about how people can think that the work that we do in making theatre is something we’ll grow out of. Now we have to reorient the way that we work and I am interested in recapturing some of the “childishness of this work.” The interest in playing pretend in front of people.
SHL: I don’t think it’s a coincidence that every kid grows up playing house, playing school, playing make-belief. We all want to try on different identities at some point and I think that’s why people come to the theatre, it’s why people want to see these stories, because maybe they think they’ve grown out of the ability to play make-belief, but they still hold on to that need for imaginative play and escape and that need for a different world. Yeah, sometimes that world is not the one that we’re in. Sometimes that world is more magical or has more musical numbers or has a big dance finale, and sometimes that world is scarier. You know, we watch Black Mirror, we watch all of these spooky Netflix shows because we need that escape, that relief from the outside world. We’re holding onto these ideas of climate change and extinction and what that means for us, for our families, our children, our legacy, and that’s an awful lot of pressure that builds. 28:57 I think to see it can be therapeutic in a sense, it can be cathartic. To see these stories on stage, maybe, offers some hope, so that then you come out of the theatre and you think, “Okay, there’s still work to be done.”
SN: And I think that’s it. It’s so overwhelming that people feel powerless. How do you present work that addresses that thing that people need to pay attention to, but that’s overwhelming sometimes? Not just because it’s an impending problem, but it also touches upon grief. I’ve heard this said that we’re all acutely aware on a conscious level that we’re in very big trouble, so we’re going through a consistent feeling of grief, but we sort of push it aside. Trying to make people pay attention to that grief is really hard, so part of that becomes having to give people a measure of hope. You have to tell your story in a way that will get people to pay attention, to take some action. I think a lot of people minimize it because they just feel so powerless.
SHL: Emotionally, we’re desperate to minimize it.
SN: I guess that’s what I wanted to tap into with this story. To paint one character who is not powerless, who can do something, who says, “I can go find them no matter what, wherever it leads me.” That’s the voice that I tune into. You can throw all the obstacles in the way, but if you have a character who is laser-focused on a goal, that’s a story that people will be interested in watching.
AJC: That’s why all of those marine stories are always about the horizon line, Moby Dick…
SN: The Old Man and the Sea.
AJC: It’s always about going towards that thing that is ungraspable. That’s the thing about the horizon, you never get to it. In this show, there is no question that this is going to cost her something. When it comes to climate change paralysis or general crisis paralysis is that we are hesitant to put ourselves on the line. So many of us have spent the last few years living in constant fight or flight. I think about the orcas attacking their so-called trainers, and yeah, if you’re living in fight or flight your entire life, sure, that makes sense. And I won’t spoil the show, but there is that question of what is the cost, and how that ripples out beyond the play, but also for us, what we think about climate change. One of the reasons society minimizes it is because it’s expensive.
RL: There’s so much that I want to react to in what you’ve all said, and the first is the need that human beings have to play. It doesn’t end with childhood, we often talk to children as though it should. We run down play activity as peripheral, not productive, all that kind of stuff, but I increasingly have come to believe that there is great wisdom in engaging with audiences where they’re at. I think partly it’s a way of drilling down into something, to enter into a deep knowledge of something. Are there lessons in the play? I think there are all kinds of lessons, all kinds of things you could turn into a study guide about the play, but I think there’s also a re-kindling of the human need to play. We don’t want audiences to walk out and say I’m going to sign up for greenpeace tomorrow, but the audience walking out feeling a whole bunch of stuff, feeling so much stuff that they just can’t not respond. I think that’s why kids play, and that’s why we play, and even the people that don’t come to the theatre are still busy playing. Just watch people engaged in all the random creative, nonproductive activity: singing songs, telling stories – we are meant to tell stories. The other offer I would make, which is a non-western way of thinking about theatre, is that this play is potentially a kind of medicine, and the healing might be that it slices just into our anxiety and fear about what we’ve done and what it’s done to these relationships, and it reveals things, but it also injects that wound with something new and something healing. I think that’s, in the end, what makes it not just a show for young audiences or old audiences. Children are honest. They’ll look at you and say, “Tell me the truth,” whereas adult audiences have adopted all kinds of strategies for dealing with their boredom. I really think that the power of what we’re doing is that it affects all of us and it does something to us that’s good and healing and hopeful.
SHL: Something that we haven’t really touched on in this particular conversation is yes, the play is about climate change and the whales, it’s about these big huge massive themes, but we learn about it through such a personal lens. We start to understand those larger concepts, these bigger feelings of grief and of climate anxiety through this relationship between father and daughter. We think about how these big ideas are reflected in our relationships in ways that I don’t know if we’ve ever really felt. And that, initially, is something I loved in reading that short bit at the Junction, was this connection between father and daughter and the memories that come up and the indelible effect of this relationship on her and how it’s what makes her able to handle crisis.
AJC: It’s interesting too, the connection between the relationship between the father and daughter in the play and also the way that we understand that whales are familial animals.
SHL: They travel in pods.
AJC: And as humans, we are also influenced by the pod that we’re in. There’s research being done that suggests the fight or flight gene gets passed on to your kids. That’s how humanity and every other organism has lived, they pass on those good instincts. In the play, there is the question of what are the good instincts in Stephen that he passes on to Rebecca? We don’t get to choose what our kids do with the things we give them, but we hope they take the good stuff and take it in a good direction. That’s a big part of this too, and for families who will see this show, I think that’s an interesting thing to keep in mind.
RL: I’m interested in exploring the relationship between Stephen and Rebecca, but also the time disconnect in the play. Where is this guy? What’s the space that he inhabits? In some cases, I feel like that’s everything. It’s shattering, it’s optimistic, it’s gift-giving, it’s saying goodbye, it’s all of that. As an actor, I think about the range of that, and I’ll tell you, I’m daunted at all of it. The present tense bits, not so much. I get it, it’s give and take, you do a little Stanislavski. Then suddenly, it’s like the time and space and kind of all at once, and that’s why it is not just a character on a quest to do this thing. It’s both of us going somewhere to do something dangerous, and it’s going to be hard and there are going to be tears and sorrow, but there’s love and hope and care.
SHL: And it’s necessary for Rebecca. Ray, we touched on this last week in conversation. You say you’re daunted – being on this trip together, the two of us navigating this together. And as Stephen and Rebecca that’s true, and as actors that’s true. It’s just us! There are other characters that come in and out of the story, but ultimately it’s the two of us.
RL: We were just talking about dropping lines. The actor’s nightmare, right? I just feel completely emotionally overwhelmed at the tides of our world falling apart but we’re here together in this space, in this time, with these audience members and we’re going to be okay.
SHL: And this is singular. This moment, this time. This performance.
AJC: And it will never happen again like this.
RL: Every moment, every time you do the show is stepping into that possibility. If audiences get that from a show, you have them forever.
SHL: It’s the breath. The life. It’s the koosh. The koosh of it all!
RL: The koosh of it all!
SHL: It’s the liveness
RL: The alive-ness. The risk.
AJC: I’m so excited being four people in a room right now, but when we get an audience in a room… all in the room together. We’re all aware of the way we are in the room together now. And it’s inescapable.
SN: It’s a healing circle, is what it is. That’s really powerful.
AJC: For the next 3-5 years, the only way I want to work is in the round. If we’re going to be in a room together, let’s be in a room together. Let’s re-engage these muscles and say, “This is how my body exists in the room with other people. I remember that and I see that moment land on that person’s face, and what does that make me feel?”
SN: I’m really so glad that I’m doing, that this project is being done with this group of people. There’s something really quite special about that for me, and I don’t know that I could do this any other way. I just knew if I was going to do any sort of piece coming out of the most trying, stressful, emotionally hard time that has had me even question whether I even want to to do theatre with a piece that’s like inextricably tied to me and my identity such that the main characters are named after me and my daughter, I can’t do it with a team that’s anyone but you three. I’ve been thinking a lot about this. Aaron, you and I have collaborated on almost every piece I’ve done since 2013, and that’s pretty mindblowing. Ray, I when I came to the city was you had me up at Redeemer teaching a playwriting workshop and as you were talking to your students, I thought wow, this guy really gets it. And Stephanie, I had heard about all of the work you were doing at HCA and with Rook’s Theatre and I didn’t see Venus in Fur –
AJC: Huge mistake!
SN [To Aaron]: But you saw it, and immediately you sent a text saying, “We have to work with Steph at some point, we have to work with her.” It was always this thing of missed opportunities. “When are we gonna get to work with Steph? She’s busy!”
AJC: Turns out, all that had to happen was the world had to end.
SHL: Just a pandemic.
SN: But you’re right, you were the first one who brought the voice of this Rebecca to life, and it was just like, I can’t think of anyone else who can possibly do it. There is no one else.
SHL: And it was one of those magical moments where I read it and I thought there’s no one else who can possibly do it! I have to be the one to say these words, to go on this journey. So I’m so glad that morphed into the reading, and now this production. This play is so special.
SN: I’m just really glad that we can do this. And that we’re doing it at HCA as a BYOV. HCA has such a great tradition in this city of bridging the different age levels and artistic disciplines, and I think it’s really lovely.
SHL: And what’s going to be exciting is that you can show up on a Sunday morning and catch a show for the youngest members of your family, then a show created and performed by adolescents, another show created and performed by teens, and then a show that is resonant whether you are 10, a teen, an adult. When we talk about intergenerational theatrical experiences, that’s exactly what’s coming together at the HCA BYOV.
AJC: There’s a real thoughtfulness and awareness of what we hand down to kids, our values and the way we re-introduce the things that we love. That’s one of the things that, whether it’s the work HCA is doing, or the Fringe, our that we’re doing, they’re all sharing something you love with your kids and the community. That’s the real gift of getting to do this again, and doing it now. I have an acute awareness of the gift of getting to share these things with people after not being able to share anything with them for so long.
When my full time academic career ended over a year ago, I began dreaming about what a renewed career as an independent Hamilton artist might look like.
A few months later, when the offer of a part in Whale Fall was made, I began to see a way forward, working with people I knew and respect deeply. Stephen and I had worked together bringing playwriting skills to students and Aaron Craig is a former student – now a director and dramaturg in his own right. I’d seen Stephanie in a beautiful production of Mary’s Wedding a few years ago. While I knew the people though, I hadn’t worked as a peer with them. I was intimidated and I still am, a little.
I wish I could say that being an actor again, after years of talking about it, has been sweet, and easy. It has been beautiful but it’s been hard too. The play demands honesty. It requires emotional presence. It requires love, and it draws me into risky territory. “Beautiful and daunting” is how Stephanie and I have characterized the play.
Whale Fall strikes me, primarily, as a father/daughter love story. It brings us into the joy and the playfulness of the relationship but it also asks us to experience their flaws. It asks whether love can transcend death and even if it can teach us about eternity. I think that Stephen has also suggested with the script that we need plays and ceremonies to grapple with the anxiety of our time – anxiety about the environment, about death and about eternity. It gives me hope, in a way that I hadn’t anticipated.
Finding hope and joy onstage, in so many beautiful risky moments, with an actor like Stephanie Hope Lawlor is truly one of the great experiences of my career. She’s the best. And so is Aaron. And Stephen. Great people, all.
I wanted to write a play about my daughter and her love of orcas
This was pretty much all I had in my mind almost five years ago when I sat in the Director’s Lounge of Theatre Aquarius as part of what was called the Junction. Assembled as a group of creators who weren’t sure what form their piece would take, the Junction was a space to cultivate and explore ideas and see where they lead. Prior to the Junction, I’d been part of the Aquarius Playwrights Unit and was used to coming in with some finished material. Not this time. All I knew was I wanted to explore ideas around family, the ocean and the ever increasing spectre of climate change and see if it would work onstage.
It started as a collection of monologues. Most were about whales and sharks and the ocean. Some of them were in my voice, as if I were telling a story. Some were in the voice of my daughter, as if she were older than the child she is right now. Some were even in the ‘voice’ of the orcas, themselves. Those monologues, as formative as they were to the version of Whale Fall which premieres next month at the Fringe, were really rough drafts. That’s why the Junction was such an ideal spot for them to be heard for the first time.
New play workshops are hard for playwrights. Some are enough to drive those level-headed of us back to our secluded home offices never to return. However, the magic offered by the Theatre Aquarius Junction was the safety of the space that it made for the creators and the work we introduced to one another week after week. Especially when the material was extremely hard. And this happened on many occasions, not just with Whale Fall but with the work of the other members, as well. There were tears and anxiety on all of our parts, I think, because many in the Junction were trying to express something that didn’t have a predetermined form.
With the past two years still pressing on our collective sense of trauma, it’s easy to forget about the time before. 2017 now feels like a strangely distant era, and looking back at my initial notes and writings for Whale Fall, it’s intriguing to see how much the piece has grown and found its voice, especially given how fraught the journey from then to now has been. The play now in rehearsals with Aaron, Stephanie and Ray owes a creative debt to the input and support from the members of Theatre Aquarius’ Junction and I was blessed to have them as my first audience.
In terms of the orcas, the Junction was the first pod that helped bring the voice of this play to surface so it could take its first breath. Koosh!
Special thanks to the members of the Theatre Aquarius Junction who supported the writing of Whale Fall: Vicktoria Adam, Luke Brown, Taryn Crankshaw, Crystal Dumitru, Krista Mcnaughton, Allison Hossack, Carlyn Rhamey, Annie Rosenberg, and Ryan Sero.
I didn’t set out to write a play about giant, hairy beasts in the forest.
Yes, I’ve always been obsessed by Bigfoot. But who isn’t? Well. Okay, maybe you aren’t. And some of your friends. And your family, too.
Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure a lot of people out there aren’t obsessed with Sasquatch. But you’re probably obsessed by something strange, right? UFOs. True crime. Conspiracy theories. Royal scandals. Harlequin romances. TikTok.
We all have our fixations. Mine just happens to be the prospect that a race (not just an animal) of giant, hairy beings dwell in the wilds of our world. I’ve always been fervent in this belief, too. It’s not up for debate. For me, the proof and the truth is out there. Cue music.
Still, why a play about Sasquatch? Where’s the drama? Where’s the conflict? What’s the inciting incident that leads our protagonist to oppose the obstacles in rising action towards a climax of realization? Can you tell I teach writing for a living? Seriously, though, how exactly do you tell a story about Sasquatch for the stage? So, for a while, my obsession just stayed an obsession and didn’t really inform my creative practice.
But then, in 2019, I started listening to podcasts, specifically a podcast called Sasquatch Chronicles. On my morning commute to work, I became addicted to this show; it hooked me like no other podcast around. Hosted by the downbeat and forthright Wes Germer, the show is essentially a series interviews with those who have encountered Sasquatch, Bigfoot and other cryptid phenomena. Though it examines and offers some analysis of the phenomena, the show really bills itself as “a safe-haven for witnesses to share their encounters.”
What grabbed me about this podcast, and the multitude of those interviewed each week, was the earnestness of every one of the eyewitnesses. No one has ever seemed to be playing any sort of hoax or treats the phenomena as a joke. Indeed, I got the sense that the majority of those interviewed really didn’t want to have an encounter. But now they had, and there was no going back. They all had an experience and it had changed them in an irrevocable and sometimes disturbing way. No matter what you believe, it’s hard not to be intrigued by the voices of these people.
The other intriguing thing about these eyewitness stories was the context and life history that went along with their accounts. It’s true that Wes has interviewed so-called professional ‘Squatch hunters like Russell Acord, Todd Standing, and Matt Moneymaker. But, largely, the bulk of the people interviewed have been faceless individuals Wes only identifies only by first name. Living with their families or on their own, in places all across North America, these eyewitnesses really seem to have nothing to gain from telling their stories. Some have spoken about experiences they’ve recently had. But just as many recall events that have taken place many years ago that they were perhaps afraid to share.
And it was in that word—sharing—that I finally started to find a way into what this play is about. Good drama is all about telling a story. And when I sat down to write Creature I realized I had to throw away some of the lessons I’d been taught, and have taught to others, about playwriting. Maybe this story didn’t need rising action or a climax. Maybe this story was all about recalling a particularly strange incident from my childhood.
So, maybe, I needed just to write this story as if I were sitting across from you, the audience. In front of us is a campfire. It’s late at night. We’re deep in the woods. And I tell you about that time. Years ago. The same kind of night. The same kind of woods. And then I heard it…