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Literary Mark Routhier speaks with The 13 Hallucinations
of Julio Rivera playwright Stephen R. Culp on his play,
The Wizard of Oz, iconography in pop culture and
being produced at the Magic.
Mark Routhier -- It is
said that, in Death, our lives flash before our eyes, or the
important portions do. Your Julio Rivera experiences a more
fantastical journey. What drew you to the material? And what
were your influences in defining how you would tell this story?
Stephen R. Culp –
Julio's journey is indeed fantastic. The visions that occur
to him (or that Julio actively conjures) are less an instant
replay of his life than they are steps in a journey of self
discovery. While I definitely incorporated a sort of Elizabeth
Kubler-Ross (anger/denial/bargaining/depression/acceptance)
progression, it's really the irony of a young man who "grows
up" (i.e. matures) at the moment of his death. Julio
was 29 when he died... the age where many men, for whatever
reason, abandon their childish and irresponsible ways and
come into their own. I wanted him to mature into full manhood
in his journey. What drew me to his story is visceral, and
harder to explain. As a writer I'm generally attracted to
true stories. As it unfolded in the press, Julio's story (the
newspaper coverage of the murder, in addition to coverage
of the murder trials a year later) hit me hard and deep. I
felt emotionally connected to him in a way that the nation
reacted to Matthew Shepard 8 or so years later. I knew I had
to write about it, but I felt a "movie of the week"
style docudrama approach would cheapen the material. I decided
to turn a deeply sad story on its ear and make it a fantasy.
While the play has its serious moments, I wanted it to be
primarily a celebration... life-affirming. This approach,
I think, also gives Julio's story a mythic stature.
MR – Your play references
The Wizard of Oz right off the bat. Would you please
tell me about your relationship to that story?
SRC – All roads lead
to Oz! In gay lore, Dorothy is the icon. She personifies the
journey. Misfit child from a suffocating, black & white
world... whisked to a dangerous land filled with colorful
characters... dangers around every corner, each overcome in
the camaraderie of fellow misfits... the dream of home. Others
have written about this parallel ad nauseum (a favorite treatment
of mine is Geoffrey Ryman's novel "Was"). In my
play, Oz is that scary place we've never been... so bright
it hurts to look at it. Dorothy's journey through the dark
forest toward the city of light... I think it mirrors Julio's
life... and his death. L. Frank Baum himself hinted that Oz
signified the afterlife. His novels describe the land that
separates Kansas from Oz as "the shifting sands"...
the sands leaving the hourglass are the minutes we have left...
and legend has it that on his deathbed, his last words were
"now it's time to cross the shifting sands." And
of course, Dorothy's gay folklore anchors Julio to the mythology
with which he most closely identifies.
For Dorothy, in a very real sense Kansas
is heaven. It's the nirvana she strives for. For many gay
men (and probably for everyone), Dorothy's Kansas represents
that idealized notion of home, where there is unconditional
love, family, safety. It's the unattainable ideal, the home
we never had...the home that was being sought when thousands
of gays and lesbians stood in the line in the rain for the
public affirmation that the home they had created was real.
MR – You play with some dynamic confusion
of religious and pop icons (the two Madonnas). How do you
feel about our mythology and icons in religion and pop culture?
SRC – I think all
icons, religious and secular, fill distinct and separate purposes.
The icon of the flag, in many people, stirs up nostalgia and
pride. Nostalgia and pride aren't exactly what a crucifix
evokes...religious icons are meant to anchor the soul, to
alleviate our fear of mortality. The icon of Cher, on the
other hand, appeals to our inner drag queen. What I'm saying
is, I don't think Cher-worship trespasses on Jesus-worship
territory. We create the gods we need to believe in, in order
to be happy. Icons remind us we're alive. They bind us together
and connect us to the infinite.
MR – After hearing
your play at the first reading, your language and your rhythm
really popped off the page. How important to you is the application
of language in accessing the root of an idea, or more simply
put, in telling your story?
SRC – I'm glad you
noticed the language and rhythm. It's an element I agonize
over as I write. I try to let the character speak through
me in order to discover his/her unique voice, but I am also
fascinated by the rhythm of speech. There are rapid-fire exchanges
that are meant to simulate disco/hip hop cadences, and there
are also arias. (Dorothy's epilogue is a good example). A
play's language must be heightened in order to be stage-worthy,
in my opinion... otherwise it's just ordinary phrasing and
vocabulary (it's really an acting exercise). The best contemporary
playwrights are acutely aware of this, and accomplish an elevated
poetry by stealth. A good example is Mamet. When Mamet found
his style (in plays like American Buffalo and Sexual
Perversity in Chicago), critics praised his ear for ordinary
speech. I don't think that's accurate. I think Mamet found
a distilled, economic poetry and rhythm that represents the
male id. People don't really talk like that. Language and
rhythm are the only real tools at the playwright's disposal...
the playwrights I most admire have fine tuned their language
to the point where it vibrates and takes wing.
MR – Would you please
share the why and how of your beginnings as a playwright.
What brought you to start writing for the stage?
SRC – Writing is another step on my
artistic journey. I've also acted and directed professionally,
and I love it all. I suppose I like the creative (as opposed
to interpretive) aspect of writing, where one truly creates
a universe from scratch. Someone, I think it was Albee, said
“don't write a word until you have to.” That's
what playwriting is to me. Marching orders. I write when I
have to.
About this play and the man who inspired
it. I didn't know Julio Rivera. I've avoided contact with
his family. I don't pretend to have captured his life, his
personality, or his spirit. But his murder changed me, it
changed New York, and it changed our social climate. One thing
I know about him: Julio gave me marching orders to write this
play. Society owes him, big time... and I owe him more. In
the end, however, I wish he didn't inspire such a play...
that he was living the life he deserved. He'd be about 45
years old now.
I read an article recently, which said that Julio was cremated,
that the urn containing his ashes was given a burial at sea
by his family. The urn was found by a scuba diver a few years
ago. It made its way to Albany where it was displayed to argue
for passage of the NY hate crimes bill. Julio didn't ask for
any of this. It was taken from him.
This is not a labor play. It is not political. It is meant
to heal, not rabble-rouse. It is about dream endings and the
phoenix rising from ash. It is about that lonely journey we
all take. And about the love that sustains us. It's about
that piece of our hearts which is utterly divine, and that
corner of our soul that is dark and capable of hate.
The optimist in me hopes that the audience will take home
a simple message: that we are all angels, but we all have
feet of clay. Recognizing this could change the world. Just
as Julio Rivera did that hot July night on a lonely patch
of asphalt.
MR – Do you find
writing for the stage more fulfilling than directing or acting,
or do they exist separately enough to satisfy in different
ways?
SRC – I enjoy the
writer's task of creating an entire universe from scratch.
Acting ad directing occurs within the confines of the script.
The cliché is true, however; writing is a lonely process.
I love the collaborative nature of acting and directing. As
a playwright, I get the biggest rush from being involved in
the process, when people come together to focus on a script
of mine. It's where I learn what works and what doesn't. Whether
it turns out to be an ego boost or a humbling experience (it's
usually a mix of the two), it's that sense of community that
is essential to my understanding of the art. Other genres
don't require community. Theater arises from it. Actors, directors,
writers, designers, stagehands, producers and audience. Live
performance is anti-lonely... and its the only thing that
can validate a play.
MR – You've
been working on this play for a long while. How exciting is
it to finally see it evolving into a full-fledged production
here at Magic Theatre?
SRC – It's a dream. This play has been making
the rounds for years, and has been submitted to a list of
theatres as long as my arm. The reaction is always the same;
they love the script but find it too risky. I think it's a
testament to Magic Theatre's courage and vision that they're
mounting a full production of it. I feel a certain amount
of vindication/validation that a theatre as well-respected
as The Magic has decided that it's worth the risk. And of
course, on top of that, the cast, crew, and administrative
folks who have dedicated their resources to this project...
I've never worked with a more supportive and talented group
of people. It's humbling and an ego boost at the same time.
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Loretta Greco, Artistic Director | David Jobin, Managing Director