Artistic Director’s Notes:

Baseball fans remember that magic October night in 1988 when a bearded, balding, MVP candidate named Kirk Gibson, so damaged by two separate injuries that he would not take another swing during the entire World Series, stumbled to the plate for the LA Dodgers (ever the bums) to face the mustachioed playboy, Dennis Eckersley from rough and tumble Oakland. Eck hadn’t given up a homer since the war of 1812, Gibson needed a gurnet to get into the batter’s box, and the Dodger crowd was talking on their cell phones and admiring their Rolexes. The As led by a run and there were two out in the bottom of the ninth, a runner on the base. After two flailing swings that even I could have managed, Gibson somehow laid wood to Eck’s devilish sidearm toss and sent that ball rocketing into history. Bums manager Tommy Lasorda, whos physiognomy recalled none so much as the Michelin Man, shot out of the dugout like a twelve year old, followed by 23 delightfully stunned tobacco chewing men-children. Gibson’s grimacing dance around the basepath was as painful and beautiful as a ballet. Kirk Gibson had risen from the grave. 

I don’t know where the artistic equivalent of Kirk Gibson is these days. The scene is certainly set for his or her appearance. It’s late in the game, we’re behind, and the mustachioed villain is on the mound. All of the usual suspects have gone down swinging, but each time I look into the dugout, I see sullen downcast faces, angry and spent. It’s a scene I play over and over in my head. I can’t get it out of my mind. 

Alright, I’ll quit with the lame baseball analogy and say what I mean to say . The arts are important to society. Period. Over and over I hear arguments that we must appeal to CEOs in the boardroom because without catering to their tastes, we can’t survive. I don’t believe that. Without them, we can’t drive SUVs, own fancy homes and send our kids to Carnegie Mellon. And of course that is what we want, we artists. If that surprises you, and it might, it shouldn’t. We are, after all, human. And so we eye the ledger, we finagle the bottom line, and we drift ever so slowly away from our mission, our lot in life: the creation of art. And not just something that passes for art, but quality art. But how, then do we do that? There is no formula, is there? 

Well, I think I can tell you how not to do it. First we must fight the impulse to prosper. Shakespeare’ most popular play, in his time, was probably seen by a few thousand people. Compare that to the ratings of Desperate Housewives. How many people read the great works of Twain, for instance, or Ralph Ellison. Far fewer than read the autobiography of whichever ex-junkie talk show host was splayed across the Times Best Seller list last week. But think for a moment: how poor would our society be without A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court or The Invisible Man? One shudders to consider what might have been if either of those fiercely independent no-conformists not laughed at the status quo and swung for the fences (okay I’m drifting back into the sports thing again). Secondly, we must redefine the argument so that quality is the only acceptable measure of success. But quality, you say, is subjective! One man’s quality is another man’s piffle. Of course. But that doesn’t mean we can’t give chase. We shouldn’t be trying to define it, We should be trying to own it. To wear it. And knock it into the night. Ask any baseball fan how many hot dogs were sold in the 88 Fall Classic, how much NBC spent to televise the Series, how much Gibson’s salary was that year: not one will have the answer. But ask them if they remember the sound of the bat striking the ball, the gasp of the crowd, Gibson’s strained fist-pumping gesture as he rounded second base – and I’ll bet you you’ll see a twinkle in their eye. So let’s start saying that quality is good. Period. Third, we have to look for new artists. Stagnation is the death of art and anything that leads to stagnation must be fought. Does that mean we have no institutions? No, it means we rigorously hold our institutions to the highest standard for artists, not the lowest. We stopped walking into pretty buildings and thinking that success has been achieved. The pretty buildings and the fountains and the coffee bar in the lobby is the beginning of the artists’ work and when those who are entrusted with the keys to such hallowed halls rest on their laurels and stagnate, they must be run out of town. Out with the old. In with the new. 

Tonight, and I pray, every night, we’re going to swing for the fences (I’m giving in to it) at Burning Coal. We’re going to step up to the plate and stare down that bully, that flamethrowing villain who wants the world to think that it’s okay for art to be “okay,” that simpleton who believes that a person or an arts group’s value to its society can be measured at all, let alone in a spreadsheet. Tonight we’re going to present to you a new play. A play no one has ever seen. I don’t know if it’ll be any good, but I do know what it might be. Our society needs new artists now in a more profoundly urgent way than ever in our country’s history, and if we strike out, the game is lost. Try as I may, I can’t get the scene out of my head. Lasorda is nervous and tired. His hands are sweaty. He turns to the bench. Sullen faces stare back. He stands. He paces. “Gibson,” he bellows, “what about that injury?” The wounded man rises slowly and takes himself a bat. “It’s okay, coach,” he whispers. “I think I’ve got one good swing.” 

Jerome Davis

Director’s Notes: 

Where do plays begin? Everywhere-situations, moments, emotions…Playwright Jerry Oster’s observation of a woman in Foster’s market, an announcement for a play competition, and a staged reading are catalysts for the play presented tonight. The blood, sweat and tears of a team, both seen and unseen, have taken the ideas of the text and turned then into a reality. 

The greatest plays we remember all have a universal commonality. Each started with a premiere. Time would tell how many people would be exposed to the play, but those who participated in the genesis would always be able to say, “I was there.” I can only speak for myself and say that I am honored to have been here. As I have watched this script go from draft to draft, reading to reading, and rehearsal to rehearsal, I am reminded of why I love directing. The beauty of dramatic art is that no one person creates a dramatic work. Each of us plays our part to the beset of our ability. By the end of the process, we have collaborated on a piece that is exponentially better than anything we could have done on our own. In that way, dramatic art is beautifully synergistic. Looking back at this ever-evolving “whole,” that is 90 in 90, all that I can do is thank the rest of the parts that went into creating this evening. Jerry Oster for trust me with his baby and allowing us to parent it together. Josh Purvis for a kind, smart set of eyes and ears. A cast and crew whose humor, talent, and ownership of the project continue to astound and inspire me. Andy Hayworth, angel extraordinaire. Burning Coal for allowing me to tell the story and proudly say, “I was there.” Enjoy and thanks for coming. 

Carnessa Ottelin

Director’s Notes: 

“Safe House” takes us inside a shadowy world of spies and betrayals where truth is decidedly uncertain and perhaps unknowable. One undeniable fact is that unlike foreign spies, most real American turncoats almost always betray their government just for money, often spurred on by a healthy dose of petty resentment. After all, why bother with anything like a higher purpose, idealism, irony, or pity, when you can simply demand cash. One of these three characters in Lydia Stryk’s “Safe House,” Henry, is just such a figure. Desperate for appreciation and immersed in his comic-book world of superheroes, this government agent relentlessly pursues his aggressive appetite for power and things. His wife Mary, like Carmella Soprano, intuitively knows but rests in denial of her husband’s diabolical dealings, until she cares more about one of his victims than she does about her own safety. The third member of this triangle is Marta, a woman whose exact origin is deliberately ambiguous, but certainly is from one of those places in which America is actively engaged in the so-called “war on terror”–the Middle East, the near East, suffice it to say, the Orient. According to the typical Western vision of the Orient, the danger and threat, the very demons themselves, come from the East. In Stryk’s radical vision, not a demon but a savior comes from the East, to warn the heorine, Mary, of the price of real knowledge, the knowledge of what’s inside the mind of the Other. Marta carries a terrible secret, and Henry, a spy with no moral core, unleashes it to pay for the renovation of his kitchen. Only one of the characters emerges from this debacle full of hope for the future, a future in which, nonetheless, something terrible has been set in motion. 

Jody McAuliffe

90 in 90 Crew: 

Stage Manager: Andy Hayworth 

Scenery Design: Sonya Leigh Drum

Lighting Design: Christopher Popwich 

Costume Design: Vanessa Streeter

Props: Tori Mazer

Sound Design: Jeremy Alen

Technical Director: Jennifer Becker

Asst. Director: joshua Purvis

Dramaturg: becca Johnson

Graphics Design: Simmie Kastner

Asst. Stage Manager: Noelle Barnard

Dressers: Lormarev Jones and Amy Massey

Safe House Crew: 

Stage Manager: Mariette Booth 

Scenery Design: Sonya Leigh Drum 

Lighting Design: Christopher Popowich 

Costume Design: Carson Mather 

Props: Mariette Booth 

Sound Design/Composer: Marc Ferris

Video Design: William Noland

Technical Director: Jennifer Becker

Clown Consultant: Jef Lambdin

Asst. Director: Jesse Patrone-Werdiger, Maura Farver 

Graphics Design: Simmie Kastner

Asst. Stage Manager: Vanessaw Rodriquez 

Dramaturg: Frank Lentricchia

90 in 90 Cast:

Leah Aizen – Linda

Kenny Gannon – Joe

Jim Moscater – Mike

Brian Patrick Mullins – Richard

Margaret-Ellen Shouse -Michelle

William Stutts – A good Looking Man

Adam Traylor -David

Jenny Wales – Dana

Safe House Cast:

Debra Gillingham – Mary

Derrick Ivey – Henry 

Jenn Suchanec – Marta 

Have a fond or interesting memory of this play you’d like to share with us? We’d love to hear it! 

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Burning Coal Theatre 

 (919) 834-4001 

  info@burningcoal.org   

224 Polk St., Raleigh NC 27604