Stage

The Courage to Be Called Wicked

The enduring power of the musical “Wicked” lies in its quiet, unsettling question: Who decides who the villain is?
In the story, the misunderstood green-skinned outsider, Elphaba, becomes the so-called Wicked Witch not because she commits evil acts, but because she refuses to accept a corrupt system built on lies and propaganda. She challenges authority, questions injustice, and refuses to remain silent when the powerful manipulate fear for their own gain. For that courage, she is branded dangerous. A villain. An enemy of the state.
Meanwhile, the institutions of power—those who shape public perception—craft a narrative that turns truth into treason. Posters are printed. Rumors spread. And suddenly the one voice speaking out becomes the one the public is taught to fear.
It is difficult not to see echoes of that dynamic in today’s political climate in the United States.
In moments of national strain, those who raise their voices in defense of democratic norms—journalists, educators, public servants, ordinary citizens—are sometimes painted as enemies rather than guardians. To question corruption or cruelty is reframed as disloyalty. To defend constitutional principles is labeled obstruction. Like Elphaba, those who refuse to look away from injustice can find themselves recast as the “villains” in someone else’s narrative.
But Wicked reminds us that history often reveals the deeper truth. The labels imposed by power rarely last forever. What endures are the actions of people who stood up when it mattered.
Elphaba’s story is not really about wickedness at all—it is about moral courage. It is about the lonely, necessary act of saying no when a system demands silence.
For those in today’s democratic “resistance,” standing firm for constitutional law, accountability, and basic human decency, that message resonates deeply. The lesson of Wicked is that the loudest accusations are not always the most truthful—and that sometimes the people called villains are simply the ones who refused to surrender their conscience.
In the end, the question the musical leaves us with is not: Who is wicked?
It is who had the courage to see clearly—and still stand up.

To The Ones Who Make The Room Glow

Volunteer Appreciation Celebration – The Arctic Playhouse – July 18, 2025 

You arrive before the music, before the first note is coaxed 
from the keys, before the hush of anticipation settles in the air.
You are already there—with table lights warmed just right,
with places set like quiet invitations, with the kind of presence
that makes strangers feel like they’ve come home. 

You do not ask for applause, yet you shape the stage in ways no  
spotlight could ever capture. The ambiance breathes because of you—
soft and certain, like a memory we didn’t know we were missing
until we stepped through the door. 

Your welcome is not loud, but it is unwavering. It lives in every
poured glass, every offered chair, every thoughtful gesture that
says: “You matter here. We see you. Stay awhile.”

And so, when the music begins—when voices rise and hearts
unfold in songs and stories—know this: what the audience hears
is only part of the performance. The rest of it—the warmth,
the ease, the joy that lingers like candlelight—is your inspiration.

Finally, when the night closes—when sound of the The Rainbow 
Connection begins and you all join in, binding every heart in 
the room with its quiet truth—it is your kindness that makes
the moment feel less like an ending and more like a promise.
A promise we’ll find each other again, under these lights,
held by this music, in the intimacy you so effortlessly create. 

You are the ones who give more than time. You give care.
You give soul. You give The Cabaret Club the magic of being
more than a room. Thank you for making this place not just
somewhere we come to listen, but somewhere we come to
feel known.

Ode to the Stage Manager, Vicki Yates – The Arctic Playhouse, West Warwick, RI

She enters the theater before it can yawn,
 With coffee in hand and the ghost light still on.
 While actors are stretching or lost in a line,
 She’s taping the stage with a grid so divine.

She wrangles the chaos with headset and charm,
 Says, “Places!” and suddenly—calm.
 She knows every line, every glitch, every cue,
 And the prop you forgot way back in Act 2.

She speaks fluent panic, and patience as well,
 Can call cues in blackout or handle a yell.
 If the set starts to crumble or someone forgets,
 She patches it up with dry wit and no sweat.

Her script is a journal, a map, a memoir,
 With scribbles and notes like theatrical war.
 She’s the first one to laugh, the last one to leave,
 The magician who ensures the audience believes.

No spotlight will catch her, with no curtain bow,
 But everyone knows she’s the queen of the now.
 For the cast and the crew, she’s the heart and the glue,
 And the show goes on nightly thanks to what she can do.

For the Hands That Sing

On the 65th Birthday of Jim Rice –  Beloved Friend and Maestro 7/11/25

Today, the keys pause for a moment— mid-phrase, mid-feeling—
to tip their hats to the hands that guide them. Today, the
spotlight bends not toward center stage, but to the soul in
the shadows, who lifts every note like a prayer.

You, Jim, the quiet architect of song, the steady breath
beneath the singer’s storm, have given your heart to
hundreds of voices— and in return, we give you ours.

At Club Café, where laughter lingers in chords, and in
The Cabaret Club, at The Arctic Playhouse where warmth
meets your artistic wisdom, you are the spine of every
ballad, the unseen pulse of every encore.

We have watched your fingers teach courage, watched them
sculpt self-doubt into composure. You have accompanied more
than melodies—you have accompanied us, through tears and triumph,
with grace that never asks to be named.

Kindness is your key signature, generosity your tempo. And in a
world too often off-pitch, your presence keeps us in tune.

So on this day—your day, Jim— we celebrate not just your talent,
but your spirit, which plays in us long after the final note fades.

Happy Birthday, Dear Friend. You are the heartbeat of every 
performance. You are the thread that weaves the music into magic.

 

The Unsung Heroes of the Theater

Theater reviews are like magic tricks: they make you look in a certain direction and applaud the obvious. “Stunning performance by the lead actor!” They gush. “A moving portrayal of grief, joy, and indigestion!” Yes, the actor cried on cue and remembered all their lines. Bravo. Meanwhile, the director—the sorcerer who stitched the show together with mood boards, unpaid overtime, acted as Mom and pychologist and spilt tears of pure aesthetic anguish—gets all the credit of a coat rack.

And the stage manager? Ha! They get less attention than the fog machine. Which, incidentally, they also had to fix, cue, and explain to the fire marshal.

Let’s break it down. The actor appears onstage, speaks words someone else wrote, moves in ways someone else blocked, wears clothes someone else designed and constructed, and gets a standing ovation. The director spent six weeks preventing the show from becoming a very expensive interpretive dance about emotional confusion and/or awkwardly performed comedic timing. They wield vision, psychology, and a truly disturbing protocol as to how to stay calm and patient when they are about to implode.  They are the puppet master—only, instead of strings, they’re manipulating egos, schedules, and a cast that insists on “finding their truth” by rewriting the blocking during tech week.

And the stage manager? Oh, you mean the caffeine-fueled deity wearing all black who knows the entire script, blocking, prop list, and cast’s food allergies by heart? The person who keeps the show running when the lead accidentally enters in Act I dressed for Act III and the fog machine won’t stop coughing like a Victorian child? The person who, by sheer willpower and a Google Sheet, ensures that this chaotic, live spectacle actually happens at the correct time, in the correct order, without someone tripping over stage furniture or face-planting into a Christmas tree?

Theater critics, I beg you: diversify your praise. If a show is brilliant, it is not solely because an actor emoted with the intensity of a method-trained avocado. It’s because a director made bold choices and a stage manager executed them with battlefield precision while also double-checking whether the fake blood had stained a borrowed costume. You do seem able to mention the director and the stage manager in volumes if the production is a flop.

Actors are the frosting. But the director is the recipe, and the stage manager is the oven. No one thanks the recipe or the oven. But without them, you just have raw eggs and good intentions.

So next time you’re moved to tears by a production, remember: Someone called that lighting cue. Someone told that actor where and when to cry (or laugh). Someone made sure the swords were “theater standard” and not, say, a real katana from one of the actor’s college “samurai phase.” Neither of those people who made those things happen are barely mentioned (if at all) in the review.

Applaud accordingly. Or at the very least, bring them snacks and wine.