All the press surrounding Ed Schmidt's My Last Play, which he performs in the living room of his Brooklyn apartment, led me to expect something altogether different from the actual piece I saw Friday night.
As someone who, like Mr. Schmidt, has been toiling away at this theatre habit (in my case by writing and directing) for more than 20 years, I had jokingly remarked to friends that I was disappointed Mr. Schmidt had beaten me to the punch, that from the sound of it, he had written the play that my own frustrations with this Habitrail called Showbiz might have birthed. But the 110 min. show I saw Friday night was so much deeper, so much more loving and enduring than its press would suggest.
In my job as Director of Membership at the Dramatists Guild, I frequently run smack into the cold reality that there are thousands of people writing for an art form whose attendance continues its steady decline. That equation can easily cause depression to set in. And often I find myself feeling pretty low about the future for all these aspiring playwrights, composers and lyricists.
My Last Play made it just a little bit easier to continue to ignore pragmatism in favor of the unequaled thrill of making new theatre. And for that, I suppose I'm grateful.
More info on My Last Play (like how to see it) can be found here.
[ed note: Duane Kelly also posted about this same show. See: But What if the Stage Won't Let You Go?]
