There are a lot of wrongs to rail at in this world. Hunger. Injustice. The continued existence of the Oakland Raiders.
And since all those are taken, I’m going to snark about the Tony awards instead.
At least, I will if this microphone is working. No guarantee, that.
The Tonys, you see, decided that next year there would be no awards for sound design. Now, don’t everyone riot at once. I know, most of you stay up into the wee hours to see if this will finally be the year for … well, whatshisname. And the other one, too. The one with the hair.
Ok. I’ll admit it. To the general public – even the general theatre-going public – sound designers have all the renown of congressional interns. Unless there’s a scandal, you’re not likely to ever learn their names. And even then, it would have to be one heck of a scandal. (“Imported mayonnaise? Oh, dear.”)
But when you think about it, that’s exactly the point.
The anonymity, that is. Not the mayonnaise. Stay with me here.
When I was a kid, my parents took me to a lot of movies. And at every single one, we stayed until the final credit had rolled across the screen. Dad’s mom had worked in a behind-the-scenes job for one of the studios, you see, so he knew how important those miniature letters zooming past at high speed were.
Always stay, he told me. Always honor the work. For many of these people, it may be the only recognition they ever get.
That stayed with me. Even during the Lord of the Rings films, where half the New Zealand phone book had to roll by before we could leave.
Always honor the work.
It’s easy to cheer the actors. We see them, we hear them, we feel like we know them. And directors are not without honor. We know who’s (officially) in charge, whose name is tied to the success or failure of a production.
But there’s a whole invisible world in theatre that most audiences never consciously notice. Costumers. Light and sound designers. Stage managers. Prop masters. People in the shadows who, arguably, are more important to the success of a show than the cast. Anyone who’s worked in community theatre will tell you that finding performers is easy compared to finding capable backstage crew.
They rarely get bows. They rarely get recognized. But the work of the best can sink into your soul.
And that’s not a story only belonging to theatre. In most walks of life, there are people who serve as a living foundation – all but invisible to a casual glance but vital to keep things standing.
When we do notice, it’s usually because of a crisis. Think back to the flood. Sure, we saw a lot of cops and firefighters, the heroes we justly cheer every day. But we also noticed the folks who build the roads, who fix the water lines, who haul away the trash. (Actually, judging by the reaction to the neighborhood roll-offs, the trash haulers may have been the most popular people on the block!)
The foundation had been exposed. And it held.
And it’ll keep holding long after the spotlight has burned out.
If those people don’t deserve a moment of recognition, nobody does.
So to the ladies and gentlemen of the Tony Awards committee, I offer one word: reconsider. Sure, you might save five minutes on an already overlong night of glitz and glamour. But think of what you’re turning your back on to do it.
Honor the work.
Let it be heard.