My dearest, most ambiguous theatrical innovation,
I write to you today with a heart full of conflicted admiration, bordering on existential exasperation. For too long, you have occupied a liminal space in our cultural consciousness, a theatrical purgatory that neither fully embraces the glory of a full production nor the austere simplicity of a pure concert. And while I appreciate your noble efforts to bridge these worlds, my dear Staged Concert, we need to talk about your identity crisis.
You swoop in, often with a dazzling cast — the likes of Lindsay Mendez and Harvey Guillén, no less — promising an evening of musical delight. We, the eager audience, arrive with bated breath, anticipating the grand spectacle of "Man of La Mancha." But what do we find? Chairs. So many chairs. And music stands. Oh, the ubiquitous music stands! They stand sentinel, these wooden sentinels of semi-commitment, between us and the full, unadulterated dream we secretly harbor.
One moment, an actor, brimming with passion, is delivering a soliloquy with the intensity of a thousand burning suns. The next, they're discreetly glancing at their script, a subtle, almost imperceptible reminder that this isn't *quite* real. This isn't the true tilting at windmills, is it? This is tilting at a very well-lit, perhaps slightly dusty, score. The illusion, my friend, is a delicate butterfly, easily startled by the rustle of a page or the strategic placement of a hydration bottle.
Are you a play? Are you a concert? Are you a very elaborate table read for the benefit of us common folk? You offer the tantalizing whisper of a fully realized world, then pull back, coyly, leaving us perpetually suspended in a state of theatrical foreplay. The prop master must weep at night, clutching their one, singular, perfectly chosen prop – perhaps a single, symbolic rose – lamenting the absence of the full armada of windmills, donkeys, and flagon-bearing peasants they could have conjured.
My heart aches for the stage manager, caught between calling cues for a dance number that isn’t quite there and ensuring the swift, silent repositioning of an empty chair. I yearn for the scenic designer, whose grand visions are reduced to elegant lighting cues and the mere *suggestion* of a Spanish inn.
Staged Concert, I implore you, declare yourself! Choose a path! Are you a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, or are you a particularly well-dressed, exceptionally melodic caterpillar, forever content to exist in a state of delightful, yet infuriating, un-metamorphosed potential? My soul cannot bear this liminal theatrical state any longer. Give us a full show, with all the bells, whistles, and dancing donkeys! Or give us a proper concert, just voice and piano, raw and unadorned. But please, for the love of all that is dramatically cohesive, *choose*! For the sake of our emotional investment, and indeed, for the mental well-being of every single performer who has to look lovingly at a music stand, *choose*!
