Recent NY credits include An Iliad, written with Denis O’Hare (NYTW- 2012 Obie Award, Lortel Award, Drama Desk nominations); Shipwrecked by Donald Margulies and Motherhood Outloud by 15 writers (Primary Stages); The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek by Naomi Wallace, Slavs! (Thinking About the Longstanding Problems of Virtue and Happiness) by Tony Kushner, Traps by Caryl Churchill, The Waves adapted from Virginia Woolf by Peterson and David Bucknam (Drama Desk nominations) and Light Shining in Buckinghamshire by Caryl Churchill (Obie Award for Directing), all at New York Theatre Workshop; The Fourth Sister by Janusz Glowacki and The Batting Cage by Joan Ackerman (Vineyard Theatre); The Poor Itch by John Belluso, The Square by 16 writers, and Tongue of a Bird (The Public); Collected Stories by Donald Margulies (MTC); Birdy adapted from the William Wharton novel by Naomi Wallace (Women’s Project); The Chemistry of Change by Marlane Meyer (Playwrights Horizons/WPP); The Model Apartment by Donald Margulies (Primary Stages); and Sueno by Jose Rivera (MCC). Lisa has directed regionally at the Mark Taper Forum (where she was Resident Director for 10 years), La Jolla Playhouse (Associate Director for 3 years), Guthrie, Berkeley Rep, Seattle Rep, Arena Stage, McCarter, Actors’ Theater of Louisville, Hartford Stage, Long Wharf, Yale Rep, Baltimore Center Stage, Huntington, Dallas Theater Center, Oregon Shakespeare Festival and California Shakespeare Theater. She is a Usual Suspect at NYTW, a member of Ensemble Studio Theater, and on the executive board of SDC.
The play's six actors portray 17 characters with a gonzo intensity that's scary, funny, and exhilarating. Meyer manages to find delight, humor, and something lovable in even the vilest human beings.
Glimmering with possibility, disorienting and clever, Marlane Meyer's The Patron Saint of Sea Monsters handily demonstrates overindulgence in the High Weird style. Danny Wolohan is brilliant. I love a good Twin Peaks–style gumbo.
—Helen Shaw, Time Out New York
A broad and surrealistic comedy about a David Lynch kind of town.
—Jesse Oxfeld, The Observer
Veers between loopy, Christopher Durang-style comedy and a sincerely cockeyed love story. Screeching, snarling, and demented, Candy Buckley is hilarious.
Tim: Did you think of yourself as a woman writer?
Marlane: I remember Julia Miles [founder of The Women’s Project], the first time she saw me, she said I could stay in her apartment so I went to her apartment on Central Park West, a very beautiful apartment. She opens the door and looks at me and said, “What are you?” And I said, “What? What?” And she said, “What are you?” And I said “Uh…I’m…Oh! I’m Hawaiian. I’m Hawaiian and Swedish, German, Danish, French, Thai...” She goes, “You’re Hawaiian? Do you have a Hawaiian name?” And I said, “Yes…Huapala.” And she said, “You need to use your name. You need to use that name.” And so we went in the house and had a discussion about why I don’t want to use that name and why it’s important not to use that name, and why it’s important not to necessarily hook your writing career to your nationality so that you can get produced.
I don’t know why I write plays. I would prefer to write blockbuster movies that take two weeks and make me five million dollars. But when I sit down at the computer or the piece of white paper or the cocktail napkin, out comes a dialogue or an extended conversation about holiness, God, philosophy and crime, which in the world of my plays are all inextricably linked.
My cousin Russ turned me onto Jung when I was a sophomore in college just in time to blow my Epic Literature course experience wide open. Truth be told, traces of Jung kept popping up here and there in most of my subsequent undergraduate term papers from then on. This was the early 70s after all, when the counter-cultural rebellion against rationalism still prevailed. In Jung, the unconscious still held the keys to the sacred, and libido transformed from Freudian sexuality to the fire of spiritual potency. Art could be a repository of numinosity.
Alone in my cubicle at work about eighteen months ago, I did the geekiest little dance of excitement when I opened my mail to see a new play by Marlane Meyer. It had been at least ten years since I’d known of a new one from her, during which time I often found myself jonesing for a fix. My first encounter with Meyer’s work was so memorable, so eye-opening that I remember precisely where I was sitting: a booth in Frank's Restaurant in Ann Arbor in the ’90s after, rightfully suspecting I might enjoy her writing, a theater history professor loaned me his copy of Etta Jenks (1988). Audacious and screamingly funny, this play starts off as the ancient story of a girl from the sticks who arrives in Los Angeles with dreams of becoming a movie star. Facing a series of dead ends, she soon finds herself acting in pornographic films, controlled by a web of odious men. Far from falling victim to this cosmology, though, she becomes the master of it, finding her power in out-manipulating the sleazebags who are out to exploit her. It's a sardonic tale of social Darwinism, all the more poignant considering the feminist anti-pornography critique at that time, in which an indelible heroine learns to survive.
In the Roman Catholic and Orthodox Churches, the veneration of the saints is a time-honored tradition. Holy individuals in life, they are considered celestial advocates in death. And as members of a vast, heavenly bureaucracy, some of them receive some odd assignments.