Something's rotten in the state of dramaturgy

This morning I saw a job posting for a position as a "research intern" on a documentary film. To me this posting captures all that is wrong with the field of dramaturgy.

The ideal intern qualifications: grad student, excellent research skills including experience with library archives, Proquest, and other online sources. Fluency in German would be ideal. Knowledge of Photoshop, FileMaker Pro, and scanners also a plus. No pay.

So the intern has to already have all the skills they need? To me, this is not an internship. This is a group looking for an unpaid collaborator. Which might or might not be reasonable depending on the budget for the project and the extent to which other collaborators are being compensated.

However, I wish that people would stop pretending that every time something is unpaid, it is therefore an "internship." This "intern" label is all over the field. It is used to secure more hands on deck for reading volumes of scripts and performing volumes of research and writing. And, sometimes, it is true that it is an actual internship in which the intern has a mentor and is actively learning the tools and tricks of the trade. I have been in two such internships, both at major regional theaters, and they were wonderful.

But often times, the "internship" essentially pulls a fully competent dramaturg into a position that is one of being a collaborator. Is there a supervisor? Yes. But any job would have a supervisor, too. When the intern is functioning basically autonomously, consulting with their supervisor the way any normal employee would, I say that calling it an internship actually degrades the future utility of the experience for the "intern."

And I know that no large theater out there will want to change this title because taking away the "intern" designation would mean they would have to pay. And when they can secure a large labor force for free, why would they want to change that?

But let's look at it from the "intern's" perspective. You work autonomously, you take on the role of project collaborator, you bring all your skills to the table (and use them). Maybe you learn something new, maybe not. And then at the end you have to put "intern" on your resume. Which leads other jobs to assume that you were NOT working autonomously, that you have little experience, that you were closely supervised, etc. (Especially jobs outside the field, which you ultimately have to look into because you can't make any money in the field.) So basically all of the work that you did as an unpaid "intern" gets cheapened.

If, by contrast, the intern title were dropped (except in the case of true internships -- with a mentor), it would help clarify that the work being done in most of these situations is solid, useful, independent work. My first summer at the Williamstown Theater Festival I was called a "literary intern," however, in reality I was functioning as a full-fledged dramaturg and as a literary assistant. AND these are titles which would look better on my resume.

We all know that the arts are struggling in this economy, and when there is a small project (like the one I saw today that is calling for the intern) the odds are that their budget isn't big enough to pay. But in that case, why not at least craft an unpaid/volunteer position with a title that reflects the complexity of the position and the skill that the person filling the position brings to the job. It just might turn into a win-win situation.

Eighties Lady

I caught my first glimpse of the eighties lady as I was going around a corner past the cereal aisle. Her fashion offense was wreaking havoc on her balance, and she was tottering along unsteadily behind her grocery cart—a wisp of a woman balanced precariously on four inch high heels. Resisting the urge to stare, I turned my cart toward the juice section and smiled to myself as I walked away.

It wasn’t until later, near the yogurts, that I truly got a good look at the lady. Up close, her fashion faux-pas was even more egregious than at first glance, and I found myself needing to duck quickly up the bread aisle as an uncontrollable chuckle welled up inside me. By the time I returned to my cart, bread in hand, I was ready to take in the full extent of the eighties absurdity straight-faced.

The lady stood about 5’6” in her high heels, and was skinnier than could have been good for her. Above her black high heels, she wore skin-tight blue jeans that tapered to the ankle, emphasizing her chicken-like legs. The denim was deep blue along all the seams, fading to nearly white along the front and back of the leg. Her baggy, royal blue sleeveless shirt would have been normal but for the four inch black elastic belt she wore around her too-skinny waist—a belt that included a large, round, black rhinestone-studded buckle in the front. Out of the sleeves of this royal blue shirt stuck the lady’s long, semi-muscular, too-skinny arms. She had the muscle tone of someone who works hard to be in shape without ever truly succeeding, and the skin tone of a woman who has spent a few too many hours in the tanning salon.

Her face, too, was leathery looking and overly tanned. Her lips were covered with a dark plum colored lipstick, lined with a darker version of the same color. Having lined them to the outside of her natural lips rather than within them, the overall effect was to make her already-full lips look oversized and puffy. The lady’s eyes were obscured behind large, rectangular sunglasses. On her head, she wore a black baseball cap, and she had a long mousey brown ponytail pulled through the opening in the back above the adjustable strap. Rhinestones studded the front of the baseball cap and the top of the brim, as well as sides of her sunglasses.

The lady stood for a minute, examining the yogurt selections. She then selected a fat-free vanilla yogurt, and delicately tip-toed her way back to her cart. As she passed by, she glanced up at me, raising the corners of her lips in a sickly smile. Then she turned away and tottered off behind her cart, rhinestones glinting in the bright fluorescent lights, leaving the scent of perfume in my nose and her comically awful fashion sense burned in my mind.

Athletic Prowess and Adulthood

There is something about top caliber world class elite athletes I find awesome and inspiring. I'm not talking just world class, I'm talking the best of the best. I'm talking Andy Schleck, Alberto Contador, and Lance Armstrong. I'm talking Michael Phelps, Dara Torres, and Jenny Thompson. I'm talking Kim Zmeskal and Shannon Miller.

Ok, so my heroes date me. Whatever. We can throw Diego Forlan and Landon Donovan in the mix for kicks. Or Evan Lysacek, because I have to admit that it is really the athletes who excel in individual sports that most impress me.

I vividly remember watching the 1988 Summer Olympics. Well, the parts my parents taped for me to watch the next day. That year Janet Evans was smashing records in swimming -- somewhere, we have (or had) the final few laps of her world-record setting 400M freestyle on tape. On the same tape was the women's gymnastics all-around, won by Elena Shushunova, sliver to Daniela Silivas, bronze to Svetlana Boginskaya. I watched the tape over and over. And went to gymnastics class.

I was equally obsessed with the 1992 Summer Olympics -- only this time I was old enough to know about it ahead of time, and watch parts, and tape whole segments of competition, which I watched over and over again afterward. A tall 13-yr old by this time, I channeled my post-Olympics state of inspiration into swimming. I got more and more fit. I got stronger and stronger. And I got faster and faster. My sophomore year of high school I refused to eat dessert during the high school swim season and broke two high school records. (There may or may not have been a correlation between the diet and the records.) I kept swimming, trying to live and behave the way my teenager's perspective thought would befit a world champion swimmer.

Of course I never was a world champion swimmer. I swam in college for a strong division III program that produced several Div. III national champions. I loved training with these swimmers, swimming on relays with them, and achieving top 8 NCAA relay finishes and All-American accolades with them. And -- until I got mono my senior year in college, smack in the middle of the swim season -- I never counted myself out for being a Division III champion myself.

And then once the swim season ended my senior year in college, I had to start to figure out who I was aside from being a swimmer. I had long ago given up the dream of swimming in the Olympics -- I knew I would have needed to be competitive at a Division I school for that dream to continue. But I still defined myself, and my life, around those daily trips to the pool, the yards logged, the times clocked. And I still held my swimming role models in higher esteem than anyone from any other walk of life.

After I stopped spending nearly 3 hours a day at the pool, I discovered that there were a lot of other good things to do with that time. Once I had started to have time in my life for friends and dating, I realized I didn't really want to lose that time back to swimming. So, in a way, hanging up the swimsuit was a relief.

Yet, at the same time, hanging up my swimsuit left me unsure of what to aspire to. In athletics it is easy to set goals and measure progress. In the rest of life, that's not always the case. Nine years and two careers later, I'm still not sure what to aspire to. Perhaps that is why when I watch athletes who are truly at the top of their game there is a part of me that wants to dive back in (literally) and regain my former level of fitness. Or climb on a bike and build a new reputation in a new sport.

Yet I know I will never regain the fitness level I once had. Two to three hours of pool time now seems like a luxury -- I don't know many career-minded people who can afford to take that much time away from their careers, families, commutes, etc on a daily basis. I envy the people who are truly able to carve out workout time on a daily basis, and who manage to make athletic competition a part of their adult lives.

Perhaps that is why I admire the world-class athletes so much. They have succeeded on such a level as to be able to make their fitness their lifestyle. I envy people living a lifestyle that is based on fitness. Most of the rest of us are too sedentary, too tethered to email, and too driven by deadlines.

Or perhaps it is because they are driven by their own aspirations, instead of other peoples' goals and deadlines, that I envy these world-class athletes. To spend every day working toward a personal goal isn't something most of us get to do. Not unless we make that goal really simple -- like putting food on the table, or having a roof over our heads.

So, whatever the reason, I continue to be awed and inspired by these world class athletes. Now I just need to find an adult way to channel that inspiration.