Round One of Counterpunch, a new weekly Calendar feature of commentary and opinion. Leaders in arts and entertainment and related fields will offer their perspectives on vital issues of the day and their responses to columns and reviews. : For the Love of ‘Nightingale’--A Fear for Its Existence

It is 6 a.m. on Monday, June 18. I am drinking my morning coffee and reading the opening paragraphs of Sylvie Drake’s review of our production of the American premiere of Timberlake Wertenbaker’s “The Love of the Nightingale” at the L.A. Theatre Works space in the Edgemar complex in Santa Monica. It is becoming increasingly clear with each line that the critic and I have vastly different views on this one.

Although Drake had kind words for the production and the performers, we parted company on the evaluation of the play itself. Fair enough. But what is so awesome is that with the best intentions in the world and by doing her job, the reviewer of a major paper can wreck the many weeks of work and the artistry of people whose dedication and keen intelligence I have watched, as producer, on a daily basis. The reviewer can obliterate the work, for what is theater without the audience? My heart sinks, knowing that without the blessing of The Times, even with all my producerly resources, I haven’t a prayer of attracting the public to see this important, new production, worthy of a major company.

I read hundreds of plays, listen to scores of ideas for plays. I know when a work sings off the page. When Timberlake handed me the final draft of “Nightingale” in 1988, written for the Royal Shakespeare Company, it sang to me. It dazzled me with its promise and the glory of its words. I knew it would reach the audience head and heart in equal measure--ideas received with a visceral jolt. That is my measure for what I want to offer the audience. Timberlake unfolds her secrets like an origami, intricate and spare with a poetic beauty full of surprises.

“The Love of the Nightingale,” adapted from a Greek myth, is, as Drake acknowledged, “heady stuff” that “ranges freely through compelling issues of rape, conspiracy, censorship (symbolized here by inflicted physical silence), chauvinism, war, slavery and revenge.” That is why I produced the play.

Sitting in the audience on opening night, I was thrilled by the author’s extraordinary talent; her commitment to big ideas, filtered through masterful, witty and purposeful language, is a welcome relief from the television comedies and kitchen-sink dramas that dominate current U.S. theater.

I was proud to have produced this feast for the audience, who, I noted, did not cough, sneeze or squirm (a good sign to the producer). To the contrary, as the play progressed--a swift hour and 35 minutes straight through--laughter gave way to gasps and murmurs. The audience seemed to lean forward, almost in unison, toward the actors, with rapt attention, transfixed by the power and horror and theatrical beauty of the events spilling forth in a mounting crescendo of pain, compassion, irony, love and tenderness. The ultimate reward for our labors is knowing that the audience confirms our vision.

Peter Mark Schifter has given us a gorgeous, well-directed production, hauntingly scored by Thomas Pasatieri and beautifully sung by Marnie Mosiman. The fine actors in the large cast, including Robert Foxworth, Brenda Varda, Carolyn Seymour and Roger Smith, deftly weave us in their spell.

I love “Nightingale,” and I fear for its existence. This is written to encourage audiences to see the play and judge for themselves. Having produced in Los Angeles for 15 years, I am inordinately proud of this show, as I have been of “Greek,” “Decadence,” “The Shaper,” “Latina,” “Bouncers,” “Wooman Lovely Wooman,” among other controversial but substantive works I have invited the audience to see.