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Misha versus Joe
{An Editorial}
(Lights up on me {ideally played by an eminently more
qualified performer.})
PAUL: Anyone who’s lived here long enough has their SEATTLE P-I versus the SEATTLE
TIMES comparison. The formula runs something like this: the Times is the better paper, more
sophisticated and urbane, its best writers move on to better jobs in bigger cities. The P-I is
scruffier, looser, a little more off kilter, more working class and quirky. Its writers move on to—
well most of them don’t move on, not ever, not unless the unthinkable happens and they all get
shit-canned en masse on the same fateful day, but occasionally the exception that proves the rule
would get away, like Tom Robbins for example, going on to write outrageous and hilariously
epic psychedelia. The TIMES is the better paper, but the P-I’s the one you hang out and have a
beer with. It’s funner. It’s your friend.
As a local playwright who’s lived in this town on and off for seventeen years I’m here to
tell you that a modified version of the formula held true even in the tiny toy world of theatre.
You have Misha, the nationally respected theatre critic, frequently contributing at the national
level to journals such as American Theater. And then you had Joe, universally maligned in our
tight knit community: at his best a bloviating hack; at his worse, quite possibly insane, writing
reviews that made you wonder if he had even seen the show in question. The only proof you had
was that you personally tore his comp ticket and fretted from a side seat, watching him watch.
Bottom line: you hoped Misha would come. She might like it, she might not. But
whatever she wrote about you would be competent, incisive and maybe even insightful. It would
make sense. You didn’t hope Joe would come. Joe always came. It seemed like he saw every
goddamned play put on in this town. Joe came, and you just hoped whatever Joe wrote bore
some sort of tenuous relationship to the show you wrote. You hoped knowing that your hope
was vain.
(One of the news desk phones ring. A woman answers it.)
MISHA: Hello, this is Misha.
PAUL: Hi Misha, it’s Paul Mullin calling. Don’t know if you remember me but you’ve
reviewed a few of my plays in the past, LOUIS SLOTIN SONATA at the Empty Space, and-MISHA: Yes, hello Paul. How are you?
PAUL: I’m fine. Hey, I’m just calling to follow up on a press release for my newest play THE
TEN THOUSAND THINGS over at Washington Theatre Ensemble.
MISHA: I don’t think I got a press release from WET yet.
PAUL: No, it was me that sent it. I wanted to personally invite you to the play of course, but
also this pretty exciting seminar I’m organizing on the subject of Deep Time.
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MISHA: Unh-hunh. Well, why don’t you send it again and I’ll take a look and I’ll try to come
and review it. I don’t know about the seminar. Frankly, it’s tough enough to get to the plays. In
fact you might want to take this message back to your friends that they might want to consider
being a little bit more grateful for what we do for them because it’s entirely possible that we
aren’t going to be around much longer.
PAUL: Oh, okay;. I’m sorry, Misha. I hope your job isn’t in danger.
MISHA: All of our jobs are in danger. Newspapers are dying. And you people in the theatre
would do well to be aware of that.
PAUL: Okay. Misha. Thanks for sharing that with me. And as always thanks for talking with
me in general.
MISHA: You’re welcome. Bye, Paul.
(Lights out on Misha.)
PAUL: Bye-bye.
Yes, I was a good boy and bit my tongue. Made nice with the critic that might be
reviewing my new play in a few weeks when what I really wanted to say was, “You’re bitching
to me about your medium dying? I’m a fucking playwright! My form first crawled into its
deathbed half a century before I was born. You love writing? Welcome to the world of writing
for only that: love.”
. . . . But I was a good boy. I bit my tongue.
(Another of the of the news desk phones ring.
answers it.)
A man
JOE: P-I, this is Joe.
PAUL: Hi Joe, it’s Paul Mullin calling.
JOE: Hi, Paul. How are you?
PAUL: I’m fine. Hey, I’m just calling to follow up on a press release for my newest play THE
TEN THOUSAND THINGS over at Washington Theatre Ensemble.
JOE: Oh, well, I’m sorry, Paul. But I won’t be able to come see your play. I’m retiring next
week.
PAUL: What?
JOE: I’m retiring after 25 long years.
PAUL: Oh, no, Joe. That’s terrible.
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JOE: Why?
PAUL: Well, I—It’s not terrible, but you’re—I’m gonna—you’re an institution in this town.
JOE: No, I’m not.
PAUL: You’re gonna be missed.
JOE: No, I won’t.
PAUL: I mean it.
JOE: Paul, who are you kidding?
PAUL: Joe, listen, I gotta tell you, and this is coming from the guy who you have never once, in
the space of 17 years ever given a good review—although you’ve given me great previews and I
thank you for that because I’d rather have a good preview than any review at all, but—this is—
this is a shock, Joe.
JOE: No, it’s not.
PAUL: Joe, you’re the guy who after seeing my first full-length world premiere in Seattle back
in 1996 said that I reminded you of another Irish American playwright, Eugene O’Neill, but that
you found him boring too.
JOE: Yeah.
PAUL: You called my AMERICAN BOOK OF THE DEAD, “interesting and dull, intriguing
and frustrating, amusing and confusing.” I mean, what does that even mean?
JOE: It was, all of those things, I remember.
PAUL: In your review of LOUIS SLOTIN SONATA you wrote me off as “a clever messmaker.”
JOE: I don’t recommend committing reviews to memory, Paul. Especially not mine.
PAUL: Only yours, Joe. Only yours. I’ve collected your pans over the years like peculiar
Purple Hearts. The only thing of mine you seemed to have even remotely liked was back in ’92:
a revue of Frank Loesser show tunes that I wrote a loose campy book for.
JOE: I remember that. Mostly I liked the Loesser tunes on that one.
PAUL: Exactly. You’ve seen every play I’ve ever premiered in this town. I don’t know another
critic I can say that about.
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JOE: Well—
PAUL: Joe.
JOE: Yeah, Paul.
PAUL: I don’t know another person I can say that about.
JOE: Well.
PAUL: I’m just—uh… you’ll be missed. Okay?
JOE: Paul, that’s sweet. But listen, I got paid every Friday.
PAUL: Yeah…. Yeah, Okay, Joe.
JOE: You take care, Paul.
PAUL: You too, Joe.
(End of scene.)
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