Bigfork Players break new ground in Neil Simon's 'Rumors'

You know exactly what I mean by “the f-word,”  but you’d be really shocked to see it here in print. The f-word is like that. It comes with a terrible, almost magical power, a power at once taking your breath away and then giving it back. I have no idea why.

In a purely objective sense, it's not because the word refers to anything awful.  Some would consider the actual meaning more a thing of beauty than of disgust. But the word, itself.  Well, it’s just not something you say out loud in school or in church.

And why do I consider the word of such consequence that I’m writing about it in a public forum?  Because I’m directing a play, a play by Neil Simon entitled Rumors.  Rumors contains nine instances of the word and its variations.  And Rumors opens later this month.  In Bigfork.

Rumors, to be frank, is hilariously funny, due in no small part to the well-tuned comedic sense of arguably the 20th century's most successful playwright.  Like much entertainment, Rumors contains content that, while troublesome in real life, is considered humorous onstage.  It contains gunplay, but it’s funny, not violent.  Characters lie to the police, but it’s funny, not scandalous.  They also say a few bad words.  But whether that’s funny or vulgar has been the topic of much discussion.

Why not just take the language out?  Well, there are a few reasons.  First, to do so would violate our contract with the publisher.  Samuel French, who publishes Neil Simon's plays, expressly prohibits changing the language of the play.  You might reasonably presume, of course, that they mean we shouldn't rewrite the story.  But surely they wouldn't mind our taking out a few bad words.

Nope. Surprise.  Samuel French closed down a production of Rumors a few years back for precisely that reason: for taking out the profanity.  Of course, this is Bigfork, not New York. They'd never notice here. Wrong again.  The small town in Utah, the one that invoked Samuel French's wrath—They probably figured the same thing. A publisher can really harbor that attitude. A noted director with many years of experience once related his encounter with an executive at a publishing house. Asking if he could soften a strong word to make it acceptable in a children's performance, the executive’s response was, “Maybe you should choose a different play.”

Should we have chosen a different play?  No, we think this one is excellent and we really want to do it. Should we take out just the most egregious bad words (i.e., the f-ones)? Opinions around town have varied, ranging from "Bigfork will never tolerate the use of the f-word," to "You as a director simply dare not to change the sacred words of the playwright."  I, as director, adopted what I considered a moderate approach.  I said we’d start rehearsals with the words as written and see, as the play developed, which ones we wanted to take out.  (Sorry, Mr. French, if you're reading this.)

So we did.  And the results were surprising.  I had been cautious about asking the actors to say words that were not part of my (or presumably their) regular vocabulary.  But they took to it with an almost childish delight.  (Like the time my wife told my daughter it was okay to use potty language in the potty.)  And I’d been concerned that those unfamiliar with the proper use of the f-word might have trouble delivering it in a believable manner.  This concern, it turned out, was completely unfounded.

But probably the real surprise was that the bad words were funny.  I'm not sure why.  In my own experience, it seems that a sufficiently “naughty" word releases a tendency to laugh; almost an instinctual thing.  And when the tendency is already there, the result is amplified. I’m sure those who study instinctive behavior would have a better explanation, but to me, the words just seemed to belong.  I tried taking one out and the scene didn't play as well.  I found myself facing the possibility that Neil Simon might have put the words in for some loftier purpose than to create a cause for contention.

So where did this leave me, as the director of the play.  I could take the bad words out, risk being shut down (or perhaps even sued), and present a weaker version of the play.  

Or I could direct the play as written and risk censure, boycott, and having my mouth washed out with soap.  I don’t like the taste of soap, but I chose the latter option.

Yet the question remains:  Is Bigfork ready to accept the work of Neil Simon, bad language and all?  I don't know the answer.  I don’t know how many people will shun the play knowing that the actors will use strong language onstage.  I do know that those who shun it will miss the opportunity to see some very funny entertainment by a master playwright.  And I know if it turns out that I burn in Hell for directing it, I’ll be sorry these folks didn’t take advantage of my sacrifice.