Happy Birthday Sam

It is the birthday of the man whom I consider to be the greatest contemporary American playwright (and possibly the greatest living playwright in the world), Sam Shepard.

This fact is extremely appropriate as a follow up to the last post about Godot being performed in New Orleans this past weekend. There is probably no contemporary writer more directly influenced by the traditions and styles that were launched by Samuel Beckett than Sam Shepard. In 1978 he received The Pulitzer Prize for his first major play, "Buried Child," which I had the delightful opportunity to see performed at San Francisco's Magic Theater (where it was debuted) a few years later. Seeing that play was the beginning of my fascination and admiration for Shepard, a man who has built an amazing career as a writer, director and actor in both film and theater. About 15 years later, I returned to The Magic for the debut of Shepard's play "The Late Henry Moss" and had the chance to sit two seats away from him and witness his director's technique as he made notes on performances and enthusiastically cheered his actors on.

Sam's plays grapple, over and over again, with the strange intensity of family dynamics and his writing (both in plays and in short form fiction) never ceases to knock me over and force me to reflect on what it means to take up space on the planet.

Both his acting and his writing have an ability to communicate the true essence of being an American male in the 20th and 21st century, demonstrating a groundedness, solidity and empathy, while struggling with heart and soul and angst.

On top of all that... he's been married for more than 20 years to the woman I consider to be the most beautiful woman alive, Jessica Lange.

Without Sam Shepard my life would be poorer and emptier and I would be more lost.