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Hi Wilson,

Thanks for being part of this. Kitsap Creative is a zine-style publication for and about the people making things happen creatively in this county — artists, makers, directors, musicians, builders of all kinds.

These questions are yours. Take as much or as little space as you need. There are no wrong answers — just your story in your words.

We’ll share a draft with you before anything goes live.

You grew up in Bellevue, started as an actor in Seattle, then moved to Chicago and worked box offices at Steppenwolf and Remains. Before you directed anything that mattered, you were selling tickets to other people’s shows. What were you learning during those years — watching from the outside of the thing you wanted to be inside of?

Killer Joe. 1993. Tracy Letts’ first play, your first real directing shot, a tiny studio at Next Theatre in Evanston. The cast and crew scrounged up $16,000 to get to Edinburgh, paid for meals out of their own pockets, and came home with a Fringe First Award and an invitation to the Bush Theatre in London. That production changed both your lives. What do you remember about the night you knew it was working?

You’ve been described as someone who lived out of a suitcase for years — crashing at friends’ houses, sleeping on couches in the theater where you worked. After Killer Joe conquered London’s West End, you came back to Chicago and you were back in storefronts. After Hurlyburly got Olivier nominations at the Old Vic, you came home and were out of a job. What does it take to keep going when the highs don’t hold?

Peter Hall invited you to direct Hurlyburly at the Old Vic — David Rabe’s play about the underbelly of Hollywood, with a cast that included Rupert Graves, Andy Serkis, and later David Tennant replacing Daniel Craig. There was a bomb scare on opening night and you ended up doing the last 20 minutes of the play in a park. Tell us about that night.

You told the mostly English cast of Hurlyburly, “I gave them all the Steppenwolf bromides: louder, faster, funnier, stupider.” That’s a very specific American theatrical instinct — that physicality, that rawness. How did London audiences respond to that energy, and did directing on that side of the Atlantic change the way you think about what theater is supposed to do?

You’ve directed Tracy Letts, Martin McDonagh, Conor McPherson, Sam Shepard, David Mamet, Billy Roche — writers who work in violence, dark humor, and the things people do to each other in small rooms. What draws you to that kind of material? Is there something in it that you’re still trying to understand?

The Lieutenant of Inishmore went from the RSC to the Garrick in the West End to the Atlantic Theatre to Broadway at the Lyceum — and earned you a Tony nomination. McDonagh writes comedy that’s drenched in blood. What’s the trick to directing something that’s simultaneously hilarious and horrifying? How do you calibrate the audience’s nerve?

You directed Othello at Shakespeare’s Globe and A Lie of the Mind at the Donmar — two very different theaters, two very different kinds of pressure. You’ve also worked at the Royal Court, the Abbey in Dublin, Berkeley Rep, Seattle Rep, the Alley in Houston. Does the space itself change the work, or do you bring the same instinct into every room?

You’ve had this remarkable transatlantic life — London critics called you “Anglo-American,” you’ve been described as an American who directs better in London than most British directors. But you’re from Bellevue, Washington, and you keep coming back to the Pacific Northwest. What pulls you home?

You directed The North Plan for inD Theatre on Bainbridge Island — a completely different scale from the West End or Broadway. What’s the relationship between intimate, community-scale theater and the big stages you’ve worked on? Is one truer than the other?

You’ve directed actors early in careers that later became enormous — David Tennant, Daniel Craig, Andy Serkis, Michael Shannon, Domhnall Gleeson, Alison Pill. What do you see in an actor before anyone else does? Is it something you can name?

You said about Killer Joe: “We’ve found a darkness — corners, and shadows, and corridors — underneath the words. I’m still learning about the play.” Is that how it works for you? Do the plays keep teaching you things?

What are you working on now? What’s pulling at you?

Is there anything we haven’t asked that you’d like to talk about? The floor is yours.