Warning: This Story Might Upset You

(Opinion) If you have purchased tickets, or about to do so, to the world premiere of Girls by Branden Jacobs-Jenkins, be forewarned about forewarnings. As you enter Yale Rep’s University Theatre, the staff will repeat the trigger warning that appears on the website: ​“Girls contains coarse language and violence. Girls contains haze, fog, strobe lights, loud music, and gunfire (from a semi-automatic weapon and from pistols)…”

You may reply, ​“Thank you for telling me all that.” Or not.

As you take your seat, you may be rattled by this surge of detail. One reason is the spectacle laid out for you on stage — a richly vegetated public park spilling out of the proscenium. And you may think, ​“Gee, that’s nice, unlike anything I’ve ever seen in live theater.” But then you remember the ticket taker’s discourse, and wonder, ​“Since when do theaters detail the untoward events before the playwright has a chance to do so?” Answer: since a few years ago, when Yale Rep and other cutting-edge theaters began to warn audiences that things will turn ugly.

This is a product of the age we’re in. At certain prestigious schools, Oberlin is a prime example, though it also has happened at the institution founded by one Elihu Yale, there have been efforts to avoid offending those who enter the classroom. Coupled with what we face as a nation, the epidemic of gun violence targeting our sanctuaries, including churches, synagogues, and schools, it may seem understandable that souls be alerted as to untoward events.

But in the theater? An actual art form? It has always been assumed that audiences are bold and curious enough to venture into sophisticated playhouses can either figure out for themselves what happens and go home singing the praises or cursing the playwright who led them down the garden path to some unexpected hellhole.

But the thinking has changed, even among theatrical elite. In 2016, James Bundy, dean of the Yale School of Drama and artistic director of Yale Rep, told The New York Times, ​“What’s different now is that there is genuine consideration given to the unseen and unknown potential for harm when someone is traumatized in ways that could have been avoided.” Theaters have also been routinely conducting decibel checks and handing out earplugs to protect people’s general safety and comfort.

“I don’t think we’re diminishing an audience’s experience of a play by providing them information about sensory elements in a production,” said theater communications director Steven Padla.

On the other hand, in a letter to the editor on this subject in 2018, a Times reader wrote, ​“You’re SUPPOSED to be shocked, surprised and confronted by drama. If you prefer milquetoast, stay home and watch cable. Theater is clearly not for you.” 

To be sure, Yale Rep offers comforting news: No audience members have suffered heart attacks during violent productions. But I admit that when Sondheim’s Assassins was revived at Yale Rep a few years ago, I nearly had to be revived when in the end the cast of executioners pointed their weapons at the audience. I had not heard nor heeded the trigger warning.

I had the same reaction at the end of Christina Mazzivillani’s modern take on La Boheme, presented in Italy a couple of years ago, when the night club on stage, without warning, became the Bataclan, the Paris night club where ninety people were murdered by three gunmen in 2015. For a second, I wasn’t sure that the AK-47s were part of the act. And so, to that end, to protect the peace of mind of theatergoers in the future, I am suggesting here a few warnings that playhouses may issue for some classic works in theater and opera, beginning with an iconic musical that will be revived on Broadway in February. You will enter the theater, and read the poster in the lobby, or not:

West Side Story. A new Broadway production opens in February, and ushers will sing to patrons upon entering, ​“Tonight, tonight, won’t be just any night. Tonight, there will be mourning of stars.”

La Boheme. ​“Please wear this mask from the second act on, should you be exposed to the illness that, I hate to break it to you, proves fatal to dear Mimi.”

Death of Salesman. ​“In case you missed the reference in the title, Mr. Miller’s point is not a demonstration of living happily ever after.”

Hamlet. ​“For your convenience and safety, we have adjusted the final scene, when the Norwegians usually find an array of dead bodies on the stage but instead line up to buy fresh Danish.”

The Phantom of the Opera. ​“We know the chandelier is beautiful. And we encourage you to check it out before the overture begins. But we will alert you during Act II when the squeamish among you should get out of your seats and go to the lobby and order a nice glass of white wine. We’ll let you know when it’s safe to come back in.”

Tosca. ​“Please don’t put too much faith in the plan to load the guards’ rifles with fake ammunition. And for heaven’s sake, close your eyes when the diva climbs the tower steps.”

Waiting for Godot. ​“Though you may anticipate the title character’s wisdom and wit, don’t get your hopes up.”

Romeo and Juliet. ​“A plague on both these youngsters. Pretending, after all, to be dead.”

Madama Butterfly. ​“One fine day, believe me, you’ll recover from this. And you’ll fly to Nagasaki and apologize for the evil acts of Lieutenant Pinkerton.”

Carousel. ​“If we loved you, we would not let you into the theater tonight because in the end, Billy Bigelow’s body is bustin’ out all over, and the blood is a pretty sorry sight.”

My Fair Lady. ​“While nobody dies in this romance, there is a terrible butchering of the English language. Just you whyte.”

Note to Readers: ​“Girls,” by Branden Jacobs-Jenkins, runs through Oct. 26. It has no intermission. So, at the one-hour and forty-minute mark, please considering putting on your earmuffs.