From the Author:
For about a split second, I entertained the idea that Old Familiar Faces would be a departure from the things I'd written thus far. At this point as a playwright, I'd played with zombies, serial killers, Lovecraftian demons, Nazis, depraved Roman emperors, cannibalistic mutants, and even antebellum Democrats. Why not put the horror aside and write a nice romance instead?
It wound up being the scariest thing I'd ever written.
Writing this script involved some rather painful examinations of many things, including my own romantic past, my own darker feelings as an artist (being an actor obsessed with Shakespeare for most of my entire life), my own experiences caring for a loved one with a mental disorder. In many ways, it made me very much look forward to dressing those neuroses back up in whatever monster suit my next script wished them to wear, 'cause, oh, man, is that ever easier.
However, I don't for a second want you to think that what you're about to watch is just Nat airing his laundry and venting about whatever shit he's too cheap to pay a therapist to plunge. (Am I mixing my home maintenance metaphors? I think I might be.) Rest assured, this isn't that kind of play. First and foremost in importance to me is the story and making you care for these characters as much as I do.
Secondly, though, I hope you can get a palpable sense of what it is about the words of Shakespeare that might have drawn these rather damaged souls.
Not everyone loves Shakespeare, I know. And, continue resting assured, I don't think you need to in order to enjoy this show. Because this is really a play about love. Not just romantic love, but obsessive love. Drug-addict love. The love that keeps you coming back for more, even when all your rational thoughts gather to form one angry picket line. Nothing's scarier than that, whether it's love for another person, love for a way of life, or love for a certain kind of art. Nothing's scarier than that loss of identity.
But we find our identity in the very places we tend to lose it, don’t we? In a poor London flat with someone who's trying not to lose grip. In a shitty diner bathroom with a belly full of cheese. In places like that, we discover that love, for all the haughtiness of its reputation, is really just a base, absurd little thing. A lot like Shakespeare, actually.
It can be ugly. It can be undignified. It can be silly and messy as hell.
But it's pure poetry.