Letters to Holly

Saturday, November 3

Second Show

Your Sis met Your Parents at a wine-tasting at a friend's store. I stayed home, mowed the yard one last time this year, did some laundry, and ran lines. They came into town earlier than expected, so we had dinner together, and I tried to prepare them for the show. I let them know they could be in the jury if they wanted, how the play was constructed, what conceits to expect, and the like. I went back to the house to dress and left them in her patient hands. I fixed my glasses earlier in the day with a new screw, and I can't stress enough how many times I ran lines mentally. I'm still spooked by Wednesday. I'm painting layer on top of layer in my head. Just to make sure. Just to hold up my end.

The make-up session was uneventful (nothing collapsed or fell apart this time), and I kill time in the cast area for about an hour. New rules restrict our movement backstage because the jury also goes backstage to rest up and pee. This decimates the number of bathrooms we can use and even how much roaming space we have. It's confining, and I wouldn't be bothered by it all if it wasn't so $!*@ hot in that suit and courthouse. And when we go "onstage," I sit in front of a custom made light stand and fry. My heart pounds from the lamp intensity, and it wasn't until halfway through the show tonight that I realize "hey, I'm not anxious, I'm roasting." I thought I was panicking all that time, and I jotted down line cues over and over to calm myself.

Which is why my blanking was so startling to me. I had dropped a cue line to the first housekeeper in Act One, but she covered it seamlessly. The same thing happened with the Swedish housekeeper in Act Two. No problem there. The story wasn't compromised. But when Act Three came around, I furiously write cues to make sure nothing worse happens. And then it happens. As I interrogate the gangster, I have four blocks of lines in succession with the word "mister." I mention Mr. James Sutton Vance, Jr. and Mr. Van Dorn (two gangland victims), Mr. Faulkner (the dead guy), and then refer to the gangster by names (Mr. Lawrence Regan). But I froze on the last "mister" block. And hey, we're videotaping tonight. What a great time to flake right the fuck out.

But, my head says, you wrote it down over there. So I hold up my finger in the international "hold on a second" sign, walk over to my legal pad, find the "4 misters" notes, and lock onto my line. Then I gather myself up and slowly turn to him as if I'm preparing a punch between the eyes. Back on track, crisis averted. It's embarrassing initially until I realize this is exactly what we had talked about in rehearsals. My notes became my character's notes. I missed no lines. I added a wee bit of silence. After the show, the gangster asks if I planned it and could I do that from here on. People from the audience congratulate me for not missing a line. It looked good. I saved my own ass and did it in character. Hear that sound? That's the dodged bullet.

The audience is larger and more reactive tonight. They "ooh" and "aah" at witness bombshells and sharp lawyer questions. Doc uses an index card for one of his lines (using the legal pad would have looked better, but he didn't lose a line), and I improvise a line when he forgets to ask for my affidavit. I have to navigate a dropped word in my closing argument. We have some potential sinkholes but emerged unscathed, and no one got hurt. That's worth smiling over, as is the murmur in the audience after my closing argument. It always kills. It always wows. It's written that well. I just stay out of its way.

The "not guilty" verdict sucks, but the split was 8-4. I earn more votes tonight. If Doc wins tomorrow night, the contest is over with four victories out of seven. Your Parents liked the play, but the hour was late, and they had to boogie home. Your Sis is crippled with a headache and in bed as I type this. I think she's just stressed from hosting Your Parents. Maybe some bad wine too.

I'm determined to scan the script only once between make-up and Act One and trust the lines have stuck to my brain. I don't have notes for all my lines, and if I prepare for half the script, the other half will be the one to bite me in the legal ass. Tomorrow, My Parents catch the show. It's also the last run of the week. By this time tomorrow, I will have done this entire play seven times in nine days. I plan to get blotto while watching the recorded Colts/Patriots game.


Official play website

Rehearsals
First Show
Biding Time
The Last Rehearsals
Countdown: Two Rehearsals
Extra Drama
Countdown: Three Rehearsals
Countdown: Four Rehearsals
Countdown: Five Rehearsals
Countdown: Six Rehearsals
Countdown: Seven Rehearsals
Clock is Ticking
My Big Speech
Punching a Cop Is Bad, Right?

Act Two Redux
Friday Through Sunday
Eggshells
Drama!
Getting Serious
Our First Friday
Act Three Lines
Dusting Off Act One
Line Trouble
End of Second Week
'Go and Do Likewise, Gents'
Script Work
J'Accuse
Cramming
Walking and Talking
Readthrough
Marking the Floor

Auditions

First Night
Second Night
Third Night
Fourth Night

First Show

I only know a few of the traditions of theatre (never say "Macbeth, never say "good luck," etc.), but I'm not sure what kind of omen to infer when your glasses fall apart an hour before you go onstage. As soon as I was all prettified in the make-up chair, I pick them up, and out pop the right lens and apparently one of the screws. Just as I think I'll have to perform with an Eastwood squint, the handwriting expert offers to go to the nearby college campus and get her repair kit. She returns, and I screw back into place the half-screw that remains in the frame. But I didn't panic. I was tickled by the timing. I also don't know what to think of the now-common observation during the make-up sessions: I supposedly look like Tom Cruise. Maybe everyone has broken their eyeglasses.

I apologize to the cop actor and make sure he knows it was my fault that we so derailed on Wednesday. Doc has made Stevens Law Firm magnets advertising aid for "revenge payback" cases. Volunteers are preparing for a post-show reception while the cast stake out small spots to change or practice. We are jazzed. We are eager to get started. We're practically vibrating. I am a mix of scared and giggly. While the Wednesday fiasco is my first such breakdown of lines, it rattled me (obviously), and I need to prove to myself that it was a fluke.

I can happily say it was. I practically swim through the play, the lines dropping out of my mouth as if I was a Pez dialogue dispenser. We have a good crowd to feed off -- 60 folks and a full jury. They laugh early, many times in places we didn't expect. Apparently, this IS a comedy. Not everyone enjoys it though; the stage-right cop falls asleep and snores during the first act. This distracts the audience sitting near him, but there's no way I can nudge him during this act.

Doc improvises to help out the judge but almost scuttles Act Three. The gangster is on the witness stand, explaining part of the conspiracy and loses his place. Doc gives him a cue, but it's from the wrong page, and both are left stammering. They manage to get back on track eventually. but it's awkward. Doc has a difficult Act Three. I mean, it is a lot of lines, but he can't keep straight all the cues to witnesses. He's still missing his confidence to object, sometimes waiting for any silence to speak up and other times missing the chance altogether. He ends his examination of the defendant way too early, and I think he mixes his closing and opening arguments. Maybe it's nerves.

The courtroom is much warmer tonight; the furnace kicks on and the increased audience body heat doesn't help. We have to project over the air system, and it's only when I change shirts backstage that I notice intense sweat on them. I attribute this more to anxiety; it has that smell.

The jury, despite my great close, returns a not-guilty verdict. It's not until the quick reception that I learn they're almost all defense attorneys. Reasonable doubt might scuttle my chances for a "guilty." But I still think I can sway them. The audience and jury congratulate us after the show. The curtain call is always misinterpreted, and we don't get a chance to bow. When the first row witnesses stand up, the audience thinks this is when they can too, and they miss everyone else standing up for bows. Ah well. I'm still doing this for the chance to play lawyer in a courtroom. Everything else is gravy.

A few of us go out drinking after and discuss the performance. I pick up Your Sis to join us, and except for very specific conversation, it's just another group of young folk celebrating the end of a long week. I'm muchly relieved to have the first show done. I'm again eager to get back in that room, but now it's to enjoy it, not to prove I can do it.

Official play website

Rehearsals
Biding Time
The Last Rehearsals
Countdown: Two Rehearsals
Extra Drama
Countdown: Three Rehearsals
Countdown: Four Rehearsals
Countdown: Five Rehearsals
Countdown: Six Rehearsals
Countdown: Seven Rehearsals
Clock is Ticking
My Big Speech
Punching a Cop Is Bad, Right?

Act Two Redux
Friday Through Sunday
Eggshells
Drama!
Getting Serious
Our First Friday
Act Three Lines
Dusting Off Act One
Line Trouble
End of Second Week
'Go and Do Likewise, Gents'
Script Work
J'Accuse
Cramming
Walking and Talking
Readthrough
Marking the Floor

Auditions

First Night
Second Night
Third Night
Fourth Night

Friday, November 2

Biding Time

I spent a healthy chunk of time Thursday running my lines. I came up with a few new mnemonic devices so the cue switch in Act One can't happen again. I'm eager more than anxious. I'm itchy to get started with this run. I need a clean run to calm down a bit, and I haven't had that. I've always dropped at least one line, even if it was insignificant to the other person. I woke up this morning with the lines in my head. I said them in the shower, in the commute, and sitting at my desk. I haven't had this large a speaking role since, wow, it's been almost ten years. One of the Neil Simon's, it had to be. I feel like I can have a clean performance tonight, and let's be frank, I have to. We have paying customers out there.

The theatre released its "review" to the newspaper, but it's in truth a press release designed to name all the actors. It's written by someone associated with the theatre, and I don't think I've been introduced to them. Doc was given the highest kudos, and he would deserve them even if we were only talking about his commute. He's worked hard for this show, and I'm glad to see the work come this far and to this solid a point. He's a great counter to what I'm trying to do onstage.

Your Parents see the show Saturday, and mine see it Sunday. I've ordered a DVD of our performance (I think we tape tomorrow), and I hope to get it before the end of the month.

Official play website

Rehearsals
The Last Rehearsals
Countdown: Two Rehearsals
Extra Drama
Countdown: Three Rehearsals
Countdown: Four Rehearsals
Countdown: Five Rehearsals
Countdown: Six Rehearsals
Countdown: Seven Rehearsals
Clock is Ticking
My Big Speech
Punching a Cop Is Bad, Right?

Act Two Redux
Friday Through Sunday
Eggshells
Drama!
Getting Serious
Our First Friday
Act Three Lines
Dusting Off Act One
Line Trouble
End of Second Week
'Go and Do Likewise, Gents'
Script Work
J'Accuse
Cramming
Walking and Talking
Readthrough
Marking the Floor

Auditions

First Night
Second Night
Third Night
Fourth Night



Moving Picture of the Day

100 Movies, 100 Numbers. It's addictive.

Thursday, November 1

The Last Rehearsal

We had a very early call time, and the traffic didn't help me. I chug my soup and throw on my suit and run out the door, back to the warehouse. This is where we're setting up the hair and makeup assembly line. The defendant and widow are getting styled, and the menfolk waiting their turn sit and run lines. The make-up commander brushes powder and blush on me. I already slicked back my hair before arriving. She's also the costume lady and she says nothing about the suit, making it officially official. After the quick application, I drive to the courthouse. We're all in costume for the first time. Our bailiff is in a cop uniform, the women are in period outfits, and Doc is proud as punch over his shoes bought just for the show: $50 Bostonian wingtips.

We set up shop in the law library behind the courtroom. It's a bookshelf-lined room filled with legal encyclopedias, and I hang my shirts and ties in the back corner. The actors chat and read their scripts and polish their costumes. For the first time, we count down to show time, and the stage managers give us time cues (15 minutes, five minutes, etc.) We realize we haven't practiced the show start, the curtain rising for the show, but we wing it. We just pour out from the hallway and into the courtroom to our various stations. The witnesses fill half the front row.

This is an open dress rehearsal, and we have friends and family to watch. A nine-person jury is called, leaving about five people in the audience. And off we go.

It was during the fourth witness that I blanked. I know now what happened but at the time was was utterly confused. I go to the evidence station five times in the play. Three of those times are with this witness, the young cop. I hand in a letter, a gun and pictures of fingerprints. When I handed in the gun, I jumped to the line after the fingerprints. That threw the cop, and he meekly asked for line. I improvised his lines into questions, and he jumped right into it. Very smooth, but I had now jumbled our scene and found myself now back the the moment where I had to ask the line I had already said.

And that is where I had the nightmare scenario. I turned to the clerk and whispered "I need a line."He didn't react. I said it again. I caught a glimpse of his script, but it wasn't turned to our scene. I then wandered to the judge, who I knew had his script. He slid the page toward me, but reading it threw me because I didn't know where we were. I read the line I was supposed to say but my mind was screaming that I already said that. The judge had to be mistaken, I thought. And after what felt like a year, I said the line again, and we went one.

Describing it doesn't do the hollow fragility justice. I was shaken and mortified. This is a rehearsal, true, but we had an audience, albeit a very supportive one. The scene ended. I sat down and started writing out the script to find the missing lines. It took a while to remember the line I replaced, but once I did, I knew exactly what happened. From now on, I have to scribble the different evidence-table lines along with the other mnemonic devices I jot on my legal pad before the play begins.

Backstage during intermission, I apologize to everyone I could find. I assure them I know the other acts, and, after reading a copy of the script, I confirm the derailment. I also missed a line with the first housekeeper, but it's a very small line, and one that doesn't affect her lines at all. Nevertheless, she won't stop talking about it. She's not malicious; she just won't change the subject. I'm throwing on my second shirt and tie, and folks are talking about the crater my mental hiccup caused and she's going on about the line in her scene. And I just want to strangle myself. The director comes backstage for an unrelated note, and I apologize, and she jokes it away ("You don't have to apologize to me. You do have to apologize to the audience.")

I'm indeed OK for the rest of the play, and I make a note to try harder to get into character before Act One. That's what I think is the primary cause here, and I'm inclined to blame the novelty of everything: the costumes, the entrances, etc. But, ultimately, it was my problem. I wasn't alone in this, however, as other folks call for lines when they freeze. Perhaps there's a truth in the adage of "bad rehearsal, good opening." If we work on the lines on Thursday's day away from the play, Friday can be a good beginning. I' certainly scanning my script in the meantime. The judge prompts those needing help (irony!), and I remember my "sidebar" idea to call the lawyers together and read his script to get us back on track. I'll do that in the run if need be. There are some moments when the witness and I wait for Doc to object to questioning. Sometimes he doesn't, and we improvise around it. In another moment, the judge starts to dismiss a witness early, and I stand up and ask to question him first. Completely improvised. Don't know where that verbal patch came from, but it was just right.

Doc nails his closing argument, and I feel good about mine. The jury leaves, but the actress who starts the parade of witness lines forgets to begin. There's dead air. I catch the eye of the actor sitting next to her and pantomime nudging her to start. He does, and she gets the hint and begins the scene. The jury comes back and declares "not guilty." The play ends, and everyone exhales like we just defused a bomb.

The audience and actors blend together for conversation, and some say very nice things to me, and I thank them for their help tonight. I congratulate Bob. This is the second jury to give a "not guilty," and I wonder if I can do anything in the play to alter that trend. The clerk tells me the vote was 8-1.

I'm one of the last to leave, and the defendant and I compliment each other and trade notes and talk about the director arguments compared to how other theatres operate. She's tempted to find another theatre, and I tell her I don't intend to come back. It's the first time I've told this to any one of this gang. It's also the best conversation we've had, and I think it's euphoria from getting close to starting this show. We all had good moments amid the problems tonight. It wasn't all bad.

Hitting this very low point greatly inspires me to have a clean run from here on. I hit my nadir, and really it can't get worse that that. I won't let it. I actually have an angry arrogance about this. I'm going to slay this jury with my lawyer sexiness. I think I found my swagger without trying to imitate other actors. This might be the best thing that could have happened.


Official play website

Rehearsals
Countdown: Two Rehearsals
Extra Drama
Countdown: Three Rehearsals
Countdown: Four Rehearsals
Countdown: Five Rehearsals
Countdown: Six Rehearsals
Countdown: Seven Rehearsals
Clock is Ticking
My Big Speech
Punching a Cop Is Bad, Right?

Act Two Redux
Friday Through Sunday
Eggshells
Drama!
Getting Serious
Our First Friday
Act Three Lines
Dusting Off Act One
Line Trouble
End of Second Week
'Go and Do Likewise, Gents'
Script Work
J'Accuse
Cramming
Walking and Talking
Readthrough
Marking the Floor

Auditions

First Night
Second Night
Third Night
Fourth Night



Picture of the Day
We have head ignition!

Wednesday, October 31

Countdown: Two Rehearsals

Tech rehearsals are always, always, always the roughest of the practices. The lights and sound systems are synchronized, and, traditionally, the play is run twice: once to set up all the cues and the next run to see how it all works together. But this was a light tech rehearsal. We're using only two small lights in addition to the court's fluorescents, and a small stereo provides pre-show atmosphere music. Actually, I think there's supposed to be music between acts, but I didn't hear it between Two and Three. The tech stuff itself wasn't too stressful, and we ran the play only once. But it was still a rough night.

I dressed up in my suit and took along the shirts and ties I'll wear in each act. As each act is a different day of the trial, we need different accessories, but the suit stays the same. We have ten-minute intermissions, plenty of time to trade shirts and ties. I'm using the fabled Windsor knot for the ties. I never understood why it's allegedly so difficult; it just has one more wrap before you tighten it. But it makes for a bigger knot and exaggerated dimple, and it helped make Sinatra so dashing.

Some of us are wearing costumes tonight, just to get a feel for them, and I again get comments on how well the suit works. The costume lady says nothing to me, not even to veto the suit again and demand I wear the one she suggested. She could have. She does have the power to do that. But that would mean altering the britches before Wednesday's final rehearsal. It's the first time folks have seen me wear it in person, and many are again shocked by the $5 price.

The tech crew are feverishly placing props and drop cords and adjusting the court to our staging needs. They tilt the tables and bring in the new chairs. The real court attorneys use modern plastic and fake leather chairs with wheels and swivel seats. We had them Sunday night. But the decision has been made to replace them with period-correct wooden chairs. They take up less space (a premium when squeezing between the stenographer station and the defendant). But the back-seat director objects. And objects loudly. Too short, he says. Don't let us swivel dramatically. He finger measures the difference between the seats and where the table tops comes to our chests. Just won't let it go. Keep in mind, this is the guy who before now insisted on period realism. The director argues her case, before making an announcement that the complainer "has won," and we'll use the newer chairs.

The director assembles us together for notes and reminders. Then one of the tech folks asks for a minute to say something. She says that a while back, she left the board of the theatre because of a stream of emails she deemed destructive to the company. She says she eventually came back but sees this same thing happening again, with destructive conversations purposefully taking place in full view of the email chain. She says other people have spoken to her and made the same comments, and she wants it known that she doesn't like it and thinks such conversations should be handled differently.

The director doesn't take this well, and says that this is her lone opinion. When it's stated again that others have agreed quietly, the director says she doesn't recognize "phantom votes," and here we have the moment of decision: Do I say something or not? And I decide not to.

It feels like a capitulation. I'm not proud of it. I am obviously disappointed with the behavior I've seen, and I said as much when I interjected an email during the first argument chain. But this moment is not going well, and the director is not taking it well, and frankly, I want to do the damn play and go home. I make the joke often that theatre is no place for drama, and any new comment is fuel for the fire.

I don't have a dog in this hunt. I'm using the show to play layer in a courtroom, and I don't have an investment of subsequent protocols among the theatre folk. But we still have seven official runs of this show to go. I share a table with the back-seat director for the majority of the show, with a high-school girl sitting between us. And I decide that I won't put her physically in the middle of what I believe will become open bad blood. Maybe that's an excuse. But it calms me down from my deep-rooted instinct to shout profanities at the top of my lungs and blow off this play. If my wife wasn't connected to some of the actors, I might act more selfishly. I'll do my lines, I'll do my best, and I'll do no more with this gang.

But the director continues: She says older men have bullied her all her life and begins a litany of complaints against what she sees as the current antagonist. She also reveals he picked the play because he didn't like the other one. Remember, the initial courtroom play was announced months before and solicited for the auditions. It wasn't until I called for a script that the play switch was announced. So when in the process did he change the play, and what did that entail? Who did he have to convince to make this apparent last-minute change? He just sits and laughs while she says all this, and she calls him "a little emperor," and I'm watching two retirees acting like kids. Finally, the stage manager asks if we can move ahead to the play, and a chorus of agreement breaks out. And we slowly break up to our first-scene places.

We have a four-person practice jury tonight. As I address them, the director asks me to grandstand a bit more in the middle of the courtroom. There's some playing with the lights, and we run the act. During intermission, the young widow actress cries on my shoulder. Her mom had a heart scare earlier in the day, and the gal wants to be home with her. She's inconsolable, and after trying to calm her down and make her chuckle, I suggest she ask the director if she can go home. She's afraid the other actors will be angry with her, and the previous verbal tussle probably didn't help her nerves. I walk her to the director who hears her story and sends her home immediately. She only has about five lines for the rest of the play, and she attended rehearsals weeks before she was given a part with lines. This girl, she's got real drama to deal with, and I thankfully don't hear any grumbling over her absence. That would make me blow up at someone.

The rest of the play runs as usual. Some line trips, some movement awkwardness, some timing issues. But it feels a bit cleaner tonight. We had a night off, things should go smoother Wednesday night. The judge is thrown by the decision to forgo the dramatic blackouts to end the acts and return to the script. He's reading a little and reciting a little, and generally it sounds OK. He telegraphs the gavel banging a bit much and mistimes his responses. Me, I feel a little stiff in the suit, but the awe of the courtroom is gone. Now it's just a fancy room to move around.

The backseat director and I have a small moment in Act Three. His character stands up incensed by testimony from the stand, and I'm to stand up and quiet him. His character is temperamental and prone to inconvenient outbursts. The judge then gavels him down, and the testimony continues. But here's what happens: The judge jumps the gun and gavels before the guy can stand up. He stands up to object in character, says his line, and tells the judge about the gavel problems, out of character. I, meanwhile, have reacted as directed by the script and start the shushing. But he won't stop talking to the judge. I get louder. He goes on, and I growl -- there's no other word -- "HUSH." He subsides a bit, still mumbling as he sits down, but we continue the scene, which is most important, and for a good while he sits and mumbles profanities under his breath. I assume it's not at me. I've got work to do in this scene. I can't be distracted by him. And after a while, the scene is over and the play finished. Not guilty, by the way. Dammit.

The director runs us through a quick curtain call sequence, the capper to the rehearsal process. Traditionally, the last thing you learn and practice. But we don't run through it after it's choreographed. Some of these folks need the muscle memory, and I hope we don't look too slapdash Wednesday night when we try it for the first time. I have the easiest cue; the attorneys are the last to stand and bow. I intend to shake Doc's hand each night no matter who wins. He's worked hard for this play, and I think he deserves credit for the commute and commitment. I have the flashier role and that puts me comfortably in the position -- obliges me, even -- to be gracious to him for the journeyman effort.

The crew quickly packs up, and the director approves of my alternate ties and shirt. As I tell the wife how it went, she notes that apparently the same kind of armchair directing confrontation happened during the previous play. I recall that I was told it happened during the play before that. This, it seems, has become the norm. I don't see any comment I make changing that, and as I don't rely on this group for my theatre jones, don't have the initiative to make repairs. Let them bark at each other. I'll play in another sandbox.

Official play website

Rehearsals
Extra Drama
Countdown: Three Rehearsals
Countdown: Four Rehearsals
Countdown: Five Rehearsals
Countdown: Six Rehearsals
Countdown: Seven Rehearsals
Clock is Ticking
My Big Speech
Punching a Cop Is Bad, Right?

Act Two Redux
Friday Through Sunday
Eggshells
Drama!
Getting Serious
Our First Friday
Act Three Lines
Dusting Off Act One
Line Trouble
End of Second Week
'Go and Do Likewise, Gents'
Script Work
J'Accuse
Cramming
Walking and Talking
Readthrough
Marking the Floor

Auditions

First Night
Second Night
Third Night
Fourth Night

Picture of the Day
An ape made from coat hangers.

Tuesday, October 30

Extra Drama

This is happening as I type:

The script calls for the judge to adjourn the court at the end of each act. The director wanted to add a blackout. The back-seat director objected, sparking a long chain of email insults. That was a few weeks back.

So today the director sent out an email to announce we'll go back to the script, and she mentioned the back-seat director was right. He piped in to say he appreciated it and had shrugged off all her insults. And he gave examples of them. Then she responded that she didn't call him a certain word as he claimed. Now they're chain-emailing about who was called what.

Both of these folks are over the age of 60.

Never, never again with this group, I swear to God.


Official play website

Rehearsals
Countdown: Three Rehearsals
Countdown: Four Rehearsals
Countdown: Five Rehearsals
Countdown: Six Rehearsals
Countdown: Seven Rehearsals
Clock is Ticking
My Big Speech
Punching a Cop Is Bad, Right?

Act Two Redux
Friday Through Sunday
Eggshells
Drama!
Getting Serious
Our First Friday
Act Three Lines
Dusting Off Act One
Line Trouble
End of Second Week
'Go and Do Likewise, Gents'
Script Work
J'Accuse
Cramming
Walking and Talking
Readthrough
Marking the Floor

Auditions

First Night
Second Night
Third Night
Fourth Night

Monday, October 29

Countdown: Three Rehearsals

Skip down to read the Saturday post first, yo.

I spend Sunday watching the NFL's much-ballyhooed regular-season game in London's Wembley Stadium, the final location for the zombie movie I rented Friday night, coincidentally. This game saw the winless Miami Doplhis and the New York Giants execute the most broign game I've ever watched in front of a sell-out crowd. Because the pitch is cut differently for soccer, running was tricky for players used to lush grass or astroturf. The rain made the field extra slippery, and the game quickly became an endless succession of small-yardage run plays followed by tackles that ended after players slid 15 feet. People were cheering for pass attempts, that's how bland this game was. Miami lost, dropping to 0-8.

I drove to the courthouse for the first time since buying the wedding license. The courthouse renovation is still under way, and as I walk in, the bailiff is installing the new metal detector. I find the coutroom, walk in, and am bowled over by the expanse. It's obviously meant to double as a public forum. The audience section tilts down to see the court, and it's a handsome wooden facade. The space is comparable to what we mapped out, but there are two large stations for the clerk and stenographer. The latter is right between the attorney table and the witness stand, and this greatly dismays the director. We can't move it.

We do move the attorney stations, tilting them inward and moving the chairs so the lawyers and defendant face the audience. The audience has the old style chairs to sit on for two hours. The wooden seats you'll find at small baseball stadiums and elementary schools? Yeah, it's those. But I get a swank leather-ish swivel chair. And the table is huge. We could recreate Frankenstein's monster with these things.

We're joined by the newly appointed defense attorney for the region, a guy I've met socially. We both have lazy eyes, and I later joke to the missus that we manged to both stand in the other's blind spot. He walks up to me and asks what he's supposed to do tonight. I tell him he's to make sure we don't break protocol or courtesy in our attempt to balance theatre and reality. He mentions the lawyers facing out, and the director notes our concession to art. Then he notes the prosecutor should be the one siting near the jury. Again, the balance skews to art. We have a conflict of script vs. room vs. adviser vs. habit.

Let me cut to the punchline here: He leaves after the first act becuase we're virtually doing nothing realistically. And that's fine. See you later, thanks for playing. I'm not sure we should try to alter our protocol this close to opening night anyway. we're already adjusting our movements becuase of the new floorspace. The bookend clerk and stenographer stations form a cul-de-sac ending with the judge's bench, and we've rehearsed standing between the witness and the jury, a bit of choreography that's trickier now. I have to squeeze passed the defendant and her gangster love whom I hate with the hate of a thousand hating haters. Not realistic, but again this is theatre.

We have a three-person jury, made up of friends of the director and the defendants's real-life son. The jury box is right next to the defense table, making us stand behind those folks while talking to the jury. The new digs are intimidating initially, but I get the feel for the room and its great acoustics within two acts. I unfortunately really have to pee after a noontime grande pumpkin spice frappuccino.

Most important, for the first time ever (and we open in five days), we have the full cast. The cop even has fingerprint proofs to hand me, and this throws me. It's never happened before. I have to ask for a line. Everyone has a bit of line trouble as we adjust to the courtroom, so I don't feel too bad. Let me also note that this is the second appearance by the cop actor, and he's got his lines down pat. I like this kid. I dressed casually so I wouldn't fidget with a suit while making new footwork and projection patterns.

We practice out entrances and exits times with lighting, and the actor/photographer/back-seat director complains about the casual air as we wait to go "onstage" for Act Two. His efforts to be professional would carry more weight if he expressed them in a more professional manner. During Act One, as I'm running my lines, I can clearly hear him talking in the very back of the audience space. I give him a look, and I think he catches on.

The jury laughs at the right times, and they intently heed the lawyers as we talk directly to them. I wonder how much they're performing too. They're not distracting at all, and I appreciate that. The gangster seems to blossom on the witness stand, and he could very well steal this play. He could even change the jury's minds if I'm not careful. The third act has a palpable emotional flow, such that I'm just trying not to derail it by overacting. When I get to my closing argument, it comes out like a song, like an aria, and part of my head is sitting back and watching and enjoying it. I can again feel the room focus on me; the air is different, the room is intently quiet. It feels great.

As the witnesses take turns standing up to recite their key lines, and give the jury time to deliberate, the first batch face the judge. The back-seat director is livid and barks out "jesus christ, we're supposed to face the audience," and I'm biting the inside of my cheek. I say this without exaggeration: I've never seen someone demand professionalism in such an unprofessional manner. It's inexcusable. When he's onstage, he's a pro (if prone to ad-libbing to fill what he sees as dead air), but off-stage, he's becoming an asshole. He tries to dilute his comment after, saying it's the obligatory rough night before we open. And yes, had these people been at more rehearsals, this section would be tighter. But you don't loudly complain about other actor's delivery while they're still delivering their lines. That's horseshit, and if I didn't have to share a lawyer table with him for seven more nights, I'd light into him. As it is, this guy, more now than anything else I've seen, will keep me away from this theatre in the future. He won't share the sandbox, and he doesn't play nice. I won't subject myself to two months of this attitude again.

The jury votes guilty, but the son wanted to hang his mom, I'm sure. Doc and I agree to start counting the decision beginning with the open dress rehearsal Wednesday night. That will give us seven total juries, meaning one of us will be a clear winner.

We pack up after the rehearsal and reset the courtroom. As I've heard nothing from the costume lady, I'm bringing in my five-dollar suit on Tuesday. We ran the show within two hours tonight, a fine running time, I think.

Official play website

Rehearsals
Countdown: Four Rehearsals
Countdown: Five Rehearsals
Countdown: Six Rehearsals
Countdown: Seven Rehearsals
Clock is Ticking
My Big Speech
Punching a Cop Is Bad, Right?

Act Two Redux
Friday Through Sunday
Eggshells
Drama!
Getting Serious
Our First Friday
Act Three Lines
Dusting Off Act One
Line Trouble
End of Second Week
'Go and Do Likewise, Gents'
Script Work
J'Accuse
Cramming
Walking and Talking
Readthrough
Marking the Floor

Auditions

First Night
Second Night
Third Night
Fourth Night



Picture of the Day
When Your Sis drove back home, she hit the package store and bought us beer and cider. A whole LOT of beer and cider. On the left, you'll see two 64-ounce jugs of Rogue Dead Guy Ale. Your Sister is a good wife.

Countdown: Four Rehearsals

Before I talk about Saturday's rehearsal, I have to mention the geek bliss from Friday night.

I avoided heavy interstate traffic by taking the Biltmore Mall exit and stopping into Toys R Us. I browsed the Star wars section at the front of the store and spotted something I've waited 30 years to see: a giant Y-Wing. Not the little die-case guys. No I have one of those. This was the size of the great TIE Fighter and Y-Wing toys. About three-feet long. Came with a figure and an astromech droid.


Now here I have to admit something somewhat embarrassing: My best dreams involve me walking in toy stores and finding something I never knew existed but wanted all along. This has been the case ever since I began an allowance and started budgeting for toys. I used to get $2 a week. Star Wars figures used to cost $2.97. In South Carolina, after tax, that was $3.08. That dream scenario remains all these years. I have other good dreams: flying, athletics, wild theatre success, por wrestling. But the toy store is the King Dream, even as I drift into fogey-dom.

And it was now happening. There was no deliberation. I picked it up, browsed the back of the package for the toy details (like it mattered) and nestled it under my arm while I browsed the rest of the store. And then it happened again.

On the last aisle of the "boy" section, I found a GI Joe 25-Year Collector's pack. Two of them. One with good guys, and one with bad guys. And when you pressed the plastic star on the package, it played a snippet of the 1980s cartoon theme. The toys were revised versions of the original line characters, with all the tiny props. Oh. Oh my God.



I have to explain why GI Joe trumps Star Wars for collectibility. When Star Wars came out (May of 77), there was no notion of a broad-release toy tie-in. That happened months after, near Christmas. In fact, the toys couldn't be made fast enough, and retailers sold elaborate rain checks for the toy set that would come in later. This certificate is what the kids got on Christmas morn. When the film finally got around to our neighborhood -- 1978, saw it the day I turned six -- the toys were already out in stores. And buying a Star Wars toy was completing a puzzle. Unless you could afford to get all the toys, you had an incomplete microverse to re-enact. And it wasn't until the mid-'80s that Kenner made and sold the peripheral character toys. Bespin Cloud Car pilots came later.

But when the 1980s GI Joes came out, they not only provided more pose options with their swiveled joints and waists, but in collecting them, you built your toy universe outward. It was a Big Bang of jaw-dropping cool. The Joe toys had many accessories per figure, and each figure had a biography card written with just enough military jargon to approximate realism for pre-teen boy. Joe was more bang for the buck, and even my young brain recognized this. The line expanded at a manageable pace for kids to collect each wave of toys. And you didn't have to get every figure to make satisfying Joe toy stories. But with Star wars, if you didn't have Chewie, Han had to hang out with Leia and Luke, and that was like babysitting.

OK, back to the story: I had to have the bad-guy pack. But I couldn't bring myself to load up with both discoveries. Again, Joes gave more bang for the buck: 5 figures and the song box for $25 or a Y-Wing for $40. And so I did something I never thought I would do nor describe in a sentence: I put the giant Y-Wing back on the shelf. I almost kissed it goodbye. Swear to God. But I do not at all regret the choice. The Joe pack is insanely, ridiculously cool, and the figures are on my shelf standing with my original Joe guys.

As Your Sister was out of town Friday night, I got pizza and rented 28 Weeks Later. It's a solid modern horror film. Great fun. When she got back, I showed her the toys (she's a tomboy, you know), and I meekly suggested that it could be worse: These could be cigarettes.

I strolled the town Halloween festival Saturday afternoon and almost tripped over the booth for the theatre. I picked up some promotional flyers, and the booth folks, whom I didn't recognize, said the show coming up would be great and they hoped that I could come see it. And I got to have one of those moments of community-theatre ego as I said "Oh, I'm in the show." And off I strolled, twirling my silver-handled cane and tipping my top hat to the womenfolk.

Saturday night's full rehearsal was a last-minute addition, and some folks couldn't make it. The medical examiner, both housekeepers, and gangster were off for a birthday party, the cop was probably delivering pizzas, and we didn't have our dancer. Doc brought his son and daughter-in-law and they served as our jury. I greatly welcome this. We need someone to practice against, and a smaller jury would be more difficult to play to than a large on. When we finally get our 12-person pool, we can scan the jury instead of practically staring at two pairs of eyes. They certainly help both of us sell our opening and closing arguments. Now we're telling or selling a story, not just reciting lines. As folks try on costumes during rehearsal, I'm thrown by the multiple entrances and exits and barely muted whispering. I try to look at the audience to react organically, and it throws me off a line. I don't do this again. The inconsistent delivery by substitutes doesn't help either.

During the second act, the defendant leaves the attorney table during cross-examination to play with costumes. But we regard her during this scene. She's a needed presence, and we're watching her walk off. Eventually, the director, reading the part of the Swedish housekeeper, barks at her to get her butt back in the chair, and she indeed quietly comes back and sits. As she does, the actor/photographer/back-seat director pipes in with an unnecessary thank-you. This is the same guy I had to stare down moment before because he wouldn't stop grousing about the departure while I was speaking my lines.

As I run the play, I scratch out the names of the witnesses after I examine them. I write them out before the show starts. During the play, I make notes about lines missed, garbled, or upcoming. I also take fake notes as my character reacts to testimony. Here's the before-and-after shot:


The pad looks like this after every full run-through.

The jury laughs at the right times, thankfully, and we have the usual number of lost lines. we're creeping toward improvement. Doc did great on his closing argument, and the director makes an executive script rewrite by changing "outbreak" to "outburst." Our private eye is ailing with a cold, but he soldiers on to read the large gangster dialogue. The guy's a pro.

We unfortunately get a "not guilty" decision, and it takes me a few second to realize that there was no way they would vote against Doc. But I'm confident I'll win when we get a full group to decide the case. That closing argument is too good to be unaffected by it.

It's not until I leave the warehouse that I realize we're moving to the courthouse starting Sunday. This is my last time at our rehearsal space, and I'll miss it. Not a lot, mind you. Just a little. Leaving it behind is a sign of how close, and hopefully prepared, we are.

Official play website

Rehearsals
Countdown: Five Rehearsals
Countdown: Six Rehearsals
Countdown: Seven Rehearsals
Clock is Ticking
My Big Speech
Punching a Cop Is Bad, Right?

Act Two Redux
Friday Through Sunday
Eggshells
Drama!
Getting Serious
Our First Friday
Act Three Lines
Dusting Off Act One
Line Trouble
End of Second Week
'Go and Do Likewise, Gents'
Script Work
J'Accuse
Cramming
Walking and Talking
Readthrough
Marking the Floor

Auditions

First Night
Second Night
Third Night
Fourth Night