I arrived at the clubhouse almost 90 minutes before the show after a relaxed meal with Your Sis and Parents. They brought us more goodies from the cruise, and I can't tell you what they are until you get your stuff too. But it's pretty good stuff. And they brought Bass Ale. These are good in-laws (much better than my last ones, he whispers).
The director has indeed given up on the light gang and taken over the board himself. He made a new cue sheet and reviews it with us two actors. Now, we hardly touch the light switches at all and instead swipe our hands over them to pretend we're working them. This includes some changes from the previous night but nothing big. He does run backstage during the show to give me one last change, and it delays me from going onstage for a second. I take it in stride. We're all used to it. I was relaxed enough before the show that I was humming Tom Petty's "Change the Locks" instead of running lines.
The 20+ people coming to see the younger actor is in fact a group of retirees who know his mom. They have four rows taped off for them. The TV monitor downstairs are working tonight; I've never been able to watch a show on TV as it happens, even in the larger theatres. This is swank. Our pre-show pep talk is almost sad. Now we're in the last days of the show. We will perform this seven more times including tonight. That's it.
Tonight's crowd made the show. We were good, yes, and we had our A-game on, but this crowd -- this crowd of 70+ with a similar average age -- were into it. Unfortunately, they were so into it that they talked about the show the entire time. Out loud, I mean. Normal-voiced commentary, especially on the front row. We wondered if someone were narrating for a blind person. The comments ran the gamut from "I think that actor has a cold" to "oh, he's reading a map." There was no map; that was a Dear John letter written to the husband. We don't know where they got a map notion, although the creaky stage still sounds lime a pirate ship. The audience was responsive to the threats and tension and respected the cross-dressing murderer instead of laughing at this 6-foot student in a wig and mink.
I had a small mental blank in Act Two, but my script subroutine kicked in, and I was working on auto for half a page. Didn't drop a line, and got them all right. The script is in my head for sure. Normally, I call up the next line as the other actor is talking, but I got tangled up in similar lines just as the mistress is interrogating me about the murderer's lies. I don't think she ever noticed.
Oh, and I also tackled the desk lamp in Act One. I'm supposed to just jostle it in surprise, but this time the lampshade popped off. It had never done this before, and I had to reverse engineer the coupling between my lines to repair it. But I did. And that gave me more confidence as the act ended.
The show ends with two gunshots, and, even though they were warned 2 hours before and they were waiting for it, they exploded. We couldn't have gotten a bigger reaction if I had shot Bambi's mother. They gave good applause during our curtain call (for which I enter last, just so you know), and an usher presented roses to the two actresses. The curtains closed, the show was over, and we filed out to greet the audience. We got plenty of compliments and failed theories about what was going to happen.
But there was one guy -- an older man with a face that bespeaks his apparent disgust with everything -- and he walked right up to me and said "This is the dumbest thing I've ever seen. It was meaningless." I apologized to him, and his wife walked up. I thought she might poo-poo this curmudgeon, but she agreed with him. And then they just stood there, content to fume and sigh while people waited behind them to talk to the actors. I caught the wife's eye and said "well, you can't win them all" and apologized some more. They were content with that and left. Now, I know that, to quote Lex Luthor's dad, people are no damn good, but Christ a'mighty, why would anyone think it's OK to say this to someone who just spent three hours working his ass off. And thank God he said it to me, who will happily dance on his grave, and not one of the actresses. But, to quote Lex Luthor's mom, fuck them in their stupid fucking face.
I cleared out of the locker room and joined the reception in the lounge. Your Sis made the rounds with the crew and cast and finally got to meet my "other wife and mistress." We sat with the director and crew, including the makeup lady who says she has to darken my arms because they "glow in the dark", and we closed down the place about half an hour later. She wants to volunteer with the group when her workload allows it (read: never), and she might attend our Wednesday rehearsal to see how the sausage is made.
I felt good about it. I'm proud of getting past a brain hiccup and a prop disassembly, and I'm eager to work the stage confidently.
Letters to Holly
Saturday, March 22
Friday, March 21
Day 24: An Audience
The first big change for the night was the use of the downstairs locker rooms. This is a golf clubhouse, and we four actors have plenty of space to hang our clothes and prepare for the show. There are two closed-circuit TVs that will supposedly show us the stage, but they never work. That means we have to change clothes quickly and linger backstage so we don't miss a cue. To get downstairs, we have to exit an exterior door and walk down to the locker area. The stage room is set at a blazing 72 degrees; that doesn't take into account the lights, costumes, make-up, and desperate movement. We are roasting. And then we walk outside, into sparkling cold air, and back into a toasty locker room.
I'm complaining a bit. Just a bit. I wish we had practiced a few times using these rooms; I don't like introducing new stuff so soon to the first show. As it is, we're given new directions on using the lights within a minute of taking the stage. The light crew is not working out well, and the director is going to kill kill kill, if this show tumbles into farce because of independently activating lamps and chandeliers. I don't know what the problem is there; they're on the opposite side of the room, and we don't chat. During the show, lights will suddenly dim or fade brighter as the crew become confused about switches or timing or, oh, I don't know. The director has worked with them for almost a week now, and I think he'll wind up running the lights himself.
We huddle onstage before we open the curtain for a surprisingly serious pep talk. The cast tries to keep the atmosphere light, but the director's not having it. He's got too much to juggle here, so we follow his lead and get to work. It goes OK. Some lines are missed and jumbled but nothing major. The props are all where we need them. The coffee table is strangely close to the couch, and I nudge it out gradually through the first act.
I realized just last night that the reason I have the excess energy is because I'm drinking so much tea and Coke onstage; I'm caffeinated. It kept me from sleeping Wednesday night, and I thought I had a fever. Also, the show is a workout. I'm sweating something awful up there; I brought my shirts home to wash before Friday's first audience.
The crowd tonight is small and polite. They snicker a bit at the murderer in a wig, but that's to be expected. He has 20 people coming for the first night, and they might easily turn this into a comedy. If they're watching him as the actor and not the character, he'll seem ridiculous. As it is, I can't tell you how good a show we've got here. It feels like a cumbersome whale; I'm actually relieved when we accidentally drop a half-page of dialogue tonight. All that information is mentioned again later on anyway. Two older women admit they don't understand the imaginary murder scene, despite the use of a dreamy light and sound effect, adding the line "use your imagination, and bookending the scene with no time lost in the original scene. Fuck 'em. We spell it out to a grade-school level.
Because of the the script, I look at my correctly set wristwatch during the first Act and realize "Lost" is about to come on and then I'm mentally yelling at myself to stop thinking about "Lost." I still have 15 pages to go before intermission. When I get home and watch the show on TiFaux, the local affiliate has lost its sound, and I read the blessed captioning before crashing in bed near 1 a.m. We open tomorrow, and we actors, at least, are ready.
I'm complaining a bit. Just a bit. I wish we had practiced a few times using these rooms; I don't like introducing new stuff so soon to the first show. As it is, we're given new directions on using the lights within a minute of taking the stage. The light crew is not working out well, and the director is going to kill kill kill, if this show tumbles into farce because of independently activating lamps and chandeliers. I don't know what the problem is there; they're on the opposite side of the room, and we don't chat. During the show, lights will suddenly dim or fade brighter as the crew become confused about switches or timing or, oh, I don't know. The director has worked with them for almost a week now, and I think he'll wind up running the lights himself.
We huddle onstage before we open the curtain for a surprisingly serious pep talk. The cast tries to keep the atmosphere light, but the director's not having it. He's got too much to juggle here, so we follow his lead and get to work. It goes OK. Some lines are missed and jumbled but nothing major. The props are all where we need them. The coffee table is strangely close to the couch, and I nudge it out gradually through the first act.
I realized just last night that the reason I have the excess energy is because I'm drinking so much tea and Coke onstage; I'm caffeinated. It kept me from sleeping Wednesday night, and I thought I had a fever. Also, the show is a workout. I'm sweating something awful up there; I brought my shirts home to wash before Friday's first audience.
The crowd tonight is small and polite. They snicker a bit at the murderer in a wig, but that's to be expected. He has 20 people coming for the first night, and they might easily turn this into a comedy. If they're watching him as the actor and not the character, he'll seem ridiculous. As it is, I can't tell you how good a show we've got here. It feels like a cumbersome whale; I'm actually relieved when we accidentally drop a half-page of dialogue tonight. All that information is mentioned again later on anyway. Two older women admit they don't understand the imaginary murder scene, despite the use of a dreamy light and sound effect, adding the line "use your imagination, and bookending the scene with no time lost in the original scene. Fuck 'em. We spell it out to a grade-school level.
Because of the the script, I look at my correctly set wristwatch during the first Act and realize "Lost" is about to come on and then I'm mentally yelling at myself to stop thinking about "Lost." I still have 15 pages to go before intermission. When I get home and watch the show on TiFaux, the local affiliate has lost its sound, and I read the blessed captioning before crashing in bed near 1 a.m. We open tomorrow, and we actors, at least, are ready.
Thursday, March 20
Day 23: Finding a Groove
So I was strangely nervous all day about the rehearsal. I reread the script and found quite a few week-old paraphrases, substitutions not mentioned by the director or script supervisor. At this point, it would do more harm to fix them than to stay consistent. The call time was moved up, leaving me half an hour to eat, clean, up, and drive to the clubhouse. This did nothing to help my nerves.
When I arrived, I made sure to spy the new wine glasses and set my bar items. While Prop Lady provides a cooler full of iced Coke, the cooler sits on the floor and I have to disappear entirely from view to bend down and fetch them. I prefer to set a Coke on top of the cooler before the show. After a director and cast huddle, the rehearsal begins, and we treat it like a performance. There's a bit too much energy at first, and I'm not connected with the material. I'm thinking ahead to my next lines and out of synch with my delivery. It takes about seven pages to calm down, and there are no problems after that.
We do have a tech timeout near the end of the first act, and the three actors who have appeared so far chat about community theatre audiences and the script changes made to placate them. Will they object to the word "bastard" more than the onstage murder of a lady close to their age? Will the patrons fret about a play with shacking-up lovers, blackmail and pseudosexual mindgames? How much will they titter anxiously? The tech crew and director request a change in light management and later the director changes a line; this may be still within our bubble for change, but it IS the last minute. The murderer asks me to help him with props as he moves on and offstage during the depicted murders, and that I don't mind at all. Maybe I've developed the classic allegiance with the other actors against those offstage:Us vs. them. The lights are still a problem throughout the play: When someone touches a light switch, the lights have to adjust quickly.
While we rehearse, the clubhouse kitchen staff cleans up their station and listen to their radio. Again, it's good discipline. On offstage cell phone chirps away while the actress is delivering her lines. The director hops onstage to adjust a prop glaring in the lights. The crew chat into their new headphone mics. I don't anything less than an earthquake will distract the actors now. And we have a great rehearsal. We got our lines, and we adjust during the rare stumbles. My lines are there when they're suppose to be. It helps that we practice backstage at breakneck pace, and our subconscious scripts prove they're fully formed and ready even if our forebrains are muddled by blocking and costume chaffing.
I do have to call "time out" before the second act starts as I can't find the suitcase to carry onstage. There isn't an official codeword that I know of, and maybe I could patent one. We need a theatre m'aidez. The play seems to fly by once we get to that act, despite its much longer length. I even managed to preset my last costume for a faster change. We all feel mostly good about what we've done, and we seem to be ready for our first informal audience.
Picture of the Day
Beware. Beaker got backup.
When I arrived, I made sure to spy the new wine glasses and set my bar items. While Prop Lady provides a cooler full of iced Coke, the cooler sits on the floor and I have to disappear entirely from view to bend down and fetch them. I prefer to set a Coke on top of the cooler before the show. After a director and cast huddle, the rehearsal begins, and we treat it like a performance. There's a bit too much energy at first, and I'm not connected with the material. I'm thinking ahead to my next lines and out of synch with my delivery. It takes about seven pages to calm down, and there are no problems after that.
We do have a tech timeout near the end of the first act, and the three actors who have appeared so far chat about community theatre audiences and the script changes made to placate them. Will they object to the word "bastard" more than the onstage murder of a lady close to their age? Will the patrons fret about a play with shacking-up lovers, blackmail and pseudosexual mindgames? How much will they titter anxiously? The tech crew and director request a change in light management and later the director changes a line; this may be still within our bubble for change, but it IS the last minute. The murderer asks me to help him with props as he moves on and offstage during the depicted murders, and that I don't mind at all. Maybe I've developed the classic allegiance with the other actors against those offstage:Us vs. them. The lights are still a problem throughout the play: When someone touches a light switch, the lights have to adjust quickly.
While we rehearse, the clubhouse kitchen staff cleans up their station and listen to their radio. Again, it's good discipline. On offstage cell phone chirps away while the actress is delivering her lines. The director hops onstage to adjust a prop glaring in the lights. The crew chat into their new headphone mics. I don't anything less than an earthquake will distract the actors now. And we have a great rehearsal. We got our lines, and we adjust during the rare stumbles. My lines are there when they're suppose to be. It helps that we practice backstage at breakneck pace, and our subconscious scripts prove they're fully formed and ready even if our forebrains are muddled by blocking and costume chaffing.
I do have to call "time out" before the second act starts as I can't find the suitcase to carry onstage. There isn't an official codeword that I know of, and maybe I could patent one. We need a theatre m'aidez. The play seems to fly by once we get to that act, despite its much longer length. I even managed to preset my last costume for a faster change. We all feel mostly good about what we've done, and we seem to be ready for our first informal audience.
Picture of the Day
Beware. Beaker got backup.
Wednesday, March 19
Weirdness
I am inexplicably nervous about the rehearsal tonight. It's the last before we welcome an audience (although, Thursday is titled an "open dress rehearsal"), and I have plenty of time today to scan my script. But I have the nerves, the jangles, the willies. I don't get it. I should have a calm confidence. I don't think this is giddy eagerness. I think this is anxiety.
We watched American Idol last night as the remaining 11 again sang Beatles songs. There were maybe three good performances; the rest wallowed in predictability. Your Sis is hypnotized. And I would never have thought this possible.
Picture of the Day
This is Mercury. The shiny crater at the bottom measures 40 miles wide.
We watched American Idol last night as the remaining 11 again sang Beatles songs. There were maybe three good performances; the rest wallowed in predictability. Your Sis is hypnotized. And I would never have thought this possible.
Picture of the Day
This is Mercury. The shiny crater at the bottom measures 40 miles wide.
Tuesday, March 18
Day 22: Costumes
We had tried out some outfits before, but today was the first time I had complete and distinct costumes AND changed into them between scenes. The director used theatre funds to buy us some shirts, and I think we've settled on what we're going to wear. The trick is that I have very little time to change before the last scene of the play. I end the second scene onstage, cross to the opposite backstage area, change everything except my underwear, wristwatch, and glasses, and start the next scene onstage. I can't think of any shortcuts; I can't even keep the same pair of socks because I move from bright summer colors to black and gray.
We start the rehearsal with news that the mistress's father died. She has spent most of the day juggling phones and making arrangements. He's three time zones away; she can't see him or the ceremonies during the show. She's gone through utter shit since this play started, and she's soldiering on like a pro. Our murderer is still sick, but he has better luck with his lines. Well, except for dropping an entire page in Act Two, but we make the leap seamless. I don't think the director even notices; the actor himself wasn't aware of it until I mentioned it after the practice. Luckily, the script is so redundant, that lost information is covered later. We all have to improvise tonight. We don't call for lines and muddle through the tripped tongues and skewed cue lines. We do a good job.
The tech problems continue, however, and I've never seen this director as upset. He was livid. I can't say where the trouble lies: Is the light person too old? Is the machine too complicated? Is the script not clear enough? Maybe we should have introduced them earlier, but our schedule suggests he didn't expect this trouble.
We have tonight off, and I'll read my script to catch any lines that may have faded as I concentrated on Act Two stuff. I might get the missus to run lines with me. I've started work on this show's magnet, and I may have it fully drawn by the end of the week. The director was very complimentary to me as the rehearsal ended, which inspires me to bring it all the more when the curtain opens.
Picture of the Day
A sentence I never thought I'd say: I want this kite.
We start the rehearsal with news that the mistress's father died. She has spent most of the day juggling phones and making arrangements. He's three time zones away; she can't see him or the ceremonies during the show. She's gone through utter shit since this play started, and she's soldiering on like a pro. Our murderer is still sick, but he has better luck with his lines. Well, except for dropping an entire page in Act Two, but we make the leap seamless. I don't think the director even notices; the actor himself wasn't aware of it until I mentioned it after the practice. Luckily, the script is so redundant, that lost information is covered later. We all have to improvise tonight. We don't call for lines and muddle through the tripped tongues and skewed cue lines. We do a good job.
The tech problems continue, however, and I've never seen this director as upset. He was livid. I can't say where the trouble lies: Is the light person too old? Is the machine too complicated? Is the script not clear enough? Maybe we should have introduced them earlier, but our schedule suggests he didn't expect this trouble.
We have tonight off, and I'll read my script to catch any lines that may have faded as I concentrated on Act Two stuff. I might get the missus to run lines with me. I've started work on this show's magnet, and I may have it fully drawn by the end of the week. The director was very complimentary to me as the rehearsal ended, which inspires me to bring it all the more when the curtain opens.
Picture of the Day
A sentence I never thought I'd say: I want this kite.
Monday, March 17
Days 20 & 21: Techs
The tradition in theatre is for a production to use the final Sunday rehearsal to tweak the lights and sound. It's also, usually, a long haul. You set up the cues during a slow and halting run of the show, take a break to eat, and run the whole show again. It's a marathon. The director decided to split the tech into Saturday, and we arrived that day to see him adjusting the stage light gels (the plastic color filters).
I run lines with the two younger actors, and we learn the mistress actress's dad has been placed on life-support. She now faces the choice of disconnecting him based on his progress over the next few days. It was sudden. She's shattered and exhausted. It's been a bad production, medically, for us: the murderer actor lost a close friend and another is virtually on his deathbed (this is after his dad's THREE heart attacks last September), and My Dad was diagnosed with stage four lymphoma. All since the beginning of the year. The mistress spends the entire practice awaiting a phone call from the hospital, and it comes late into Act Two.
A thunderstorm makes for some dramatic sound effects during the show, and we all lament that we hadn't planned on them for the production. We need some sort of low lighting backstage to see. The mistress had planned to dye her hair blonde for the show, but the hairdresser price quote put the kibosh on that. Now she'll wear a blonde wig. On Sunday, we finally tackle my costumes. I now have four costumes, a different one for each scene, and I have to quick-change between the latter ones. The director wants my clothes to become darker as I fall into despair, and it shows the level of production detail he's considering. Also makes me like him more. He has earned our loyalty and trust on this show, and we're more concerned about letting him down than the paying public.
There is one decision I'm unconvinced about. We're going to hit the audience over the head with the "imaginary" murder sequence. The murderer sits the husband down to explain how the killing will happen. We see it onstage. We then go back to the conversation as the husband considers the plan. Then the murder actually occurs. Because the director is nervous about confusing the audience, we've added a line ("Brian, I want to use your imagination."), we're performing the murder plan in all-purple lights, and now we're adding a wind chime sound effect, like the wavy-screen sitcom transitions to memory. It's a bit cheesy. But then he won me back over in what I call The Wine Debacle.
The Wine Debacle
Prop Lady has begin scouring the script with any eye for plot holes, and she's now veering into direction choices. The new bug is a seeming paradox in the beginning of Act Two. When my character arrives back home, he can't find any red wine. The mistress says she used it all for the beef stroganoff. He then offers her sherry. Later in the play, I open a bottle of wine to go with the dinner. The play doesn't say which kind of wine I open later.
Prop Lady: You have to change the line.
Me: Why?
PL: Because you have to open wine after you say there isn't any.
Me: Why can't I open a bottle of white wine?
PL: You don't serve white wine with beef stroganoff.
Me: What's your suggestion?
PL: Say early on "I can't find any red wine open." You have to let red wine breath for 15 minutes before you open it. You wouldn't open up a bottle and immediately serve it to her.
Me: But we immediately drink the wine I serve later on.
PL: (walks off)
When we run the scene, and I pour the white wine, she yells "wrong bottle, wrong bottle." I ignore it. On Sunday, when this pops up again, I take it to the director. He agrees on the correct wine/meal formula, but he doesn't want to change any lines at this point; we get an audience in four days. He says to just open the white wine with the dinner, and we'll suffer through any audience complaints. Much later, offstage, she again says I open the wrong bottle, and I pull the Director Card, the friend of the actor. She affirms he has the last say. But after the rehearsal, he pulls me over and says she pushed for it again. We laugh over her insistence, and he again affirms we'll go with white whine, er, wine.
The Sunday tech is weak. The murderer is getting the Klingon death flu, the mistress didn't sleep, and the effects crew are slow on the uptake. Now, in their defense, the end of Act One requires strict attention because of the two murder scenes involving the same two actors within five pages. But when they have to douse the lights, they don't seem to understand that light switches don't fade out. And we try the various light cues many times. The actors stay loose during the tech time-out, but the murderer is fading on us, and by Act Two (two hours later), he's dragging and losing his lines. The mistress is a zombie. I'm trying to keep moving myself, but we're losing concentration as we stop to work on tech stuff. I stroll over to the clubhouse windows and watch the driving range action.
When we get to the end of the play, five hours later, we call it a day. I'm surprised. I mean, I've had techs that lasted 10+ hours. The murderer says he was in a tech that went 13. I'm a bit nervous. We need rehearsals, but I don't want to torture the other actors. We can come back Monday and knock it out of the park. I hope.
Picture of the Day
We're running out of time!
I run lines with the two younger actors, and we learn the mistress actress's dad has been placed on life-support. She now faces the choice of disconnecting him based on his progress over the next few days. It was sudden. She's shattered and exhausted. It's been a bad production, medically, for us: the murderer actor lost a close friend and another is virtually on his deathbed (this is after his dad's THREE heart attacks last September), and My Dad was diagnosed with stage four lymphoma. All since the beginning of the year. The mistress spends the entire practice awaiting a phone call from the hospital, and it comes late into Act Two.
A thunderstorm makes for some dramatic sound effects during the show, and we all lament that we hadn't planned on them for the production. We need some sort of low lighting backstage to see. The mistress had planned to dye her hair blonde for the show, but the hairdresser price quote put the kibosh on that. Now she'll wear a blonde wig. On Sunday, we finally tackle my costumes. I now have four costumes, a different one for each scene, and I have to quick-change between the latter ones. The director wants my clothes to become darker as I fall into despair, and it shows the level of production detail he's considering. Also makes me like him more. He has earned our loyalty and trust on this show, and we're more concerned about letting him down than the paying public.
There is one decision I'm unconvinced about. We're going to hit the audience over the head with the "imaginary" murder sequence. The murderer sits the husband down to explain how the killing will happen. We see it onstage. We then go back to the conversation as the husband considers the plan. Then the murder actually occurs. Because the director is nervous about confusing the audience, we've added a line ("Brian, I want to use your imagination."), we're performing the murder plan in all-purple lights, and now we're adding a wind chime sound effect, like the wavy-screen sitcom transitions to memory. It's a bit cheesy. But then he won me back over in what I call The Wine Debacle.
The Wine Debacle
Prop Lady has begin scouring the script with any eye for plot holes, and she's now veering into direction choices. The new bug is a seeming paradox in the beginning of Act Two. When my character arrives back home, he can't find any red wine. The mistress says she used it all for the beef stroganoff. He then offers her sherry. Later in the play, I open a bottle of wine to go with the dinner. The play doesn't say which kind of wine I open later.
Prop Lady: You have to change the line.
Me: Why?
PL: Because you have to open wine after you say there isn't any.
Me: Why can't I open a bottle of white wine?
PL: You don't serve white wine with beef stroganoff.
Me: What's your suggestion?
PL: Say early on "I can't find any red wine open." You have to let red wine breath for 15 minutes before you open it. You wouldn't open up a bottle and immediately serve it to her.
Me: But we immediately drink the wine I serve later on.
PL: (walks off)
When we run the scene, and I pour the white wine, she yells "wrong bottle, wrong bottle." I ignore it. On Sunday, when this pops up again, I take it to the director. He agrees on the correct wine/meal formula, but he doesn't want to change any lines at this point; we get an audience in four days. He says to just open the white wine with the dinner, and we'll suffer through any audience complaints. Much later, offstage, she again says I open the wrong bottle, and I pull the Director Card, the friend of the actor. She affirms he has the last say. But after the rehearsal, he pulls me over and says she pushed for it again. We laugh over her insistence, and he again affirms we'll go with white whine, er, wine.
The Sunday tech is weak. The murderer is getting the Klingon death flu, the mistress didn't sleep, and the effects crew are slow on the uptake. Now, in their defense, the end of Act One requires strict attention because of the two murder scenes involving the same two actors within five pages. But when they have to douse the lights, they don't seem to understand that light switches don't fade out. And we try the various light cues many times. The actors stay loose during the tech time-out, but the murderer is fading on us, and by Act Two (two hours later), he's dragging and losing his lines. The mistress is a zombie. I'm trying to keep moving myself, but we're losing concentration as we stop to work on tech stuff. I stroll over to the clubhouse windows and watch the driving range action.
When we get to the end of the play, five hours later, we call it a day. I'm surprised. I mean, I've had techs that lasted 10+ hours. The murderer says he was in a tech that went 13. I'm a bit nervous. We need rehearsals, but I don't want to torture the other actors. We can come back Monday and knock it out of the park. I hope.
Picture of the Day
We're running out of time!
Thursday, March 13
Day 19: We Can't Dance
I took some clothes to the clubhouse for the director's OK. He picked up a few blazers for me to wear, including a nice brown one. This might determine all my stage clothes, and I volunteered to bring in some khakis and loafers to complete the outfit. The murderer was given a bright red blazer that freaked him out, and my Captain Kangaroo reference was totally lost on the youngster.
In one of those odd coincidences, I encounter two people from the courtroom show, and they both played housekeepers. The first called before rehearsal asking about a dress rehearsal tonight. I told her she was a week early. The other came in to help with props and see the show fresh. We started at 7:30 sharp and were asked to treat this as a performance, asking for lines only in an emergency. That unfortunately wasn't heeded by the prop mistress, who continued to talk in her normal voice while we ran the show.
It wasn't a good night for her. She "whispered" comments from the audience throughout the show, and I suspect that the director is biting his tongue instead of replacing her at this late date. The three youngest cast members (including me) are grousing about her; the fourth stays to herself and leaves after her first-act death. The prop lady made cheese and crackers again, and seems unhappy when I don't gobble them onstage. Again, I tell her I can't; I have a healthy chunk of dialogue and nothing to drink. She also continues to interrupt the director with details that he's already addressed or announced he'll tackle later. The murderer and I are backstage making throttling gestures.
During the second act, she yells for me to grab another glass when I'm pouring the sherry, and I come very close to going off on her. As it is, I yell back a sarcastic thank to the "Mystery Voice." When I'm backstage, I continue to fume about this until I see her walking toward my wing to organize props. I joke that I'll grab the right glass next time and give her a fake smile, and she returns it. Just as fake.
So, in the last act, I got her back. My character reads a note from his mistress (a note hidden by the murderer) and tears it up in despair. The prop lady made a lovely hand-written note , which I discovered when the other actor handed it to me onstage. I open the envelope, scan the letter, and, after about three second of internal debate, rip it into pieces. I hear her in the audience, "Oh, he's ripping it. Don't rip it. I didn't know he was going to do that." And this, everyone, is why you read the damn script. I didn't have to, of course. I could have pantomimed it. But if we're worried (out loud, verbally) about sherry glasses, we're going to worry about following the script. She bemoaned it a bit after the play, and I shrugged it off. As far as I'm concerned, we're even.
Also, during the first act, the director hopped onstage to turn out a porch light, and it completely threw me off. I stumbled over my lines, and the wife actress was in the same trouble. We stumble and ad-lib through it, but (and I don't think I'm going diva by saying this) why the @%$* did he have to run onstage like that? I'm able to cover other subsequent awkward moments fine. I ad-lib past some lines forgotten by other actors. But I manage to dump half a can of Coke onto the coffee table when I didn't account for the liquid. I'm so used to practicing with empty cans. It was a weird night. How weird? When I fire the gun to close the play, a spark flies into the eye of the other actor. He's OK, but it terrified the director. And the courtroom actress didn't get why we kill the wife twice, even when she's told the first time was an enactment of a conversation. It was that kind of rehearsal.
We do manage to slice seven minutes off the first act, and I bet we can double that. We have the next two nights off, and then Hell Week begins. We open in eight days.
Moving Picture of the Day
Ed Norton stars in the new Hulk movie. There's nothing comic-related to win me over by Norton, William Hurt, and Tim Roth make for an intriguing cast.
In one of those odd coincidences, I encounter two people from the courtroom show, and they both played housekeepers. The first called before rehearsal asking about a dress rehearsal tonight. I told her she was a week early. The other came in to help with props and see the show fresh. We started at 7:30 sharp and were asked to treat this as a performance, asking for lines only in an emergency. That unfortunately wasn't heeded by the prop mistress, who continued to talk in her normal voice while we ran the show.
It wasn't a good night for her. She "whispered" comments from the audience throughout the show, and I suspect that the director is biting his tongue instead of replacing her at this late date. The three youngest cast members (including me) are grousing about her; the fourth stays to herself and leaves after her first-act death. The prop lady made cheese and crackers again, and seems unhappy when I don't gobble them onstage. Again, I tell her I can't; I have a healthy chunk of dialogue and nothing to drink. She also continues to interrupt the director with details that he's already addressed or announced he'll tackle later. The murderer and I are backstage making throttling gestures.
During the second act, she yells for me to grab another glass when I'm pouring the sherry, and I come very close to going off on her. As it is, I yell back a sarcastic thank to the "Mystery Voice." When I'm backstage, I continue to fume about this until I see her walking toward my wing to organize props. I joke that I'll grab the right glass next time and give her a fake smile, and she returns it. Just as fake.
So, in the last act, I got her back. My character reads a note from his mistress (a note hidden by the murderer) and tears it up in despair. The prop lady made a lovely hand-written note , which I discovered when the other actor handed it to me onstage. I open the envelope, scan the letter, and, after about three second of internal debate, rip it into pieces. I hear her in the audience, "Oh, he's ripping it. Don't rip it. I didn't know he was going to do that." And this, everyone, is why you read the damn script. I didn't have to, of course. I could have pantomimed it. But if we're worried (out loud, verbally) about sherry glasses, we're going to worry about following the script. She bemoaned it a bit after the play, and I shrugged it off. As far as I'm concerned, we're even.
Also, during the first act, the director hopped onstage to turn out a porch light, and it completely threw me off. I stumbled over my lines, and the wife actress was in the same trouble. We stumble and ad-lib through it, but (and I don't think I'm going diva by saying this) why the @%$* did he have to run onstage like that? I'm able to cover other subsequent awkward moments fine. I ad-lib past some lines forgotten by other actors. But I manage to dump half a can of Coke onto the coffee table when I didn't account for the liquid. I'm so used to practicing with empty cans. It was a weird night. How weird? When I fire the gun to close the play, a spark flies into the eye of the other actor. He's OK, but it terrified the director. And the courtroom actress didn't get why we kill the wife twice, even when she's told the first time was an enactment of a conversation. It was that kind of rehearsal.
We do manage to slice seven minutes off the first act, and I bet we can double that. We have the next two nights off, and then Hell Week begins. We open in eight days.
Moving Picture of the Day
Ed Norton stars in the new Hulk movie. There's nothing comic-related to win me over by Norton, William Hurt, and Tim Roth make for an intriguing cast.
Wednesday, March 12
They're Back
Around 1:30, as I finished cleaning Your Parent's house, I called the travel agency to get their flight number. The woman who was supposed to pick them up bailed on us, and all she had was an arrival time of 7 p.m. I wanted more info in case of delay. About two hours later, the agent called me back to say her information was different; they were to land at 3:30 in Charlotte. I explained that we had the later arrival time for a few weeks now, and she offered to call the airline to confirm. When she called back, she said they were now scheduled to arrive in Asheville at 5:30. She gave me the flight number, and I left work early to meet them. And I ran into my first gridlock in months.
Luckily, I got there about 5:10 and waited. Fifteen minutes later, out they strolled from the only terminal and were surprised to see me. They expected the other lady. Also, they barely made their flight because they also thought they had a later departure. All was OK. They took me out to dinner, and I dropped them off at the house almost half an hour before their original arrival time.
I picked up Your Sis when I drove home , and we ate dinner out, and I woke up this morning still full from two meals. Today, I am sporting one of the shirts Your Parents picked up for me, a right nice Hard Rock Rio shirt.
Picture of the Day
I think it's a statue.
Luckily, I got there about 5:10 and waited. Fifteen minutes later, out they strolled from the only terminal and were surprised to see me. They expected the other lady. Also, they barely made their flight because they also thought they had a later departure. All was OK. They took me out to dinner, and I dropped them off at the house almost half an hour before their original arrival time.
I picked up Your Sis when I drove home , and we ate dinner out, and I woke up this morning still full from two meals. Today, I am sporting one of the shirts Your Parents picked up for me, a right nice Hard Rock Rio shirt.
Picture of the Day
I think it's a statue.
Tuesday, March 11
Day 18: She Needs to Calm Down
Dad called to say his chemo went well. He didn't sound tired at all, just three hours after. He was told they won't zap his armpit tumor with radiation again unless it grows back. Despite his increased diet, he's still 12 pounds lighter than when he was first diagnosed. That suggests he has a cancer somewhere eat at him. But they can't find it. They questioned his unusual meals stretching back to last August, including the meal we made at Christmas. That floored me, the possibility that I cancered my Dad. That stuns me each time I consider it.
Your Parents return tonight, and I'm picking them up at the airport. I'll do a sweep of the house before I drive to the airport. I already cleaned up the litterbox room.
Act One, our strongest half of the play, doesn't need much tweaking. The trickiest part involves the murder: We see it play out as the murder thinks it will go, and then we see it as it actually happens. They differ a smidge; the wife is much smarter than he expects, and he has to think on his feet. That changes the order in which he cleans up the crime scene. The previous 20 pages of the play are pretty much locked in. My character invites the wandering kid inside, argues with his wife, falls into the murderer's web, and agrees to help kill her.
The director unveils the stage to us, to show off the new lighting. The household lights work so well, we don't need the installed klieg lights. It's a warm set; the director planned out a color palette early one, and it makes for a homey set. We now have an electric fireplace that I activate onstage, and we have new tablecloths and pillows. It's a comforting scene.
What throws us off tonight is the lead prop mistress. She is a bundle of anxiety and negativity. She's always out of breath, and she doesn't know how to wait before asking her questions nor does she know how to whisper. We are constantly interrupted by her fretting over a detail (admittedly, her job), but she asks these questions seconds after the director says we'll worry about it later. For her, it must be done now. I appreciate her making the tea to imitate the brandy and sherry, and she did a great job with our fake bundles of money. But instead of our onstage snack of bread and cheese, she prepares crackers and cheese. Also, becuase we have no drinks in this scene, we're left mush-mouthed as we try to hold a conversation. Before, I was pantomiming, clearing my teeth with my fingers. Now I have to. We quickly learn to eat very little for this scene.
During the rehearsal, she's ten feet away from us speaking at a normal voice, and it rattles us onstage. When we try to start the act after the first murder run-through, she batters the director with questions and then gainsays his answers with excuses: she's old, her eyes are bad, she won't have time. We two actors are onstage quietly chuckling over this, and we trade stories of backstage dramas. Why does this woman want this gig? She's so unhappy. Did I mention she unplugged our fireplace just seconds before I was supposed to turn it on? Can you imagine how joyous this made our director? All these things lead to a much longer run of Act One than we had hoped. The director estimates the act at just under 80 minutes, and it's the shorter of the two acts. If we have all our props and are allowed to deliver the lines without stopping, we can easily cut that by 15 minutes. I'm positive of it. We have to; Act One is eleven pages longer, and it's all jibber-jabber.
In other news, I don't have black plague.
We're nine scheduled rehearsals from opening night, and some of us are still calling for lines. We have to begin ad-libbing to cover mental blanks. Speaking of blanks, we fire off the gun with a half-size blank tonight. The director is very happy with it from the audience, but it leaves my ear ringing. I can live with that.
Picture of the Stage
That's my picture on the desk. The curtains just barely clear the coffee table, and when I'm at the bar, I'm looking at myself in the staircase mirror the whole time, checking posture and hand placement.
Your Parents return tonight, and I'm picking them up at the airport. I'll do a sweep of the house before I drive to the airport. I already cleaned up the litterbox room.
Act One, our strongest half of the play, doesn't need much tweaking. The trickiest part involves the murder: We see it play out as the murder thinks it will go, and then we see it as it actually happens. They differ a smidge; the wife is much smarter than he expects, and he has to think on his feet. That changes the order in which he cleans up the crime scene. The previous 20 pages of the play are pretty much locked in. My character invites the wandering kid inside, argues with his wife, falls into the murderer's web, and agrees to help kill her.
The director unveils the stage to us, to show off the new lighting. The household lights work so well, we don't need the installed klieg lights. It's a warm set; the director planned out a color palette early one, and it makes for a homey set. We now have an electric fireplace that I activate onstage, and we have new tablecloths and pillows. It's a comforting scene.
What throws us off tonight is the lead prop mistress. She is a bundle of anxiety and negativity. She's always out of breath, and she doesn't know how to wait before asking her questions nor does she know how to whisper. We are constantly interrupted by her fretting over a detail (admittedly, her job), but she asks these questions seconds after the director says we'll worry about it later. For her, it must be done now. I appreciate her making the tea to imitate the brandy and sherry, and she did a great job with our fake bundles of money. But instead of our onstage snack of bread and cheese, she prepares crackers and cheese. Also, becuase we have no drinks in this scene, we're left mush-mouthed as we try to hold a conversation. Before, I was pantomiming, clearing my teeth with my fingers. Now I have to. We quickly learn to eat very little for this scene.
During the rehearsal, she's ten feet away from us speaking at a normal voice, and it rattles us onstage. When we try to start the act after the first murder run-through, she batters the director with questions and then gainsays his answers with excuses: she's old, her eyes are bad, she won't have time. We two actors are onstage quietly chuckling over this, and we trade stories of backstage dramas. Why does this woman want this gig? She's so unhappy. Did I mention she unplugged our fireplace just seconds before I was supposed to turn it on? Can you imagine how joyous this made our director? All these things lead to a much longer run of Act One than we had hoped. The director estimates the act at just under 80 minutes, and it's the shorter of the two acts. If we have all our props and are allowed to deliver the lines without stopping, we can easily cut that by 15 minutes. I'm positive of it. We have to; Act One is eleven pages longer, and it's all jibber-jabber.
In other news, I don't have black plague.
We're nine scheduled rehearsals from opening night, and some of us are still calling for lines. We have to begin ad-libbing to cover mental blanks. Speaking of blanks, we fire off the gun with a half-size blank tonight. The director is very happy with it from the audience, but it leaves my ear ringing. I can live with that.
Picture of the Stage
That's my picture on the desk. The curtains just barely clear the coffee table, and when I'm at the bar, I'm looking at myself in the staircase mirror the whole time, checking posture and hand placement.
Monday, March 10
Day 17: The First Sunday
We saw My Parents on Saturday. Dad still looks like Dad; his hair is shorter and thinner, but it doesn't look bad. He showed off the vein port. It's on his right side, starting near the collar bone and stretching up to the neck. It's under the skin and looks like he's worked out a very small part of his shoulder. We took them out to eat, and his appetite seems strong. He has another chemo treatment today, and we saw all his paperwork, including the chemo pocket chart to track his bloodwork and weight. He's down about ten pounds from when this started. Dad starting spouting so much gardening advice I asked him to write it all down. I gave them both the rundown on my play and again told them not to worry about driving up to see it. I can send them a DVD copy, and this will be an excellent motivator for them to hook their DVD player to their new HD TV.
Your Sis and I watched the Duke/UNC game, and it was, of course, the pot boiler it always is. The refs seemed to let the kids play until they had to make a call, and I applaud that. While I enjoyed the antics of Speedo Man, it took the announcers almost five minutes to apologize for the crotch chops.
The mistress actress and I tried to set up a double-date lunch before the Sunday rehearsal, but it fell through. This practice was only for Act Two, and we repeated scenes and conversations often. At times the director would suggest a different line inflection, and other times he would hop onstage and walk through a page of dialogue to show the tone and movement he wanted. I'm not bothered by this; if a director wants a specific interpretation, and this is the clearest way to communicate it, fine. It doesn't step on my toes. In one bit, we play with timing and body movement when my character is backed up and forced to sit on the couch under the murderer's glare.
He started out by telling us where he saw us as we approached opening night, and he said I was steady from the get-go with my character. I joked it off, saying it meant I was boring. But he also reminded me he was at the auditions from the courtroom play and knew I was right for the attorney role, so much so that he said he would have had words with the director if she passed me over. The mistress tries on new outfits, and we're getting closer to her show wardrobe. I still need to go through the theatre stores and see what I can find. The tea bottles were taken home, but I find one our prop bottles (an empty Glenlivet bottle) and fill it with water. It's not til much later that I notice the black mold floating in my glass, and I hope I haven't given myself the black plaque.
The clubhouse contract may stipulate that we have to clear out by 10, a deadline we haven't kept for weeks now, and this may necessitate leaving work early so we can have a full rehearsal. The boss will be OK with that, I think. I won't be pet-sitting for the parents-in-law after tomorrow, so I can just take my lunch break at the end of the day. The kitchen is right behind a set of double doors at the back of the room, and we're constantly hearing the phone ring during the rehearsal. It builds discipline for us to maintain focus during our performances. When I'm not onstage, I watch older folks use the clubhouse driving range. A few hours later, the range hosts a herd of deer, and I even see some roadside as I drive out of the gated community.
I want to mention again what a good atmosphere this production has. Not just compared to the last, quarrelsome show but alongside other shows I've done too. Half our cast skews to the early 20s, and we have that energy all the time, combined with their experience and stage comfort. The director continues to remind us of our impending opening while he congratulates and thanks us for our work. He showed us the posters to be placed around town for the show, and unfortunately, they feature a picture from the early photo session; the image tells you nothing about the show except that it has four actors.
I read my script every day but no longer quiz myself on memorization. The lines are in my head and on call. I can even feed the other actors their lines when they blank (although I worry it looks like I'm showing off). The others are asking for a number of lines, especially the mistress, and we'll have to practice ad-libbing our way around script holes soon.
Picture of the Day
We might need to pass these out to our older patrons.
Your Sis and I watched the Duke/UNC game, and it was, of course, the pot boiler it always is. The refs seemed to let the kids play until they had to make a call, and I applaud that. While I enjoyed the antics of Speedo Man, it took the announcers almost five minutes to apologize for the crotch chops.
The mistress actress and I tried to set up a double-date lunch before the Sunday rehearsal, but it fell through. This practice was only for Act Two, and we repeated scenes and conversations often. At times the director would suggest a different line inflection, and other times he would hop onstage and walk through a page of dialogue to show the tone and movement he wanted. I'm not bothered by this; if a director wants a specific interpretation, and this is the clearest way to communicate it, fine. It doesn't step on my toes. In one bit, we play with timing and body movement when my character is backed up and forced to sit on the couch under the murderer's glare.
He started out by telling us where he saw us as we approached opening night, and he said I was steady from the get-go with my character. I joked it off, saying it meant I was boring. But he also reminded me he was at the auditions from the courtroom play and knew I was right for the attorney role, so much so that he said he would have had words with the director if she passed me over. The mistress tries on new outfits, and we're getting closer to her show wardrobe. I still need to go through the theatre stores and see what I can find. The tea bottles were taken home, but I find one our prop bottles (an empty Glenlivet bottle) and fill it with water. It's not til much later that I notice the black mold floating in my glass, and I hope I haven't given myself the black plaque.
The clubhouse contract may stipulate that we have to clear out by 10, a deadline we haven't kept for weeks now, and this may necessitate leaving work early so we can have a full rehearsal. The boss will be OK with that, I think. I won't be pet-sitting for the parents-in-law after tomorrow, so I can just take my lunch break at the end of the day. The kitchen is right behind a set of double doors at the back of the room, and we're constantly hearing the phone ring during the rehearsal. It builds discipline for us to maintain focus during our performances. When I'm not onstage, I watch older folks use the clubhouse driving range. A few hours later, the range hosts a herd of deer, and I even see some roadside as I drive out of the gated community.
I want to mention again what a good atmosphere this production has. Not just compared to the last, quarrelsome show but alongside other shows I've done too. Half our cast skews to the early 20s, and we have that energy all the time, combined with their experience and stage comfort. The director continues to remind us of our impending opening while he congratulates and thanks us for our work. He showed us the posters to be placed around town for the show, and unfortunately, they feature a picture from the early photo session; the image tells you nothing about the show except that it has four actors.
I read my script every day but no longer quiz myself on memorization. The lines are in my head and on call. I can even feed the other actors their lines when they blank (although I worry it looks like I'm showing off). The others are asking for a number of lines, especially the mistress, and we'll have to practice ad-libbing our way around script holes soon.
Picture of the Day
We might need to pass these out to our older patrons.
Saturday, March 8
Day 16: A New Stage
The set was moved to the clubhouse of one of the many, local gated communities. We're performing at the usual haunt for this company; they don't have their own theatre space, but this clubhouse is the closest thing to it. And when I say clubhouse, you need to imagine the swankiest conference area of a major hotel chain in a large city. This is a huge building, and our stage is inside a multipurpose room.
The stage is on wheels, and skirting hides them and makes that half of the room look like a solid structure. The set looks small surrounded by blue drapery, but it feels like just the right size for this kind of play. I did a version of Barefoot in the Park about ten years back, and this is a show set in a tiny New York apartment. But our staging took up the entire stage, and we were loping about when we should have been scrunching past each other.
It was a trick to get to the community tonight. I met the murderer early so he could follow me there, and as soon as we hit the mountain back roads, the fog dropped in, and we had to drive at a snail's pace. It was dumb luck that I managed to turn on the right roads to find the community and then the clubhouse.
We walk the set initially to adjust. The coffee table and sofa are much closer now to avoid the curtains, and the chandelier will need to be raised so we don't bop into it. The floor squeaks in spots, and we'll need to remember where the loud seams are, or we'll sound like we're aboard a pirate ship. We have tea acting as whiskey for the first time tonight, and I spend the show trying to ration it and pace my drinking. The murderer is desperate to practice drinking Coke onstage so he can time his belches. We joke that he'll need trucker buddies hidden around the stage too. We practice our projection in this new space too.
I muff some words late in the rehearsal, but by this time, we're almost an hour past our allotted time. We stop a lot during the night to fiddle with this and that, and the other actors are having a hard time with lines. They're so anxious about this that the director has to pull them aside and calm them down. This is why we have a line-reader, but we won't have her for too much longer; we have to grow away from that crutch. It's a light-hearted rehearsal thought as we ad-lib over mistakes and react to ill-timed sound cues. When I pick up the phone for the first time, I'm halfway through my lines when the recorded ring blares out. "Hold on, Sheila," I say, "I've got a call on the other line."It's that kind of night. The mistress actress and I are getting chummy, and I think our scenes will provide a relief from the play's tension. This would be a great cast for a comedy, by the way, and we could easily make this play into one if we had the notion. I joke that, because my character drinks the entire play, I should do one performance imitating Dean Martin.
I again get some compliments on memorization, and I joke them off. The memorization timeline looked daunting and felt daunting, but it was feasible, after all, proving again, this director knows what he's doing. I can't say enough how encouraging and patient he is with our mixed failings, and he gently tempers that with admonitions to study the lines. I think he's going to talk to me next week about over-emoting in the play's conclusion. I worry I'm getting hammy.
Did I mention there's an 8.5 x 11 picture of me onstage the entire time? That I spend a lot of the play looking at myself? That I feel like an egotistical magpie for staring at it every once in a while? Are you surprised to hear this from a guy doing community theatre?
I also meet the stage manager, a guy I saw a few times during the last play, and one of our prop masters. Well, "prop mistresses," but that always sounds weird.
The stage is on wheels, and skirting hides them and makes that half of the room look like a solid structure. The set looks small surrounded by blue drapery, but it feels like just the right size for this kind of play. I did a version of Barefoot in the Park about ten years back, and this is a show set in a tiny New York apartment. But our staging took up the entire stage, and we were loping about when we should have been scrunching past each other.
It was a trick to get to the community tonight. I met the murderer early so he could follow me there, and as soon as we hit the mountain back roads, the fog dropped in, and we had to drive at a snail's pace. It was dumb luck that I managed to turn on the right roads to find the community and then the clubhouse.
We walk the set initially to adjust. The coffee table and sofa are much closer now to avoid the curtains, and the chandelier will need to be raised so we don't bop into it. The floor squeaks in spots, and we'll need to remember where the loud seams are, or we'll sound like we're aboard a pirate ship. We have tea acting as whiskey for the first time tonight, and I spend the show trying to ration it and pace my drinking. The murderer is desperate to practice drinking Coke onstage so he can time his belches. We joke that he'll need trucker buddies hidden around the stage too. We practice our projection in this new space too.
I muff some words late in the rehearsal, but by this time, we're almost an hour past our allotted time. We stop a lot during the night to fiddle with this and that, and the other actors are having a hard time with lines. They're so anxious about this that the director has to pull them aside and calm them down. This is why we have a line-reader, but we won't have her for too much longer; we have to grow away from that crutch. It's a light-hearted rehearsal thought as we ad-lib over mistakes and react to ill-timed sound cues. When I pick up the phone for the first time, I'm halfway through my lines when the recorded ring blares out. "Hold on, Sheila," I say, "I've got a call on the other line."It's that kind of night. The mistress actress and I are getting chummy, and I think our scenes will provide a relief from the play's tension. This would be a great cast for a comedy, by the way, and we could easily make this play into one if we had the notion. I joke that, because my character drinks the entire play, I should do one performance imitating Dean Martin.
I again get some compliments on memorization, and I joke them off. The memorization timeline looked daunting and felt daunting, but it was feasible, after all, proving again, this director knows what he's doing. I can't say enough how encouraging and patient he is with our mixed failings, and he gently tempers that with admonitions to study the lines. I think he's going to talk to me next week about over-emoting in the play's conclusion. I worry I'm getting hammy.
Did I mention there's an 8.5 x 11 picture of me onstage the entire time? That I spend a lot of the play looking at myself? That I feel like an egotistical magpie for staring at it every once in a while? Are you surprised to hear this from a guy doing community theatre?
I also meet the stage manager, a guy I saw a few times during the last play, and one of our prop masters. Well, "prop mistresses," but that always sounds weird.
Friday, March 7
She's Handy
After another winter rainstorm that lasted three days, Your Sister noticed a roof leak in the laundry room. She checked it out while I was at rehearsal and went into the attic to check it out. Seems one of our methane-trap pipes was letting in water near its seal. We figured we'd need toc all a roofer to fix it.
Cut to today when I come home to find her holding the ladder next to the house and her common evil grin. She had gone topside and seen that the pipe's rubber seal had cracked. She called our handy-man pal and he suggested caulk could fix it. So she gooped it up. We went back up on the roof to survey her work, and she was giggling with competence. She loves to be the tomboy, she does. And that might be that.
I scanned through the script yesterday and began to mentally skip around the scenes to see if I could start reciting at random. And I can. I'll give the lines another look-see before the rehearsal tonight.
Lost may have seemed slight this week, but I dug it a lot. here's what I wrote on a message board:
The creator of D&D died this week, and in tribute, here's the game's first catalog of prostitutes and courtesans. I didn't do very well at this game in high school when I jumped into a pre-existing gaming group. I didn't catch their groove, and the DungeonMaster, as usually the case, was an asshole. But I was introduced to Little Caesar's pizza, and for that I'm grateful. Mayberry doesn't have one, sadly.
Cut to today when I come home to find her holding the ladder next to the house and her common evil grin. She had gone topside and seen that the pipe's rubber seal had cracked. She called our handy-man pal and he suggested caulk could fix it. So she gooped it up. We went back up on the roof to survey her work, and she was giggling with competence. She loves to be the tomboy, she does. And that might be that.
I scanned through the script yesterday and began to mentally skip around the scenes to see if I could start reciting at random. And I can. I'll give the lines another look-see before the rehearsal tonight.
Lost may have seemed slight this week, but I dug it a lot. here's what I wrote on a message board:
Is Ben's pre-Juliet flame Penny? Can we go destroy the possibility of a Des/Ben/Penny triangle? I don't think Ben would still obsess over Annie, his childhood galpal, but we don't know what happened to her since she was young. I assume we would know by now if she was gassed along with the Dharma crew.Picture of the Day
If it's a Linus/Widmore war, that puts the Freighter Four and the Survivors in the middle, taking sides based on incomplete information. Widmore's search for the island ties into last week's auction and maybe his world sailing race.
Ok, so the gas ... was it active when Desmond was found by Joe Linman? Was that always a ruse (Des noticed the rip in Linman's suit and followed him out the hatch)? Was Linman taking precautions against Ben's first gas attack or was there another since? Was the suit meant to scare off any Widmore operatives who may have found the island, and was Desmond perceived as one of them?
Now, if the gas was a Dharma measure to cleanse the island in case of -- I dunno, time mutants and sentient fogbanks -- that might explain how Widmore and the Frighter Folk knew about it: They got Dharma plans through Hanso (either the had Hanso himself or a lackey), and Hanso's weaponry would explain how Dharma had the gas to begin with.
The question then, finally is this: Who's the fucking good guy here: Ben or Widmore. If it's neither, and all the nice people are trapped between two gods of chaos, I'm fine with that. The flash-forwards suggest the Oceanic Six are subservient to Ben to throw Widmore off the scent because their friends are under Ben's thumb. Sayid would then be literally gunning for Widmore at Ben's behest, and one wonders if he would use Penny as a hostage or fall back on his job skills on her to get to Daddy.
The creator of D&D died this week, and in tribute, here's the game's first catalog of prostitutes and courtesans. I didn't do very well at this game in high school when I jumped into a pre-existing gaming group. I didn't catch their groove, and the DungeonMaster, as usually the case, was an asshole. But I was introduced to Little Caesar's pizza, and for that I'm grateful. Mayberry doesn't have one, sadly.
Thursday, March 6
Dad Update
UpDade? UpDad?
He had his port installation yesterday and called to say he felt fine. He had his hair cut short so his hair loss won't clog up the drains. Dad's only had one haircut since I was minus-8 years old, but I've had my hair shorter than his for a while now. His hair has a weird consistency due to, no joke, repeated lightning strikes, and I'm eager to see his new look this weekend. He was told his immune system's OK to be out and about, so we might be able to take him to dinner. We'll have to go down on Saturday because Sunday will be taken up with rehearsal. I realized I won't be able to catch the WrestleMania (the year's biggest wrestling party) as the last performance and cast party falls on the same Sunday.
The gas prices have nudged my boss to again suggest telecommuting or using 10-hour, four-day work weeks. We'll see. The hamster-powered internet in our town makes working at home hinky, and uploading through a satellite dish is really no better than dial-up.
Picture of the Day
I always wanted to know just what kind of advantage Lando allegedly had to make him think he was safe in betting the Falcon. And I don't see Han holding a better hand so much as bluffing Lando off the table. I'm sure there's an expanded universe story about this, but I want Lucas or Kasdan canon, not the scribblings of a third-rate scifi hack. Did you ever try the novel that filled in the holes between Empire and Return. Awful.
I remember my high-school girlfriend asking me if I ever read scifi novels, and I mentioned I tried a few Star wars books. You could actually hear her eyes roll.
He had his port installation yesterday and called to say he felt fine. He had his hair cut short so his hair loss won't clog up the drains. Dad's only had one haircut since I was minus-8 years old, but I've had my hair shorter than his for a while now. His hair has a weird consistency due to, no joke, repeated lightning strikes, and I'm eager to see his new look this weekend. He was told his immune system's OK to be out and about, so we might be able to take him to dinner. We'll have to go down on Saturday because Sunday will be taken up with rehearsal. I realized I won't be able to catch the WrestleMania (the year's biggest wrestling party) as the last performance and cast party falls on the same Sunday.
The gas prices have nudged my boss to again suggest telecommuting or using 10-hour, four-day work weeks. We'll see. The hamster-powered internet in our town makes working at home hinky, and uploading through a satellite dish is really no better than dial-up.
Picture of the Day
I always wanted to know just what kind of advantage Lando allegedly had to make him think he was safe in betting the Falcon. And I don't see Han holding a better hand so much as bluffing Lando off the table. I'm sure there's an expanded universe story about this, but I want Lucas or Kasdan canon, not the scribblings of a third-rate scifi hack. Did you ever try the novel that filled in the holes between Empire and Return. Awful.
I remember my high-school girlfriend asking me if I ever read scifi novels, and I mentioned I tried a few Star wars books. You could actually hear her eyes roll.
Wednesday, March 5
Day 15: Conquering
This will be a sit-down line-through. No movement, no sound cues. We just recite our lines around a table. The trick to this, at this point, is that I've started latching my lines to movement. I ran my lines at lunch and during the commute home, hoping to improve on Monday's weakness. I was thinking earlier in the day that the reason the theatre mounts so many plays with older characters is because the actors would mostly be retired and have much more time to memorize their lines. The murderer said he skipped school today to give his brain a rest, and I don't blame him.
He's thinking of his costume and wants to ape Heath Ledger's Joker outfit in the final scene. He's also using the character as a template for his own. I'm not sure how that will play or if he can reconcile the wilder behavior of the Joker with the early subdued scenes of the play. We're told that we will have Wednesday off, giving us two days' break before Friday's runthrough at the stage location. This might be our last night in the warehouse, and we'll have ten scheduled rehearsals before we open.
While we run our lines, the director sits with a script and makes marks on a sheet as we go. This is very much a test, and he's keeping score. Maybe it helped me, because I had the best night so far. I bobbled some words, but the lines were there. I was on a divine roll after hours of certainty that I retained nothing. The others were complimentary to the point I got a bit embarrassed, but I felt better when the mistress joked she wanted to kick my ass. She and the murderer were reading their scripts as we moved to Act Two. I cracked my script open to mark the words that gave me trouble. The director was, as usual, supportive and understanding but gently pressuring us to get on the ball with lines. I joked that I did so well because my brain was amped on panic and terror.
When we get to the last ten pages of script, we move to the set; we didn't finish the blocking on Monday. Because the line-through didn't require so much energy, I was able to goose my character with more emotion than normal. Maybe too much. I shake and wring my hands during the confession and I try to shudder with anxiety as I threaten the murderer with the gun. I'm the emotional one in the play; I do the heavy lifting there, whereas the murderer has the longer chunks of dialogue. Because he has line trouble, the director suggests he needs more audio feedback, and he and I recite most of Act One for the other actor. The kid looks beat; I can't imagine doing a show this size as a high-school student. We'll have to meet on weekends to run lines, and I suggested our house for it. We can host the whole show, if need be, and sit around the place and recite lines.
Picture of the Day
Stars in prolonged exposure.
Well, that sounded tabloid.
In the News
Once again, the most telling information from the primaries lies in the partisan voter turnout. Lookee here, and remember that McCain won each primary for his party.
Ohio
Democrats: 2,180,292
Republicans: 1,004,391
Obama came in second and still beat McCain and Huckabee combined.
Rhode Island
Democrats: 181,092
Republicans: 25,434
Obama came in second with 73,000+ votes, and that was four times as many as McCain's 17,000+ votes.
Vermont
Democrats: 139,935
Republicans: 33,589
Four times as many people voted for Democrats. Clinton came in second and doubled McCain's totals.
Texas
Democrats: 2,807,329
Republicans: 1,317,008
Again, Obama came in second and still beat McCain and Huckabee combined.
It would take an unprecedented party scandal for the Democrats to lose the election in November. Their second-place candidate beats the GOP leader every time.
He's thinking of his costume and wants to ape Heath Ledger's Joker outfit in the final scene. He's also using the character as a template for his own. I'm not sure how that will play or if he can reconcile the wilder behavior of the Joker with the early subdued scenes of the play. We're told that we will have Wednesday off, giving us two days' break before Friday's runthrough at the stage location. This might be our last night in the warehouse, and we'll have ten scheduled rehearsals before we open.
While we run our lines, the director sits with a script and makes marks on a sheet as we go. This is very much a test, and he's keeping score. Maybe it helped me, because I had the best night so far. I bobbled some words, but the lines were there. I was on a divine roll after hours of certainty that I retained nothing. The others were complimentary to the point I got a bit embarrassed, but I felt better when the mistress joked she wanted to kick my ass. She and the murderer were reading their scripts as we moved to Act Two. I cracked my script open to mark the words that gave me trouble. The director was, as usual, supportive and understanding but gently pressuring us to get on the ball with lines. I joked that I did so well because my brain was amped on panic and terror.
When we get to the last ten pages of script, we move to the set; we didn't finish the blocking on Monday. Because the line-through didn't require so much energy, I was able to goose my character with more emotion than normal. Maybe too much. I shake and wring my hands during the confession and I try to shudder with anxiety as I threaten the murderer with the gun. I'm the emotional one in the play; I do the heavy lifting there, whereas the murderer has the longer chunks of dialogue. Because he has line trouble, the director suggests he needs more audio feedback, and he and I recite most of Act One for the other actor. The kid looks beat; I can't imagine doing a show this size as a high-school student. We'll have to meet on weekends to run lines, and I suggested our house for it. We can host the whole show, if need be, and sit around the place and recite lines.
Picture of the Day
Stars in prolonged exposure.
Well, that sounded tabloid.
In the News
Once again, the most telling information from the primaries lies in the partisan voter turnout. Lookee here, and remember that McCain won each primary for his party.
Ohio
Democrats: 2,180,292
Republicans: 1,004,391
Obama came in second and still beat McCain and Huckabee combined.
Rhode Island
Democrats: 181,092
Republicans: 25,434
Obama came in second with 73,000+ votes, and that was four times as many as McCain's 17,000+ votes.
Vermont
Democrats: 139,935
Republicans: 33,589
Four times as many people voted for Democrats. Clinton came in second and doubled McCain's totals.
Texas
Democrats: 2,807,329
Republicans: 1,317,008
Again, Obama came in second and still beat McCain and Huckabee combined.
It would take an unprecedented party scandal for the Democrats to lose the election in November. Their second-place candidate beats the GOP leader every time.
Monday, March 3
Day 14: Scattered
I used the weekend to put the whole script in my head, and by the time we started rehearsing, it was vaporized (the script and my head). When Act One starts, the con man is almost hit by a car. He walks onstage favoring his arm. The actor wants someone to punch his arm and make it hurt for that first scene. I ask him if he's ever heard of "acting." But I had the same attitude when I was his age, and my director said the same thing. (There's a movie story precedent: When Dustin Hoffman and Olivier were making Marathon Man, Hoffman insisted on using some visceral method approach to a torture scene, and Olivier admonished him: "Why don't you just act it?") We have to change blocking because the new sofa is too tall. The murder is moved closer to the audience.
The director adds a rehearsal for Tuesday so we can just sit and deliver lines. The mistress needs it; her whole weekend was shot with the fallout of her friend's death. She seems OK now, mostly tired. I'm determined not to carry the script on the set and work from memory, but we have the line-reader to cue us if we need it. And we do. A lot. Especially as we move to Act Two.
Act One is virtually locked in. I actually hate starting that act because it's boring to me, and the script is very weak here: I bring in a kid I almost run over, sit him on the couch, trade life stories, and he leaves. All within five pages. We have it cold, and I'd rather skip this a few nights to tackle the second act, where we really stink. When I'm offstage (rare), I scan the script for the upcoming scenes, and I'm stunned how little seems to have stuck with me.
And let me now lament the changing of lines, including the addition of dialogue. This brings me no joy. Some of the actors petition to alter words, and in one case we do it because the actor can't pronounce "anonymity." I don't like this happening so late in production. Now I have to remember the alteration on top of the original line I memorized. The wife requests my line about her character change from "wealthy, young -- well, youngish divorcee" to "wealthy, blonde divorcee." When the director asks me if this is OK, I say "just tell me what you want me to say." It comes off brusque, and I apologize and explain I'll say whatever we decide upon. But, no, I don't like actors changing another actor's lines. I wouldn't ever ask that.
She also wants to talk about how we're handling the argument scene and requests I lighten up my tone a bit. We sit on the couch in front of the director, and I explain that the script makes my guy react strongly to her verbal jabs, and his lack of composure feeds her desire to divorce him. He might have salvaged the marriage (and his livelihood) had he been smoother. But he doesn't know how, and he's bitter and pouty, and he digs his own hole. That affects his behavior in Act Two when he pleads his innocence instead of taking responsibility. The director likes my logic, and we stick with the way I've been acting it. Now, I in no way minded her suggestion because I'd rather we talk about where we're coming from than individually try to guess what the other person's doing.
The Act One energy is good because we had a small break, but as the act ends, it's obvious that some of us reach the end of our memorization. And when Act two rolls around, two of the actors are reading from their scripts. I call for lines when needed. But the night drags on for so long that we don't finish the play tonight. We stop about 10:30 with ten pages to go. But it's high-energy stuff on those pages, and we're dead dog tired.
I have to start work on my magnet design soon, and I'm playing with 1940s style movie posters of noir films. I'm also determined to have the script set in my head by Wednesday's deadline.
Pictures and Link of the Day
Rejected Star Wars licensed products (scroll down for the images).
The director adds a rehearsal for Tuesday so we can just sit and deliver lines. The mistress needs it; her whole weekend was shot with the fallout of her friend's death. She seems OK now, mostly tired. I'm determined not to carry the script on the set and work from memory, but we have the line-reader to cue us if we need it. And we do. A lot. Especially as we move to Act Two.
Act One is virtually locked in. I actually hate starting that act because it's boring to me, and the script is very weak here: I bring in a kid I almost run over, sit him on the couch, trade life stories, and he leaves. All within five pages. We have it cold, and I'd rather skip this a few nights to tackle the second act, where we really stink. When I'm offstage (rare), I scan the script for the upcoming scenes, and I'm stunned how little seems to have stuck with me.
And let me now lament the changing of lines, including the addition of dialogue. This brings me no joy. Some of the actors petition to alter words, and in one case we do it because the actor can't pronounce "anonymity." I don't like this happening so late in production. Now I have to remember the alteration on top of the original line I memorized. The wife requests my line about her character change from "wealthy, young -- well, youngish divorcee" to "wealthy, blonde divorcee." When the director asks me if this is OK, I say "just tell me what you want me to say." It comes off brusque, and I apologize and explain I'll say whatever we decide upon. But, no, I don't like actors changing another actor's lines. I wouldn't ever ask that.
She also wants to talk about how we're handling the argument scene and requests I lighten up my tone a bit. We sit on the couch in front of the director, and I explain that the script makes my guy react strongly to her verbal jabs, and his lack of composure feeds her desire to divorce him. He might have salvaged the marriage (and his livelihood) had he been smoother. But he doesn't know how, and he's bitter and pouty, and he digs his own hole. That affects his behavior in Act Two when he pleads his innocence instead of taking responsibility. The director likes my logic, and we stick with the way I've been acting it. Now, I in no way minded her suggestion because I'd rather we talk about where we're coming from than individually try to guess what the other person's doing.
The Act One energy is good because we had a small break, but as the act ends, it's obvious that some of us reach the end of our memorization. And when Act two rolls around, two of the actors are reading from their scripts. I call for lines when needed. But the night drags on for so long that we don't finish the play tonight. We stop about 10:30 with ten pages to go. But it's high-energy stuff on those pages, and we're dead dog tired.
I have to start work on my magnet design soon, and I'm playing with 1940s style movie posters of noir films. I'm also determined to have the script set in my head by Wednesday's deadline.
Pictures and Link of the Day
Rejected Star Wars licensed products (scroll down for the images).
Saturday, March 1
Day 13: Stumbling
Dad called Sunday to say he's doing OK. A Friday checkup showed reduction in the white blood cells and a small elevation with the red. He's starting to lose some hair, but the armpit growth has shrunk considerably. He's taking a liquid to increase his appetite, and he says it works. We might see him this weekend if he feels up to it. Your Sister still has a lingering cold, and I don't know if she can visit him.
I got as far as page 53 in a 61-page script. We're due to be offbook on Wednesday, and I'm pretty sure I can nail down my four remaining pages by then. We were scheduled to run the whole play tonight, but as I arrive, I learn that the mistress can't stay. She found out about a friend's death within the hour and had to leave.
As I walk in the warehouse, I see the stage progress. I have a huge pulpit of a bar in the back corner. The wife brings in some soccer trophies from the local college that look like racing awards. We also get a new phone (cordless), and the director shows us the new gun. Instead of a cap gun, this is a starter's pistol. It's much heavier, and I enjoy that weight. He also tells us of plans for the blanks and shoots once to show how loud it could be. He plans to use half or quarter rounds; a full blank rings our ears. The murderer has to be shot onstage, and he's a mite concerned. He's too young, I think, to know of the stars of Brandon Lee or Jon-Erik Hexum, both killed by blanks. And we show him that the gun has a capped barrel. We quickly run the final scene, and he takes the shot, and I get to fire it. It's much more dramatic. Oh, and he lived.
The wife has also brought in the wigs, and she lets the murderer try his too. They're shoulder-length blonde wigs with flip ends. It's very much like a news anchor or First Lady. The director asks me if I have gray slacks for my character, and if I don't, I'll run out to the local charity stores and find a pair. After about half an hour, we get going on Act One, the act without our mistress.
It's a catastrophe. We focused on Act Two lines, and we stumble through, calling for lines often. We lose our movements and paraphrase often. It's our weakest effort yet. It's so bad that when my first-act responsibilities end, I walk over to the couch and talk to the director for the usual post-rehearsal notes. I was so determined to get to the mea culpas that I forgot the act wasn't over, and the other actors had two pages left. Off I went, and on they went. Then we get our many, many corrections and warnings. We open three weeks from tonight. We're not supposed to be offbook yet, but we have to put the hammer down to refine this play.
Speaking of which, I found reviews from New York and London for productions of this script, and I discovered that it's a commonly reviled play.
This is from the New York Times in 1984:
The question arises of how our audience will perceive this. Are we perpetuating an outdated paranoia? Will the older attendees carry those outdated notions or will they laugh at them? The kid has to work the cross-dressing seriously, or he'll turn this into a comedy. The director also has to make sure he veer that direction. I still hold that the murderer is more a vampire than gay, and I hope that comes through.
Picture of the Day
Scary Star Wars-fan love letter.
I got as far as page 53 in a 61-page script. We're due to be offbook on Wednesday, and I'm pretty sure I can nail down my four remaining pages by then. We were scheduled to run the whole play tonight, but as I arrive, I learn that the mistress can't stay. She found out about a friend's death within the hour and had to leave.
As I walk in the warehouse, I see the stage progress. I have a huge pulpit of a bar in the back corner. The wife brings in some soccer trophies from the local college that look like racing awards. We also get a new phone (cordless), and the director shows us the new gun. Instead of a cap gun, this is a starter's pistol. It's much heavier, and I enjoy that weight. He also tells us of plans for the blanks and shoots once to show how loud it could be. He plans to use half or quarter rounds; a full blank rings our ears. The murderer has to be shot onstage, and he's a mite concerned. He's too young, I think, to know of the stars of Brandon Lee or Jon-Erik Hexum, both killed by blanks. And we show him that the gun has a capped barrel. We quickly run the final scene, and he takes the shot, and I get to fire it. It's much more dramatic. Oh, and he lived.
The wife has also brought in the wigs, and she lets the murderer try his too. They're shoulder-length blonde wigs with flip ends. It's very much like a news anchor or First Lady. The director asks me if I have gray slacks for my character, and if I don't, I'll run out to the local charity stores and find a pair. After about half an hour, we get going on Act One, the act without our mistress.
It's a catastrophe. We focused on Act Two lines, and we stumble through, calling for lines often. We lose our movements and paraphrase often. It's our weakest effort yet. It's so bad that when my first-act responsibilities end, I walk over to the couch and talk to the director for the usual post-rehearsal notes. I was so determined to get to the mea culpas that I forgot the act wasn't over, and the other actors had two pages left. Off I went, and on they went. Then we get our many, many corrections and warnings. We open three weeks from tonight. We're not supposed to be offbook yet, but we have to put the hammer down to refine this play.
Speaking of which, I found reviews from New York and London for productions of this script, and I discovered that it's a commonly reviled play.
This is from the New York Times in 1984:
This is from London:These facts, which are presented early in the play, are so improbable that they manage to turn this thriller into a comedy, but they do not impede this plot from becoming even thinner.
Instead of believable characters, Miss Cox has written movable cardboard figures who wear telltale mannerisms like Girl Scout badges. The husband waves a gun around several times, so we know the gun is eventually going to be used. The homicidal maniac is a cola-addicted homosexual who is also a pathological liar. The girlfriend is an actress who can't cook and who wants to wear the late wife's nice clothes.
The only believable character is the wife, who is level-headed enough not to want to finance her husband's affair. Unfortunately, she gets murdered almost immediately.
We know it's a stilted play, and we have changed pages of dialogue. The reviews go one to cite the stereotype of a psychopathic gay murderer. We've discussed his sexuality before, and there's nothing overtly sexual. But the play, as a relic of the mid-century, seems to confuse homosexuality with transvestitism. I argue that the murderer dresses as a woman to torture the husband. There is no mention of sexual pursuit or appetite. But my character does accuse the murderer of being "an obvious fairy." Then again, he's not the brightest bulb, and he's prone to panicked accusation.The Murder Game is an old fashioned thriller of a type which I thought had been safely buried in obscurity. Written by Constance Cox (a playwright better known for her dramatisation of the classics and translation of foreign plays) it was first produced in 1946 and I can assure you it has not worn well and shows every year of its age.
The plot owes more to Patricia Highsmith than originality on the authoress’ part and creaks so loudly as to be deafening.
The question arises of how our audience will perceive this. Are we perpetuating an outdated paranoia? Will the older attendees carry those outdated notions or will they laugh at them? The kid has to work the cross-dressing seriously, or he'll turn this into a comedy. The director also has to make sure he veer that direction. I still hold that the murderer is more a vampire than gay, and I hope that comes through.
Picture of the Day
Scary Star Wars-fan love letter.
Thursday, February 28
Two Days Off
Lost was awesome last night, as was the supercool Iron man commercial.
Online, I've been discussing Daniel's journal, which includes this metaphysical diagram.
Questions abound about the time sickness hitting Desmond and George and the crew of Rousseau's boat. Also did the destruction of the hatch in Season Two displace the island through time instead of its previous displacement in space? The Black Rock trivia we got last night suggests the island grabbed that boat while popping across the globe.
I'm on page 52 of a 61-page script, and I should be able to finish memorization by Sunday night.
Moving Picture of the Day
Italian Spiderman. It's genius.
Online, I've been discussing Daniel's journal, which includes this metaphysical diagram.
Questions abound about the time sickness hitting Desmond and George and the crew of Rousseau's boat. Also did the destruction of the hatch in Season Two displace the island through time instead of its previous displacement in space? The Black Rock trivia we got last night suggests the island grabbed that boat while popping across the globe.
I'm on page 52 of a 61-page script, and I should be able to finish memorization by Sunday night.
Moving Picture of the Day
Italian Spiderman. It's genius.
Wednesday, February 27
Day 12: Act Two Fragments
Dad called to say that they are inserting a port in his carotid artery to ease the IV. This will be an outpatient operation, taking maybe 30 minutes. He says his red and white blood cells are rebounding nicely, and the armpit growth is shrinking a bit. That's just after chemo treatment.
A longtime reader anonymous asks: "wait, what does apple juice do to YOU?"
Well, back when I was a boy genius, it used to open a trap door in my tummy. But when My Mom asked about this, I was about 26, and those days were long behind me.
Tonight, like Monday, we chop an act into pieces and focus on movement and tension. It starts with a stage smooch, and we're pretty comfortable with it by now. There are two face smooches and a hand smooch within 15 pages, and there's some flirting. Harmless stuff, even if the actress wears the leopard-print PJs the director is suggesting. I've been lucky int that the gals I've kissed onstage have smelled clean and been personable. I've also been slapped onstage, and that's not nearly as much fun. Also, I learned that if you're going to be slapped onstage, you don't wear a ring in your ear during rehearsals. You only need to learn that once.
We're still changing language as we stroll along. "Make a bunk" becomes "make a break," and we're drowning in "shall"s. The director asks us to provide updated playbill bios. It's not as easy to write as it seems; you usually get a word count, and it always feels like a bragging sheet. But you have to think of it as a reference for the audience. They may have seen you in a previous show but are unable to place you.
We trade horror stories from earlier productions, like the time we used a thawed turkey for a musical. The show ran for three weekends, and we used the same bird for all the shows. I had to carry it around barehanded. The murderer mentions a show where he has to eat a burger onstage, and the backstage crew sabotaged it with hair. In another show, an actor added ice to a glass of water that was to be spilled on him.
The director repeats the improv experiment with the mistress and murderer. It's great to remind us to apply a more natural acting style, but this vedy, vedy British script encourages us to go stiff and formal. The act is coming together well, and the director seems happy with our progress with so many rehearsals to go.
Picture of the Day
Did you know that, in Asia, instead of seeing the man on the moon, they see a rabbit making rice cakes? You probably did.
A longtime reader anonymous asks: "wait, what does apple juice do to YOU?"
Well, back when I was a boy genius, it used to open a trap door in my tummy. But when My Mom asked about this, I was about 26, and those days were long behind me.
Tonight, like Monday, we chop an act into pieces and focus on movement and tension. It starts with a stage smooch, and we're pretty comfortable with it by now. There are two face smooches and a hand smooch within 15 pages, and there's some flirting. Harmless stuff, even if the actress wears the leopard-print PJs the director is suggesting. I've been lucky int that the gals I've kissed onstage have smelled clean and been personable. I've also been slapped onstage, and that's not nearly as much fun. Also, I learned that if you're going to be slapped onstage, you don't wear a ring in your ear during rehearsals. You only need to learn that once.
We're still changing language as we stroll along. "Make a bunk" becomes "make a break," and we're drowning in "shall"s. The director asks us to provide updated playbill bios. It's not as easy to write as it seems; you usually get a word count, and it always feels like a bragging sheet. But you have to think of it as a reference for the audience. They may have seen you in a previous show but are unable to place you.
We trade horror stories from earlier productions, like the time we used a thawed turkey for a musical. The show ran for three weekends, and we used the same bird for all the shows. I had to carry it around barehanded. The murderer mentions a show where he has to eat a burger onstage, and the backstage crew sabotaged it with hair. In another show, an actor added ice to a glass of water that was to be spilled on him.
The director repeats the improv experiment with the mistress and murderer. It's great to remind us to apply a more natural acting style, but this vedy, vedy British script encourages us to go stiff and formal. The act is coming together well, and the director seems happy with our progress with so many rehearsals to go.
Picture of the Day
Did you know that, in Asia, instead of seeing the man on the moon, they see a rabbit making rice cakes? You probably did.
Tuesday, February 26
Day 11: Act One Fragments
We start the evening by looking at costume options. Two blazer suits from storage are too small for me to wear. The jackets look fine until I move my arms, and then the sleeves shrink. I can look for such blazers at the local donation stores. The director also suggested an ascot for my character, which leaves a bolo tie, a dickie, and a noose as the only neckwear I've yet to try for theatre.
We run Act One in segments to tighten up movement. Both male actors are amazed at how much is covered within 5-page increments. This script is huge and unnecessarily wordy. Too much passive voice, too many clutter words. It's clearly a British script from the '70s, and I don't regert for an instant requesting we drop the accents. That would have been too much to shoulder. The best scene of Act One remains the argument between the lazy husband and the rich wife. It's quick and animated, whereas the rest of the act is a slow con punctuated by short questions and long answers. The argument has give and take and waves of emotions. The wife actress is bringing it every night. It's such a good role: it's one act long, she rips apart her schlub hubby, and she dies twice onstage. Then she puts her feet up for 90 minutes.
One habit the director is trying to break me of is turning out to the audience. One of the fundamental rules of theatre is that you don't turn your back; you always face front, even when you're allegedly looking at the other actors. You cheat your body at an angle so the audience rarely sees you in profile. You're usually at least at three-quarters to them. When I move to the bar in this play, I'm always backing up a bit so I look at the audience and the other actor. Almost every movement to the bar has dialogue, and I didn't want to speak to the back wall. But the director says it looks unnatural. I don't mind organic movement so long as the audience can hear me. Hoepfully the words will echo off the wall and back to their ears. Also, I go to the bar about a dozen times. And I get a drink each time.
I had a similar role in Barefoot in the Park, and we used juice instead of liquor. When one performance was over, my parents came backstage while I was talking to Your Sister. My Mom asked, "Son, don't you know what apple juice does to you?" That was the first impression Your Sister had of the woman who would later become her mother-in-law.
We get a new schedule, and it's not so different from before. We get this Wednesday off. I'm within 20 pages of memorizing the script, and the extra night will give me some more time to work on that. We are to be off book by the middle of next week.
Picture of the Day
Yes, it's a robot head.
We run Act One in segments to tighten up movement. Both male actors are amazed at how much is covered within 5-page increments. This script is huge and unnecessarily wordy. Too much passive voice, too many clutter words. It's clearly a British script from the '70s, and I don't regert for an instant requesting we drop the accents. That would have been too much to shoulder. The best scene of Act One remains the argument between the lazy husband and the rich wife. It's quick and animated, whereas the rest of the act is a slow con punctuated by short questions and long answers. The argument has give and take and waves of emotions. The wife actress is bringing it every night. It's such a good role: it's one act long, she rips apart her schlub hubby, and she dies twice onstage. Then she puts her feet up for 90 minutes.
One habit the director is trying to break me of is turning out to the audience. One of the fundamental rules of theatre is that you don't turn your back; you always face front, even when you're allegedly looking at the other actors. You cheat your body at an angle so the audience rarely sees you in profile. You're usually at least at three-quarters to them. When I move to the bar in this play, I'm always backing up a bit so I look at the audience and the other actor. Almost every movement to the bar has dialogue, and I didn't want to speak to the back wall. But the director says it looks unnatural. I don't mind organic movement so long as the audience can hear me. Hoepfully the words will echo off the wall and back to their ears. Also, I go to the bar about a dozen times. And I get a drink each time.
I had a similar role in Barefoot in the Park, and we used juice instead of liquor. When one performance was over, my parents came backstage while I was talking to Your Sister. My Mom asked, "Son, don't you know what apple juice does to you?" That was the first impression Your Sister had of the woman who would later become her mother-in-law.
We get a new schedule, and it's not so different from before. We get this Wednesday off. I'm within 20 pages of memorizing the script, and the extra night will give me some more time to work on that. We are to be off book by the middle of next week.
Picture of the Day
Yes, it's a robot head.
Monday, February 25
Oscar Weekend
I called Dad and learned he has a follow-up with the surgeon who removed his neck growth in January. Maybe they have an idea about what kind of lymphoma he has. (My guess: No.) Dad is also growing adamant about removing the armpit growth, which suggests he's impatient with the chemo or doesn't want 18 weeks of chemo-induced nausea. I can't blame him.
An NPR interview encouraged Your Sis to want to see Eastern Promises, despite the presence of Viggo Mortensen, whom she can't stand. And the Oscar broadcast lead her to want to watch more movies I couldn't drag her to last year. Eastern Promises is good, but no way did he deserve an acting nomination from that. Still, if it gets him bigger roles, I'm all for it.
The Oscars were very good last night. A warm, polite show that flew by at just over three hours. Jon Stewart was the perfect host and fan and everyman. Disney must have strong-armed the academy to nominate three songs from Enchanted; two of them were clearly filler nominations. And a bunch of solid actors won awards. It seemed like every winner was a solid choice and not just because I have a crush on Tilda Swinton.
Your Sister spent the majority of the weekend working. I shoved the fist scene of Act Two in my brain and suffered for it the rest of the weekend. I'm trying to nail down the Act One lines verbatim. I now have a week and two days to learn the remaining 22 pages.
Picture of the Day
Pouty astrokids will fuck you up.
In the News
Ralph Nader is a jerk.
An NPR interview encouraged Your Sis to want to see Eastern Promises, despite the presence of Viggo Mortensen, whom she can't stand. And the Oscar broadcast lead her to want to watch more movies I couldn't drag her to last year. Eastern Promises is good, but no way did he deserve an acting nomination from that. Still, if it gets him bigger roles, I'm all for it.
The Oscars were very good last night. A warm, polite show that flew by at just over three hours. Jon Stewart was the perfect host and fan and everyman. Disney must have strong-armed the academy to nominate three songs from Enchanted; two of them were clearly filler nominations. And a bunch of solid actors won awards. It seemed like every winner was a solid choice and not just because I have a crush on Tilda Swinton.
Your Sister spent the majority of the weekend working. I shoved the fist scene of Act Two in my brain and suffered for it the rest of the weekend. I'm trying to nail down the Act One lines verbatim. I now have a week and two days to learn the remaining 22 pages.
Picture of the Day
Pouty astrokids will fuck you up.
In the News
Ralph Nader is a jerk.
Saturday, February 23
Day 10: Pictures and Lines
I barely looked at the script on Thursday, and I didn't review lines. I took a break. I have just under two weeks to learn Act Two, but it's very feasible. Unlike in the first act, I'm offstage for a number of pages. We also have clearly delineated scenes, and I can work on blocks of script at a time. My brain still dreads the necessary heavy-lifting, but I'm not freaked out by the deadline.
An early Friday email told us we're to take our fist batch of publicity pictures before that night's rehearsal. Unfortunately, it comes a day before my haircut AND I have to hurry home to clean up, shave, and dress in a suit after gobbling a quick dinner so I can arrive early at the warehouse. The suit I thought I might wear is too big in the pants, and the blazer I considered has apparently been donated. I had to wear my suit from the courtroom show. The only one who would have recognized it would be the photographer who also mans the theatre website. He's also the unprofessional backseat director from the last show. I girded my loins beforehand for him to say something -- anything -- about this show, but he instead snaps our pictures without the expected frenetic attitude and leaves. I do wish that the pictures were taken with a better realized set or after we had talked to the costumer. We're using cardboard boxes to represent record-players, blue-foam insulation for walls, and patio furniture for a dining set. The show doesn't run for a month; why take production pictures now? They in no way represent what the show will look like.
The wife is wearing a potential wig, but the director isn't keen on it, and the other actress joins in the debate for wig styles. The murderer and I exchange stories of high school (he's still attending). If you're in theatre at that age, you are, of course, gay as a chandelier. But we both know that drama students get to see each other change clothes, and we've seen more of the girls than their boyfriends. When I told a football player this way back when, he stopped giving me shit. Out of curiosity, I Googled his girlfriend today and found her immediately. She works as a media trainer for military folks, helping them handle press interviews. She looks very much the same.
It takes a while to gets started, and this will be the first run-through of the whole show. I eschew the script for Act One, and do OKish. Not as good as Wednesday, but I recall more of the blocking. I'm aware that I'm paraphrasing the lines, and I know I'll hear about it after. We do. We all do. The post-rehearsal notes from the director are encouraging and complimentary, but he warns we have to knuckle down and work. And we will. As the mistress points out, we're all good and experienced and committed to the show. The murderer and wife choreograph the killing; she's worried about her shoulder strain as he drags her out of the house, and the director says he'll noodle it through in the downtime. We don't go back until Monday night, and I hope to have most of the first scene of Act Two memorized before that.
Picture of the Day
Here we are: wife, murderer, director, mistress, me. Note the walls and table. That's supposed to be the interior of stately Greg Manor.
An early Friday email told us we're to take our fist batch of publicity pictures before that night's rehearsal. Unfortunately, it comes a day before my haircut AND I have to hurry home to clean up, shave, and dress in a suit after gobbling a quick dinner so I can arrive early at the warehouse. The suit I thought I might wear is too big in the pants, and the blazer I considered has apparently been donated. I had to wear my suit from the courtroom show. The only one who would have recognized it would be the photographer who also mans the theatre website. He's also the unprofessional backseat director from the last show. I girded my loins beforehand for him to say something -- anything -- about this show, but he instead snaps our pictures without the expected frenetic attitude and leaves. I do wish that the pictures were taken with a better realized set or after we had talked to the costumer. We're using cardboard boxes to represent record-players, blue-foam insulation for walls, and patio furniture for a dining set. The show doesn't run for a month; why take production pictures now? They in no way represent what the show will look like.
The wife is wearing a potential wig, but the director isn't keen on it, and the other actress joins in the debate for wig styles. The murderer and I exchange stories of high school (he's still attending). If you're in theatre at that age, you are, of course, gay as a chandelier. But we both know that drama students get to see each other change clothes, and we've seen more of the girls than their boyfriends. When I told a football player this way back when, he stopped giving me shit. Out of curiosity, I Googled his girlfriend today and found her immediately. She works as a media trainer for military folks, helping them handle press interviews. She looks very much the same.
It takes a while to gets started, and this will be the first run-through of the whole show. I eschew the script for Act One, and do OKish. Not as good as Wednesday, but I recall more of the blocking. I'm aware that I'm paraphrasing the lines, and I know I'll hear about it after. We do. We all do. The post-rehearsal notes from the director are encouraging and complimentary, but he warns we have to knuckle down and work. And we will. As the mistress points out, we're all good and experienced and committed to the show. The murderer and wife choreograph the killing; she's worried about her shoulder strain as he drags her out of the house, and the director says he'll noodle it through in the downtime. We don't go back until Monday night, and I hope to have most of the first scene of Act Two memorized before that.
Picture of the Day
Here we are: wife, murderer, director, mistress, me. Note the walls and table. That's supposed to be the interior of stately Greg Manor.
Wednesday, February 20
Day 9: Act One from Memory
The director called me earlier in the day to ask about stage managers. The folks he originally asked can't work the show, and he wanted to know about the couple from the previous show, which apparently has entered lore as That Show. I told him I stayed out of the backstage, onstage, and online ugliness until the stage managers were impugned. I had to speak up to defend them. I told him I'd work with them again in a heartbeat.
I ran my lines as I drove to work, took a lunch break, and drove back home. This was the rehearsal I'd dreaded since the first night: 25 pages, no script. I got to the warehouse a little early and met with the other actor; we didn't run lines, we just shot the shit, escaping the anxiety for a minute. The actress playing the wife had been in Florida for a week and learned her lines driving there and back. Everyone caught up in chat for a bit (including some gossip about potential new buildings for the company), and we two actors sat on the couch, eager to get to work. Finally, the director called us to order, and we started. His wife observed our lines while he checked our stage movement.
It went really well. The lines were there, mostly. I'd say I recalled 80% of them and even recalled the preceding cue lines. I made sure to not recite those when the other actor had trouble; that might be overbearing. But I could have, and I'm competitive enough to be proud of that. It was a fun atmosphere. We'd cracked up at mistakes, affirmed our lines with the reader, and ad-libbed lines when we obviously went off the rails. We all knew the gist if not the specific words, and the director instructed us to nail down the exact wording. Even when I was offstage, I kept my script closed. The blocking was sporadic. I couldn't remember where I was supposed to stand until a few lines later, and I remembered from where I was supposed to walk away. But the director was patient with us, and we'd often hear our directions and redo the page to cement the movement.
I'm happy with last night. It was a big relief, and just working without the books made the play lift off. We got to focus a little more on props including the glasses from the bar. They make for great props, and they let you adjust posture, gestures, and breathing when you pantomime drinking. But now that I tackled en entire act in two weeks, I know I can learn the second act in the same amount of time. The pressure's off.
The director held the two male actors a little later to walk us through our initial conversation. But what he really wanted was for us to inject some natural manner into it. He told us to forget the lines, and just talk. Improvise the conversation. Be our characters and go with the plot. And we did, and it was easily the most illuminating rehearsal moment I've ever enjoyed. The other guy (still in high school) was up for it, and I was simply writing out loud, something I do with my comic stuff anyway. We went for about ten minutes, coming up with pretty good lines and jokes, and then we introduced the topics of the divorce and the will and the murder, and the other actor starts to lean in to sell the hit, and I joke with him to distance my character from the situation.
And right then, the director jumps up, stops us, runs up to us, and says "that's exactly what I want." The instinctive movement and attitude. Two guys talking. A clear distinction of background and experiences. Just that easy. Our mistake was trying too hard to "act," and the director showed us how , to use the cliche, to be in the moment. It was a moment of clarity so crystalline that I couldn't stop smiling. And if we can repeat that onstage, the audience will be in our hands the whole way through. We left the rehearsal practically hovering, and there to greet us was a red half moon.
I got home before Your Sister did, and she walked in the door asking if I wanted to find a meadow to watch the eclipse. And we did. We even saw two shooting stars. It was as good a night as I could ask for. And I get tonight off from teh play to eat wings and watch Lost.
Picture of the Day
I'm pretty sure this guy was already gone when the moon snuck into our penumbra.
I ran my lines as I drove to work, took a lunch break, and drove back home. This was the rehearsal I'd dreaded since the first night: 25 pages, no script. I got to the warehouse a little early and met with the other actor; we didn't run lines, we just shot the shit, escaping the anxiety for a minute. The actress playing the wife had been in Florida for a week and learned her lines driving there and back. Everyone caught up in chat for a bit (including some gossip about potential new buildings for the company), and we two actors sat on the couch, eager to get to work. Finally, the director called us to order, and we started. His wife observed our lines while he checked our stage movement.
It went really well. The lines were there, mostly. I'd say I recalled 80% of them and even recalled the preceding cue lines. I made sure to not recite those when the other actor had trouble; that might be overbearing. But I could have, and I'm competitive enough to be proud of that. It was a fun atmosphere. We'd cracked up at mistakes, affirmed our lines with the reader, and ad-libbed lines when we obviously went off the rails. We all knew the gist if not the specific words, and the director instructed us to nail down the exact wording. Even when I was offstage, I kept my script closed. The blocking was sporadic. I couldn't remember where I was supposed to stand until a few lines later, and I remembered from where I was supposed to walk away. But the director was patient with us, and we'd often hear our directions and redo the page to cement the movement.
I'm happy with last night. It was a big relief, and just working without the books made the play lift off. We got to focus a little more on props including the glasses from the bar. They make for great props, and they let you adjust posture, gestures, and breathing when you pantomime drinking. But now that I tackled en entire act in two weeks, I know I can learn the second act in the same amount of time. The pressure's off.
The director held the two male actors a little later to walk us through our initial conversation. But what he really wanted was for us to inject some natural manner into it. He told us to forget the lines, and just talk. Improvise the conversation. Be our characters and go with the plot. And we did, and it was easily the most illuminating rehearsal moment I've ever enjoyed. The other guy (still in high school) was up for it, and I was simply writing out loud, something I do with my comic stuff anyway. We went for about ten minutes, coming up with pretty good lines and jokes, and then we introduced the topics of the divorce and the will and the murder, and the other actor starts to lean in to sell the hit, and I joke with him to distance my character from the situation.
And right then, the director jumps up, stops us, runs up to us, and says "that's exactly what I want." The instinctive movement and attitude. Two guys talking. A clear distinction of background and experiences. Just that easy. Our mistake was trying too hard to "act," and the director showed us how , to use the cliche, to be in the moment. It was a moment of clarity so crystalline that I couldn't stop smiling. And if we can repeat that onstage, the audience will be in our hands the whole way through. We left the rehearsal practically hovering, and there to greet us was a red half moon.
I got home before Your Sister did, and she walked in the door asking if I wanted to find a meadow to watch the eclipse. And we did. We even saw two shooting stars. It was as good a night as I could ask for. And I get tonight off from teh play to eat wings and watch Lost.
Picture of the Day
I'm pretty sure this guy was already gone when the moon snuck into our penumbra.
Tuesday, February 19
Day 8: Act Two Again
Other stuff from this past weekend:
1) We did our taxes and got a nice federal refund, despite a lull in our charity giving. I think Your Sis really wants a new HD TV.
2) One of our favorite local restaurants temporarily lost my ATM card. I paid the bill, and the card fell out on the way back to our table. I freaked. Your Sis freaked. The waitress, upon handing us the card, was nonchalant. She offered no apology for it nor did she sympathize. Your Sis almost decked her. This oddly happened right after we talked about closing out my first credit card account, the last burden of my first marriage.
I've walked around every rehearsal with the script binder in my hands and a pencil behind my ear. Tonight, the mistress wanted to add props (wigs, glasses, bottles, letters), and it screwed me up. I was juggling while trying to emote and get the lines right, and I gave up after half an hour. She also wanted to negotiate our kisses, now that we're both past our colds. I decided my guy would be a cheek kisser; he's too square and dispassionate to be a full-on smoocher. So that's what we did. This is the third play where I'm kissing someone onstage, and it's a nice little perk if you get along with the actress. I already warned Your Sis about it, and she was OK.
She and the murderer try on the blonde wigs, and I think they settle on a bob hairstyle. I'm a bit jealous as I don't get to wear a wig, but then again: kisses. We also have walls for the set, complete with two doors and a window. It makes the set looks much smaller. We're told right off that the set will need to squeeze back a bit as the stage is smaller than our arranged rehearsal space. It won't be so bad an adjustment this early. The walls shake when the doors close, but I'm sure they'll fix that later on.
The first scene of Act Two is the most normal. The widower and mistress play house, and the murderer shows up to lower the boom on the widower. It's a lot of slow exposition, and my guy shifts from happy-go-lucky to whining guilt in 12 pages. It's the duldrums of the play, and there's not much we can do to spice it up except move around a lot. And we do. My default stage direction is to head back to the bar. I will drink something onstage throughout the play. Probably apple juice. The murderer has to chug Coke the whole show. We may need pisspots backstage.
I haven't had this substantial a role in this small a cast in a decade, and I'm exhausted. I drag going home, I drag going back to the warehouse, and it's harder to retain the new lines. It will be much better when we aren't holding scripts, and Wednesday night will be our first off-book rehearsal. The murderer (a high-school student) is of course cramming at the last second. But with his youth and homework-honed brain, he might be OK. I'm running my lines during my commute. And tomorrow I start memorizing Act Two, which conveniently is broken up into real scenes. Act One is just an entire scene.
Picture of the Day
Colbert the Crusader
1) We did our taxes and got a nice federal refund, despite a lull in our charity giving. I think Your Sis really wants a new HD TV.
2) One of our favorite local restaurants temporarily lost my ATM card. I paid the bill, and the card fell out on the way back to our table. I freaked. Your Sis freaked. The waitress, upon handing us the card, was nonchalant. She offered no apology for it nor did she sympathize. Your Sis almost decked her. This oddly happened right after we talked about closing out my first credit card account, the last burden of my first marriage.
I've walked around every rehearsal with the script binder in my hands and a pencil behind my ear. Tonight, the mistress wanted to add props (wigs, glasses, bottles, letters), and it screwed me up. I was juggling while trying to emote and get the lines right, and I gave up after half an hour. She also wanted to negotiate our kisses, now that we're both past our colds. I decided my guy would be a cheek kisser; he's too square and dispassionate to be a full-on smoocher. So that's what we did. This is the third play where I'm kissing someone onstage, and it's a nice little perk if you get along with the actress. I already warned Your Sis about it, and she was OK.
She and the murderer try on the blonde wigs, and I think they settle on a bob hairstyle. I'm a bit jealous as I don't get to wear a wig, but then again: kisses. We also have walls for the set, complete with two doors and a window. It makes the set looks much smaller. We're told right off that the set will need to squeeze back a bit as the stage is smaller than our arranged rehearsal space. It won't be so bad an adjustment this early. The walls shake when the doors close, but I'm sure they'll fix that later on.
The first scene of Act Two is the most normal. The widower and mistress play house, and the murderer shows up to lower the boom on the widower. It's a lot of slow exposition, and my guy shifts from happy-go-lucky to whining guilt in 12 pages. It's the duldrums of the play, and there's not much we can do to spice it up except move around a lot. And we do. My default stage direction is to head back to the bar. I will drink something onstage throughout the play. Probably apple juice. The murderer has to chug Coke the whole show. We may need pisspots backstage.
I haven't had this substantial a role in this small a cast in a decade, and I'm exhausted. I drag going home, I drag going back to the warehouse, and it's harder to retain the new lines. It will be much better when we aren't holding scripts, and Wednesday night will be our first off-book rehearsal. The murderer (a high-school student) is of course cramming at the last second. But with his youth and homework-honed brain, he might be OK. I'm running my lines during my commute. And tomorrow I start memorizing Act Two, which conveniently is broken up into real scenes. Act One is just an entire scene.
Picture of the Day
Colbert the Crusader
Days 6 & 7: Act Two Details
Dad started chemo yesterday and called last night to say he felt alright. They doped him up before and after to fight nausea. Five more treatments will be administered every 3 weeks, spanning into June. This puts him on temporary disability, just a few years before was was going to retire. He sounds fine, if tired, and he says he's eating fast food to slam on the calories. Because the chemo will hit his immune system, he's somewhat homebound. I want to keep my visits short so I won't wear him out, and we hope to stop by this weekend.
I gave blood Sunday and received the hard sell to donate twice through apheresis. So I relented. Your Sis sat in the car and read while I leaked for an hour in the bloodmobile. What they don't tell you is that the IV solution that brings your plasma back in the veins gives you a sugar rush, and I spent the next few hours babbling and giggling. And then Your Sis bought me half a pint of Bass, and I went loopy. As the French say, "loo-pay." As they say in Germany ... something German. I believe very much in giving blood, and I was glad to do it. But when the room-temperature plasma went back into my 20-degree-warmer arm, I turned into Keanu from The Matrix. The scene after he takes the pill and the silver slides up his arm? Yeah, that was me.
We sat down to watch a DVD Saturday night, and I let her choose the film. She put in Lagaan, and it ran for 20 minutes before she accused me of being bored (untrue), and we switched to Blade Runner instead. It's going to be one of those weeks where we won't see much of each other as she does school and I do theatre. Speaking of which ...
Friday night saw us run through the first two scenes of Act Two. I was achy and tired and it may have helped me play older. The director wants us to learn the lines verbatim and stop drifting into paraphrase. It's a tricky script to learn, and we're constantly editing out the awkward British dialogue. Really, who says "daren't?" Who squishes together four prepositions within ten words? We have to adjust it. I was doubled over with laughter at one point because my line ("And what the hell is what she does to do with you, may I ask?") simply wouldn't come out.
We might be able to get our stage a week early, giving us two weeks of on-site rehearsals before we open. That'd be great. We also learn our first Sunday matinée will be on Easter, and one wonders if people that day will flock to a psychosexual murder thriller. There is word that 20 tickets are already purchased for our first Saturday because a local group wanted to see a mystery. However, this isn't a mystery. The murder takes place on page 24. There's no doubt who did it. The tension is in how far my character can be bossed into subjugation. (Answer: Quite far. And then he cries.)
We spent rehearsals Friday and Monday night testing out our initial blocking directions. We stopped often to rework moments, and we ran the scenes an awful lot. We need to, sure, but the third scene is my character's most wracking. Displaying a nervous breakdown for three hours is exhausting. I wore my contacts Sunday night to see if the director preferred that. He didn't say anything, but everyone said I looked tired. Again, maybe this will help me sell "older." Our current gun is inconsistent with the caps, leaving me to yell my lines and improv the gun sound. "Maybe we will be together ... in hell. BUT YOU'LL GET THERE FIRST!!! ... Oh, um, bang. Peyow. I'm, like, shooting you and stuff."
Trivia: Our fake mink coat is made by "Lykafur." Because it's like a fur.
Picture of the Day
We played a little Guitar Hero. I officially loathe Carry On, My Wayward Son.
In the News
You asked about pundit links to the comments I mentioned. I couldn't find them, unfortunately. But the next time you hear about a mass shooting, switch on right-wing radio. Give it an hour. And you'll hear the accusations and sophistry.
I did hear our local hillbilly preacher use his radio show to ascribe school shootings to hippy parents who taught their children nihilism. Logic says this was exactly opposite of what hippyism was all about, but this man wouldn't recognize logic if he came home and found it fucking his wife. I'm tempted to contact the man and suggest he use his daily Prayer Time slot for, well, prayer, but he's playing to his elderly frightened audience convinced we live in the end times. And I'm sure his accusations will lead to requests for money.
I gave blood Sunday and received the hard sell to donate twice through apheresis. So I relented. Your Sis sat in the car and read while I leaked for an hour in the bloodmobile. What they don't tell you is that the IV solution that brings your plasma back in the veins gives you a sugar rush, and I spent the next few hours babbling and giggling. And then Your Sis bought me half a pint of Bass, and I went loopy. As the French say, "loo-pay." As they say in Germany ... something German. I believe very much in giving blood, and I was glad to do it. But when the room-temperature plasma went back into my 20-degree-warmer arm, I turned into Keanu from The Matrix. The scene after he takes the pill and the silver slides up his arm? Yeah, that was me.
We sat down to watch a DVD Saturday night, and I let her choose the film. She put in Lagaan, and it ran for 20 minutes before she accused me of being bored (untrue), and we switched to Blade Runner instead. It's going to be one of those weeks where we won't see much of each other as she does school and I do theatre. Speaking of which ...
Friday night saw us run through the first two scenes of Act Two. I was achy and tired and it may have helped me play older. The director wants us to learn the lines verbatim and stop drifting into paraphrase. It's a tricky script to learn, and we're constantly editing out the awkward British dialogue. Really, who says "daren't?" Who squishes together four prepositions within ten words? We have to adjust it. I was doubled over with laughter at one point because my line ("And what the hell is what she does to do with you, may I ask?") simply wouldn't come out.
We might be able to get our stage a week early, giving us two weeks of on-site rehearsals before we open. That'd be great. We also learn our first Sunday matinée will be on Easter, and one wonders if people that day will flock to a psychosexual murder thriller. There is word that 20 tickets are already purchased for our first Saturday because a local group wanted to see a mystery. However, this isn't a mystery. The murder takes place on page 24. There's no doubt who did it. The tension is in how far my character can be bossed into subjugation. (Answer: Quite far. And then he cries.)
We spent rehearsals Friday and Monday night testing out our initial blocking directions. We stopped often to rework moments, and we ran the scenes an awful lot. We need to, sure, but the third scene is my character's most wracking. Displaying a nervous breakdown for three hours is exhausting. I wore my contacts Sunday night to see if the director preferred that. He didn't say anything, but everyone said I looked tired. Again, maybe this will help me sell "older." Our current gun is inconsistent with the caps, leaving me to yell my lines and improv the gun sound. "Maybe we will be together ... in hell. BUT YOU'LL GET THERE FIRST!!! ... Oh, um, bang. Peyow. I'm, like, shooting you and stuff."
Trivia: Our fake mink coat is made by "Lykafur." Because it's like a fur.
Picture of the Day
We played a little Guitar Hero. I officially loathe Carry On, My Wayward Son.
In the News
You asked about pundit links to the comments I mentioned. I couldn't find them, unfortunately. But the next time you hear about a mass shooting, switch on right-wing radio. Give it an hour. And you'll hear the accusations and sophistry.
I did hear our local hillbilly preacher use his radio show to ascribe school shootings to hippy parents who taught their children nihilism. Logic says this was exactly opposite of what hippyism was all about, but this man wouldn't recognize logic if he came home and found it fucking his wife. I'm tempted to contact the man and suggest he use his daily Prayer Time slot for, well, prayer, but he's playing to his elderly frightened audience convinced we live in the end times. And I'm sure his accusations will lead to requests for money.
Friday, February 15
A Mixed Day
Dad's lymph polyps are getting bigger. One is restricting his throat and the armpit growth is leaving stretch marks. They made an appointment this morning to start radiation treatment which is less intrusive than surgical removal. The radiation will be administered gradually. They'll call later today to say if they finally have a diagnosis.
I memorized the final pages of Act One yesterday. Now onto Act Two.
Picture of the Day
Someone got a haircut. She says she won't bother to straighten her hair every morning. She gave me a giant cookie, which we devoured during Lost and then fell into a sugar coma.
In the News
I don't know what angers me more: this new outburst of violence or the automatic reaction by Those Who Make Money by Talking. Here's what they'll tell their loyal listeners:
1) If another student had a gun, this wouldn't have happened.
2) The victims have been made docile by lovey-dovey parenting and cultural input to fight back. Which is a veiled way of saying "if I were there, this wouldn't have happened."
I've heard these arguments for years, and I heard them the loudest after 9/11. But what I don't hear is this: This is domestic terrorism. A suicide gunman is no different than a suicide bomber. And this is used to seemingly be the actions of Angry White Men. But, the Louisiana Tech shootings last week were the result of a female shooter. And the Virginia Tech shooter was Asian.That means this isn't just a Angry White Guy problem anymore. This isn't class warfare and people pissed off by Affirmative Action or immigration or such nonsense. Did you hear about the gay student shot at his high school and left brain dead earlier this week? Killed because he was gay.
This is a cultural symptom, and no empty-smiled political platitude is going to solve this. Don't blame the drugs (legal and illegal), don't blame the music, the games, the movies, or the books.
We have to fight the guns. Now.
I memorized the final pages of Act One yesterday. Now onto Act Two.
Picture of the Day
Someone got a haircut. She says she won't bother to straighten her hair every morning. She gave me a giant cookie, which we devoured during Lost and then fell into a sugar coma.
In the News
I don't know what angers me more: this new outburst of violence or the automatic reaction by Those Who Make Money by Talking. Here's what they'll tell their loyal listeners:
1) If another student had a gun, this wouldn't have happened.
2) The victims have been made docile by lovey-dovey parenting and cultural input to fight back. Which is a veiled way of saying "if I were there, this wouldn't have happened."
I've heard these arguments for years, and I heard them the loudest after 9/11. But what I don't hear is this: This is domestic terrorism. A suicide gunman is no different than a suicide bomber. And this is used to seemingly be the actions of Angry White Men. But, the Louisiana Tech shootings last week were the result of a female shooter. And the Virginia Tech shooter was Asian.That means this isn't just a Angry White Guy problem anymore. This isn't class warfare and people pissed off by Affirmative Action or immigration or such nonsense. Did you hear about the gay student shot at his high school and left brain dead earlier this week? Killed because he was gay.
This is a cultural symptom, and no empty-smiled political platitude is going to solve this. Don't blame the drugs (legal and illegal), don't blame the music, the games, the movies, or the books.
We have to fight the guns. Now.
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