Wednesday, July 02, 2003
Week 29 - Dave's first show
July 02, 2003 11:39 PM
TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE SHOW:
Rehearsal. Actors are typically overworked, underpaid, stressed out,
running from bill collectors and landlords. And what do we do for fun? Sit
around in a hole in the wall and try to memorize words we think sound cool.
The show goes up in two weeks and we haven't had a proper rehearsal yet.
Finally, we get the space to rehearse. We get everyone together. We are
ready to begin, excited to start. And then Hank the Helpful Construction
Worker fires up a JACKHAMMER twenty feet away. They're tearing down the
building next door. The hammer is jacking so loudly it rattles the fillings
right out of our heads. It makes our teeth chatter.
So we scream our lines over the jackhammer, trying to ignore the fact that
this is a tender scene, a love scene, and we probably shouldn't be SHOUTING
sweet nothings into our beloved's ear.
Next, the theatre gods decide to get cute so they add to the chiseling
jackhammer a piercing fire alarm, which is short circuiting because of the
heavy rains from the night before. The faulty wiring in the building is
being addled by the moisture, so the alarm goes on and off at irregular
intervals.
And there is rainwater dripping from the ceiling. We're careful not to
upset any of the eighteen bowls placed around the stage to collect dripping
pools. We also steer clear of the falling plaster, and try to ignore the
fact that this theatre where we work, where we bring others to laugh and
cry, really ought to be condemned before it meets the fate of its next door
neighbor. We know there are rats in the building, we're just tired of
chasing of them.
Finally, my cell phone rings. One of my actors quits. 'It's just not worth
it,' she says. I look around. Anyone else? I think to myself the girl who
quit might be right. I tell myself that acting's OK, but I'm better at
writing. I hate memorizing lines, I hate getting off book. The first few
rehearsals I feel a tremendous anxiety. I should know the lines and I
don't. Invariably those lines which I have recited endlessly on the subway
and in the shower and into the mirror as the shaving cream slides off my
face seem to escape me at the moment of truth. I hate it, I realize. I
absolutely hate this part of an actor's life. Suddenly, I know this will be
my last show. I am a writer. What was I thinking? I look around at my
fellow performers (except they're not my fellows - I am not one of them... I
am pretending to be.) I see that the roaches, rats, rainwater, jackhammers,
alarms and daily indignities of our waiting and office jobs have not fazed
them. They happily remain to squash bugs and shout out lines over
jackhammers. They are having the time of their lives. They are playing. I
am not one of them.
TWO DAYS BEFORE THE SHOW:
Tech rehearsal. Everybody has to bring in their music. To the uninitiated,
this is an interesting time, as you start to appreciate all the backstage
details. For example, there are ten pieces in the show. That means ten
sets and nine set changes every night. Ten pieces of music are used to lead
into the scenes. An intermission tape must be cut. Lighting scenarios for
every scene and internal cues (phones ringing, sound effects, doors slamming,
lighting changes within the scene) must be mastered. Luckily we have a pro
in the booth. Jackie handles all that stuff so we don't have to worry about
it.
We run through set changes. Who moves what stool where at what time?
During the course of the show I will participate in eight of the set
changes. The other two I get to sit out because I need to be changing
costumes. That gives me something to do between every act. One more thing
to remember. My biggest fear is always that I will forget a line. That the
show will stop, and everybody will take a moment out of their lives, a
moment they expected to be entertained, and they will all stop and realize
that I have failed them. I have forgotten what I am supposed to say. They
have traveled from all over, committed this time, this precious free time of
theirs. They have spent it on me and my show and I have forgotten what I am
supposed to say to them. It is a terrible fear, and it is the stuff of my
nightmares - I am still enough of a novice that I equate a great performance
with one in which I remember all of my lines.
I am told I will move six tables, five chairs and wet bar on wheels every
night. I think I can remember it all. We finish tech at 11:30. I am home
by one in the morning.
ONE DAY BEFORE THE SHOW:
Dress rehearsal. Tension runs high. One of the actors drinks five beers
during the dress because 'everybody is too damn tense.' There are seven
guys sharing a dressing room the size of a bath tub. This is the first
night we deal with the reality of accommodating twenty-three costume changes
in the space. Amazingly, it works. Everyone's too busy to hang out in the
dressing room.
Despite the nerves, dress goes amazingly well. We are excited about opening
night. We nail our cues and hit our marks and give the performances we want
to give. Someone mutters, 'if a crappy dress rehearsal means a great
opening night, what's in store for us?'
OPENING NIGHT
Somehow, everyone's on time, dressed, ready to go. Technical cues and set
changes seem under control. I have recited the monologue that's been
troubling me at least 20 times today. I hope it is enough. I hope we are
ready. I go out on stage, ready to face the audience... And proceed to act
as if I'm made of mahogany. The presence of the audience has intimidated
me. I'm not sure why. Also, the audience seems mighty solemn. There are
three funny pieces at the top of the show - no laughs until half way through
the third piece - that's over fifteen minutes in. Trouble.
The show ends.
We bow at the curtain call, disappointed. The crowd is polite, but we know
we didn't blow them away. The artistic director of the theatre (who's big
pals with Jon Voight and David Mamet) chose this night to watch us. Crap.
I leave the cast party early. Work in the morning. Home by 1.
FRIDAY NIGHT (night 2 of 4)
I'm fired up. We're all fired up. Desperate to avenge last night's loss,
we throw ourselves into our work. Jitters are gone. We enjoy the pieces
with a sense of abandon, a sense of daring, of play. The crowd loves us.
It's a small house (it's a 99-person theatre, and there are maybe 60-70
people in attendance). We make them laugh in the first three minutes, and
we make them laugh loud inside the first seven. We know we are in good
company when they laugh at the little jokes, the subtle ones, even the
marginal ones. Great show. Everyone's excited. Cast party at Druid's. We
get bombed. We go to Rudy's. Then Zanzibar's. I get home at 5.
SATURDAY NIGHT (night 3 of 4)
The house is packed. Rumor is there's a casting agent and some 'industry
people' in the house, but we can't figure out where. The crowd is loud and
rowdy. The lights go down. We're on, and we're on fire. They love us. We
can do no wrong. It feels so easy - every movement, every action, every
gesture seems right on the money. The theatre is alive. It is without
question the best night yet. I have fallen back in love with what I'm
doing. What was I thinking? I'm an actor and a half! I do good work!
People are clapping for me! I float to the cast party at Druid's, then to
fellow thespian Kate's in the village. Kate has an apartment with a back
yard. So lucky. We party. I'm home by 4.
SUNDAY NIGHT (Closing night)
Medium size house. I have brought a video camera and tripod to record this
wonderful thing we have created, and to capture my majestic talent on tape.
The audience tonight is serious, solemn, not in the mood to laugh.
I am cocky from the night before. I overdo it. I adds lines to
my own play. I play for laughs. I fall flat on my face. I feel chastened.
I eat humble pie. Fame and glory are fleeting.
Cast party at Druid's. Everybody's exhausted. Farewell hugs and email
addresses are exchanged. At midnight I cart home tripod, camera and thirty
pounds of costume bag. Home by 1. I fall asleep knowing I am an actor. ¶ 5:53 PM
TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE SHOW:
Rehearsal. Actors are typically overworked, underpaid, stressed out,
running from bill collectors and landlords. And what do we do for fun? Sit
around in a hole in the wall and try to memorize words we think sound cool.
The show goes up in two weeks and we haven't had a proper rehearsal yet.
Finally, we get the space to rehearse. We get everyone together. We are
ready to begin, excited to start. And then Hank the Helpful Construction
Worker fires up a JACKHAMMER twenty feet away. They're tearing down the
building next door. The hammer is jacking so loudly it rattles the fillings
right out of our heads. It makes our teeth chatter.
So we scream our lines over the jackhammer, trying to ignore the fact that
this is a tender scene, a love scene, and we probably shouldn't be SHOUTING
sweet nothings into our beloved's ear.
Next, the theatre gods decide to get cute so they add to the chiseling
jackhammer a piercing fire alarm, which is short circuiting because of the
heavy rains from the night before. The faulty wiring in the building is
being addled by the moisture, so the alarm goes on and off at irregular
intervals.
And there is rainwater dripping from the ceiling. We're careful not to
upset any of the eighteen bowls placed around the stage to collect dripping
pools. We also steer clear of the falling plaster, and try to ignore the
fact that this theatre where we work, where we bring others to laugh and
cry, really ought to be condemned before it meets the fate of its next door
neighbor. We know there are rats in the building, we're just tired of
chasing of them.
Finally, my cell phone rings. One of my actors quits. 'It's just not worth
it,' she says. I look around. Anyone else? I think to myself the girl who
quit might be right. I tell myself that acting's OK, but I'm better at
writing. I hate memorizing lines, I hate getting off book. The first few
rehearsals I feel a tremendous anxiety. I should know the lines and I
don't. Invariably those lines which I have recited endlessly on the subway
and in the shower and into the mirror as the shaving cream slides off my
face seem to escape me at the moment of truth. I hate it, I realize. I
absolutely hate this part of an actor's life. Suddenly, I know this will be
my last show. I am a writer. What was I thinking? I look around at my
fellow performers (except they're not my fellows - I am not one of them... I
am pretending to be.) I see that the roaches, rats, rainwater, jackhammers,
alarms and daily indignities of our waiting and office jobs have not fazed
them. They happily remain to squash bugs and shout out lines over
jackhammers. They are having the time of their lives. They are playing. I
am not one of them.
TWO DAYS BEFORE THE SHOW:
Tech rehearsal. Everybody has to bring in their music. To the uninitiated,
this is an interesting time, as you start to appreciate all the backstage
details. For example, there are ten pieces in the show. That means ten
sets and nine set changes every night. Ten pieces of music are used to lead
into the scenes. An intermission tape must be cut. Lighting scenarios for
every scene and internal cues (phones ringing, sound effects, doors slamming,
lighting changes within the scene) must be mastered. Luckily we have a pro
in the booth. Jackie handles all that stuff so we don't have to worry about
it.
We run through set changes. Who moves what stool where at what time?
During the course of the show I will participate in eight of the set
changes. The other two I get to sit out because I need to be changing
costumes. That gives me something to do between every act. One more thing
to remember. My biggest fear is always that I will forget a line. That the
show will stop, and everybody will take a moment out of their lives, a
moment they expected to be entertained, and they will all stop and realize
that I have failed them. I have forgotten what I am supposed to say. They
have traveled from all over, committed this time, this precious free time of
theirs. They have spent it on me and my show and I have forgotten what I am
supposed to say to them. It is a terrible fear, and it is the stuff of my
nightmares - I am still enough of a novice that I equate a great performance
with one in which I remember all of my lines.
I am told I will move six tables, five chairs and wet bar on wheels every
night. I think I can remember it all. We finish tech at 11:30. I am home
by one in the morning.
ONE DAY BEFORE THE SHOW:
Dress rehearsal. Tension runs high. One of the actors drinks five beers
during the dress because 'everybody is too damn tense.' There are seven
guys sharing a dressing room the size of a bath tub. This is the first
night we deal with the reality of accommodating twenty-three costume changes
in the space. Amazingly, it works. Everyone's too busy to hang out in the
dressing room.
Despite the nerves, dress goes amazingly well. We are excited about opening
night. We nail our cues and hit our marks and give the performances we want
to give. Someone mutters, 'if a crappy dress rehearsal means a great
opening night, what's in store for us?'
OPENING NIGHT
Somehow, everyone's on time, dressed, ready to go. Technical cues and set
changes seem under control. I have recited the monologue that's been
troubling me at least 20 times today. I hope it is enough. I hope we are
ready. I go out on stage, ready to face the audience... And proceed to act
as if I'm made of mahogany. The presence of the audience has intimidated
me. I'm not sure why. Also, the audience seems mighty solemn. There are
three funny pieces at the top of the show - no laughs until half way through
the third piece - that's over fifteen minutes in. Trouble.
The show ends.
We bow at the curtain call, disappointed. The crowd is polite, but we know
we didn't blow them away. The artistic director of the theatre (who's big
pals with Jon Voight and David Mamet) chose this night to watch us. Crap.
I leave the cast party early. Work in the morning. Home by 1.
FRIDAY NIGHT (night 2 of 4)
I'm fired up. We're all fired up. Desperate to avenge last night's loss,
we throw ourselves into our work. Jitters are gone. We enjoy the pieces
with a sense of abandon, a sense of daring, of play. The crowd loves us.
It's a small house (it's a 99-person theatre, and there are maybe 60-70
people in attendance). We make them laugh in the first three minutes, and
we make them laugh loud inside the first seven. We know we are in good
company when they laugh at the little jokes, the subtle ones, even the
marginal ones. Great show. Everyone's excited. Cast party at Druid's. We
get bombed. We go to Rudy's. Then Zanzibar's. I get home at 5.
SATURDAY NIGHT (night 3 of 4)
The house is packed. Rumor is there's a casting agent and some 'industry
people' in the house, but we can't figure out where. The crowd is loud and
rowdy. The lights go down. We're on, and we're on fire. They love us. We
can do no wrong. It feels so easy - every movement, every action, every
gesture seems right on the money. The theatre is alive. It is without
question the best night yet. I have fallen back in love with what I'm
doing. What was I thinking? I'm an actor and a half! I do good work!
People are clapping for me! I float to the cast party at Druid's, then to
fellow thespian Kate's in the village. Kate has an apartment with a back
yard. So lucky. We party. I'm home by 4.
SUNDAY NIGHT (Closing night)
Medium size house. I have brought a video camera and tripod to record this
wonderful thing we have created, and to capture my majestic talent on tape.
The audience tonight is serious, solemn, not in the mood to laugh.
I am cocky from the night before. I overdo it. I adds lines to
my own play. I play for laughs. I fall flat on my face. I feel chastened.
I eat humble pie. Fame and glory are fleeting.
Cast party at Druid's. Everybody's exhausted. Farewell hugs and email
addresses are exchanged. At midnight I cart home tripod, camera and thirty
pounds of costume bag. Home by 1. I fall asleep knowing I am an actor. ¶ 5:53 PM
