The proper response for the stage manager’s call is to say “Thank you.” This tells the SM that you’ve heard and understood. This venerable tradition, which dates back into antiquity (since the advent of the wristwatch, anyway), precludes the necessity of rushing into the dressing room just before curtain and saying “Aaaagh! The Queen’s just arrived and we have to start, like right away!! Have you got your costume on yet?? Aaaaagh!!!” and rushing out again, effectively paralyzing your average actor.
Calls are given at the half-hour, the fifteen, the ten and the five. Then there’s “places, please”, and when you get word that everyone’s in place, you can call the opening cues. This sequence of events is one of the most supremely satisfying things that SMs do. Going up on time becomes a badge of honour, and you can usually tell a crummy SM by the lateness of the curtain. The audience gets calls, too. If you’ve been to a performance, have you ever noticed that discreet little bell that goes “bong, bong” and tells you to go to your seats? Ever notice that the lobby lights start flashing? It’s the SM who makes that happen. Now you know. Tell your friends.
Our audience for the dress rehearsal consisted of Rico Amato, Kim Lee and Sam Ruttles, who had abandoned their work on the AIDS benefit in order to venture upstairs for a little light entertainment, which they probably needed at that point. Tobin Boone was there with his wife, Rachelle, and their small son, Artie. Juliet arrived at the fifteen-minute call, half-corked, on the arm of Harvey Ogilvie.
“Sorry we’re late,” Juliet said. “It looks like you managed wonderfully without us, Polly dear. I’ll make sure you’re compenshated.”
Fish Gundy and his family came—I’d called them that morning—and George, Susan and Eddie had come down from Laingford. They didn’t bring the Neighbour from Hell, though it occurred to me afterwards that Gamble’s two little grandkids would probably have enjoyed it. Still, a social worker I’m not. They’d probably see it at school anyway, provided they were lucky enough to attend school.
In order for a dress-preview to work, it’s important to fill the house with as many well-wishers as possible. Performing in full costume with all the pieces in place is horribly flat when the seats are empty. When the actors know the audience is made up of friends, they receive an infusion of performance energy, but they’re in a safe environment. To throw this under-rehearsed cast in front of an audience of strangers at Laingford High without a “for friends” preview first would be traumatic. Actors, if you haven’t gathered this yet, are creatures of delicate temperament. They bruise easily.
Backstage, the actors prepared. A single, dim blue bulb burned in the space behind the playbox. Without the UV light to give them life, the puppets and props, each set carefully according to where and when they would be needed, appeared as dim, fantastical shapes. The actors were dressed in their black gear, but none had donned a hood yet.
Every performer develops his or her routine for the cliff’s edge moment before a show. No matter whether the performance is The Tempest on Stratford’s mainstage, The Naughty Knickers Cabaret on the deck at the Barmaid’s Arms or The Glass Flute in the Steamboat Theatre rehearsal space in Sikwan, the pre-show focus is always there in one form or another. Amber, true to her theatre school training, was performing a routine of diaphragm-stretching breathing exercises, arms at her sides, huffing and puffing like a steam train. Brad was bent over at the waist, trying to touch his toes. Shane was pacing and muttering and Meredith was standing stock-still, her eyes shut, humming. Ruth, who would be providing live accompaniment, had elected to wait backstage, in a gesture of solidarity that I found touching. She stood at ease, smiling in the half-light. Ruth had performed Shepherd’s Pie concerts to packed halls across the country for years, appeared on television and radio, recorded albums and was, essentially, a celebrity, in as much as a Canadian musician who hasn’t sold out to the States is ever a celebrity. She probably had her pre-show moments too—everybody did—but hers, I guessed, were very internal.
“Places, please, everybody,” I said, gently. They muttered thanks, and Ruth stepped out to her keyboard.
“Is Juliet here?” Brad said, and in response, her bark of laughter came wafting backstage.
“She’s in a terrific mood and she loves you all,” I said. “Don’t worry, this should be fun. If you get lost, just jiggle the dolls and make like the Three Stooges.” They all laughed. It’s easy to make pre-show actors laugh. Tell them anything, but keep it upbeat, is my motto. They donned their hoods and immediately became clones of each other. I headed for the front.
“Wait, Polly.” I think it was Meredith. “Come back for a sec.” The pressures of the day had somehow bonded us all. Don’t know how or why that is, but all the petty jealousies and rivalries had been replaced, at least for the moment, by warm fuzzies. The four cast members were standing in a tight huddle, arms around each other’s shoulders. The circle opened to admit me. We stood staring into the black centre of the circle for a moment and wordlessly began a tiny-step shuffle to the right, some sort of dance that bubbled up from nowhere. Someone started a soft hum, and then we were all doing it, shuffling and humming in a circle. It was the melody from the Axe Song. It only lasted for a moment or two, and it ended as organically as it had begun. No explanation, nothing planned, just one of those weird, spontaneous little things that make the observer think you’re all completely wacko. I knew that the circle-hum-thing would become a mandatory pre-show ritual. Every cast has its lucky rabbit’s foot. We had found ours.
I went out to the front, smiled at our assembled audience, flicked off the fluorescent overhead lights and cued Ruth to begin, then zipped backstage to prompt. The first performance of The Glass Flute began.
Thirty-Two
KEVIN: I think it might be smart to find a place to have a rest / I’ll stay awake in case we get an uninvited guest.
PRINCESS: You’re sleepy too, I saw you yawn. I’ll take a turn for you / We’ll share the watch; protect ourselves like all real soldiers do.
-The Glass Flute, Scene v
These are the things we learned from our dress rehearsal: Bradley Hoskins had the potential to shed about five pounds a show through sheer water loss, and he needed a stronger deodorant. By the time the final notes of The Glass Flute died away, the playbox smelled like a gym after a Grade Eight soccer game, and all the puppets that Brad had touched were damp.
Amber, when she messed up, had a backstage vocabulary which was truly spectacular. Something went wrong with the mouth mechanism of the serpent, she got flustered and lost a whole section of dialogue. Afterwards, she came offstage in full spate, using several words I’ve never heard before and adding to the Brad-thick air.
The black flags, used to make things “disappear” during the show, were almost invisible backstage. People kept tripping over them and couldn’t find them when they were needed onstage. I started grabbing the flags whenever someone tossed one down (the action was too fast to place everything carefully—it was a matter of running backstage, dropping one puppet or prop, grabbing another and running on again). Whenever someone came back for a flag, I’d whisper “flag” and hand one over. But I wouldn’t be able to do that on tour, because I’d be out front. I decided to make a kind of umbrella stand, paint it white, put it where it could be seen, and make sure that used flags got deposited there after every exit.
There were bits in the play that the audience found hilarious, which weren’t supposed to be. The bittersweet farewell scene between Kevin and Mother in the first sequence, with soft, sad music playing in the background, made the children howl with laughter. It was very disconcerting, and it put Meredith in a towering rage that lasted most of the run.
As we had expected, Shane would have to be pulled back on his Axe-acting. Even watching from the wings, I could see that he was upstaging Brad’s Woodsman quite shamelessly. While the audience loved it, it added a good three minutes onto the running time of the show, and it made Brad sweat more.
Generally speaking
, though, the run went well. Our test audience enjoyed themselves and applauded heartily at the end when the cast came out, hoods in hand, for their curtain call. As per Steamboat tradition, we conducted a short question-and-answer session after the bows.
The children in the audience, Fish’s twins, Tobin’s son and Eddie (who was sixteen, but as curious as any of the younger ones) asked the usual kind of questions that the cast would have to answer every day for the next couple of months. The Q&A was an important part of the show, especially from Juliet’s point of view, as teachers, principals and librarians loved any educational element which could justify the performance fee.
“How do you make the things glow?” would always be the first question asked, guaranteed. The trick in a Q&A was to answer as if the cast had never heard the question before, and to answer respectfully, without being flippant. After fifty times of being asked to explain UV light, the tendency would be to blow off the question and just say it’s magic.
The cast took turns answering questions, and the adults threw in a couple as well, for practice.
I got to answer Rico Amato’s “how did you make the fire?” question, but I think I got too technical. I was trying to explain pyrotechnical chemistry when Shane jumped in with: “Don’t try this at home, kids.” I didn’t see what the problem was. Rico had seemed quite fascinated.
After the audience had dispersed and the cast had peeled off their wet costumes, we met for a quick debriefing before striking and loading the set.
“Thank you all for a marvellous job, darlings,” Juliet said, sending a cloud of Chanel perfume and chablis-breath out over the gathered cast. “I know it’s been unfair to put this added pressure on you, and I know your Equity rep is keeping careful track of your overtime, which we’ll pay, of course. There’ll be an added bonus on your first paycheque as well.” Meredith assumed an expression of efficiency, and I suspected she’d had a word with Juliet in private. Good for her, I thought. “This performance tomorrow is very important,” Juliet said. “It’s our chance to give something back to the community and put some sunshine into the lives of those poor refugees, so it’ll be worth it.” There was a municipal election coming up. Maybe the chairman of the Steamboat board had his eye on the mayor’s job.
“What about the flashpots?” I said. “I think we should cut them for tomorrow’s show.” Juliet glared at me.
“Why on earth would we want to do that?” she said. “They’re the highlight of the show. The kids love them.”
“The kids who’ll be watching tomorrow aren’t ordinary kids,” I said. “They’ve had bombs dropped on them. I think the flashpots will scare them shitless and will probably frighten the adults as well.”
“That’s a good point,” Shane said. “Sudden loud bang and fire, type of thing. We could have them running for the exits.”
“This is theatre, Polly, not real life,” Juliet said. “Just because tomorrow’s audience doesn’t speak much English, it doesn’t mean they’re stupid. I didn’t know you were prejudiced.”
“That’s totally unfair,” I said. “I’m not being prejudiced, I’m trying to be compassionate.”
“You’re underestimating your audience,” Juliet said. “The Glass Flute is a magical experience that will take them out of themselves. The flashpots are part of the magic.”
“Then, at least make sure they know about them before the show starts,” I said.
“That would ruin the surprise,” Juliet said. I couldn’t understand why she was being so pig-headed. I let it go, but resolved to make sure myself that our Kosovar audience was told, before the show started, that there would be some pyrotechnics involved.
“I don’t have any notes for you,” Juliet said, which surprised the heck out of me. Usually, after a dress rehearsal, the director spends a good hour going through the careful notes she or he has made of the performance, pointing out slips-ups and making suggestions to tighten the performance. It’s part of the job. Once the show’s up and running, taking notes is the stage manager’s responsibility, but I hadn’t taken many, partly because I was too busy handing out black flags and following the script backstage so I could prompt if anyone got lost, and mostly because I hadn’t been able to see the show from out front. The puppet manipulation and visual comedy bits could’ve been a total mess, and I wouldn’t have known. Without regular notes throughout the performance run of a show, the staging can get sloppy. After a couple of weeks, actors tend to get bored and start to add things or “forget” to perform bits of business the director liked but they didn’t. I’ve seen shows completely transformed after a month on tour. Not doing notes after a dress rehearsal was setting a dangerous precedent, but considering the mood Juliet was in, I didn’t think it was wise to say so.
“I’ll leave you all to get down to the nitty-gritty now,” Juliet said. The chairman of the board was waiting by the door, tapping his foot. “I look forward to tomorrow’s performance, and I’ll come backstage before showtime, just to wish you well. Afterwards, I’ll take you all out to lunch. Toodle-oo.”
We watched her go.
“Sozzled,” Shane muttered.
“We should probably give each other notes, then,” Meredith said. “There were a couple of things I caught.”
“Me, too,” Amber said. When actors give each other notes, unless they know each other really well and have worked together for a long time, there’s enormous potential for conflict. Criticism, no matter how constructive, is hard to take from a fellow actor.
“Let’s do that tomorrow,” I said. “We’ve put in a 12-hour day, and we won’t have time to do another run before the performance at the school, so why don’t we meet here at eleven? It’s half an hour to Laingford, which’ll give us an hour and a half to set up, and run bits if we feel we need to. The show’s at one-thirty, so that gives us a bit of leeway.”
“Oh, good. We can sleep in,” Amber said.
“I won’t sleep, I’m totally wired,” Brad said.
“What about the costumes? Are you going to have time to do laundry before the show?” Meredith said. The wet, used blacks were steaming in a nasty little heap in the dressing room.
“I’ll try to get them done first thing in the morning,” I said. “The hoods, anyway. You may have to use your second set, though.”
“If you leave them for more than a few hours, they’re going to grow mould,” Meredith said. She turned to Brad, and I just knew she was going to make a remark about deodorant, which wouldn’t have gone down very well right then.
“Let’s get this set struck and then we can all go home,” I said quickly. It did the trick, and we got busy. Someone suggested that we celebrate by going to the Falls Motel Pub after the strike and load. Amazing how a powerful thirst can motivate you, even when you’ve put in a deadly-long rehearsal day. Ruth, Rico, Sam and Kim helped cart the stuff downstairs (we weren’t going to bother sticking to the assigned “who carries what” list at that point) and the whole business took less than forty minutes.
I wasn’t going to be able to join them at the pub, because I’d promised to meet Becker at ten-thirty. This fact made me feel sorry for myself. The first booze-up after a successful run is a sacred part of the theatrical bonding process. The actors wouldn’t wait for the next day to give each other notes. They’d do it in a good-natured way, lubricated by a couple of Kuskawa Cream Ales. The performance would be dissected, amidst much hilarity. Problems and things that needed to be done would come up in conversation and Kim, Rico and Sam would be able to give insights on how the show went from out front.
My absence would allow a tiny wedge to be driven between me and my cast. Call me paranoid if you will (okay, so you’re right), but I’ve done too many tours not to know this is true. Things would be decided at the pub that I would only find out about later. I’d give a note the next day about the flag-thing, and someone would say “Oh, don’t worry, we worked that out last night.” Rico or Kim would mention the Axe-acting and Brad and Shane would negot
iate between themselves what worked and what didn’t. Meredith would probably take notes and hand them to me the next day, making me feel guilty and out of the loop. What would happen in the hour or so to come would be a kind of production/direction meeting by committee. I resented not being able to be there.
I’d kept the serpent puppet out of the pack in order to fix the mouth mechanism for the next day’s show. It was only nine-thirty, so I had an hour to kill before Becker arrived. I tried hard not to play the martyr. Saying “I can’t come to the pub because I still have work to do” would have pissed everybody off. I told Rico privately that I was staying behind, so he could bum a ride from Ruth, but I told everybody else that Susan, George and Eddie, who had seen the show, were waiting for me at home.
After they’d gone, Lug-nut and I puttered around the studio with a green garbage bag, cleaning up the fast food wrappers and discarded water bottles, the spoor of the rehearsing actor. Then we went into the dressing room and were assaulted at once by the stink of the costumes, curled like a moat monster in a pile in the middle of the room. Luggy growled deep in his throat and moved in carefully to investigate. He backed off after one close-up whiff, hackles raised. It wouldn’t have surprised either of us if it had moved. As I bagged them, Luggy gave me his “You have got to be crazy” look and went out to the studio to see if there were any nice, pleasantly perfumed Portia-leavings to be checked on. Everything is relative. I left the garbage bag in the dressing room, ready to take it to the laundry the next morning, then carried the big serpent puppet out to the stairs.
Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 45