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Posts Tagged ‘theatre’

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Woodminster: South Pacific, Day Three

In Theatre, Writing on August 10, 2017 at 11:52 am

(If you are confused, start here.)

Day Three: Thursday, 20 July 2017

When I returned to Woodminster from the Trevarno District of Livermore, Admiral Judy called me into her office. It’s just off the main office backstage, near the stage door. She said, “Here’s your paycheck, Ed. Don’t lose it on the slippery slope of curiosity.” She waved her hand in the general direction of stage left, the men’s dressing room … and the slope. Her eyes came to rest, I remember, on an old newspaper clipping pinned to the bulletin board behind me.

“Some people like to look for mysteries where there are none, Ed. When they do, they write conversations that never happened. Look: this conversation, right now, never happened. You’re making it up. And that’s exactly what I’ll tell anyone who asks. You’re a talented writer. Not an investigative reporter. Go. No. Further.” With each of those last three words, Judy thumped her index finger on the yellowed, faded article. Then she stared at me, silent, for a full ten seconds before leaving the office.

I took a picture; the article is transcribed below:

July 6, 1952
 Montclair, CA

Local Girls Missing
by Ginger Trancas

A missing persons report has been filed for Louise Archer and Bess Tremaine, both Sophomores at Piedmont High. They were last seen on Castle Drive in Montclair on the evening of July 4, wearing shorts and sneakers and matching blue gingham tops. Anyone with information should call Officer Bill Whiting with the Piedmont Police Detectives [faded to a smudge here]

It is not known at this time whether sightings of a lone figure among the trees of Joaquin Miller Park are in any way related to the girls’ disappearance. Most residents in the neighborhood attribute these sightings to high school pranksters, but local florist Betsy Hillebrandt tells another story. “I saw it clear as day,” says Hillebrandt. “I was gathering eucalyptus for my arrangements. [faded into a smudge here, too] about fifteen yards away from me. Just watching. Gave me the chills.” When asked what it looked like, the flighty florist fumbles. “Well, it was tall,” she says. “Its face looked pale, but I couldn’t see clearly. It was almost dark. But it was holding some[faded, smudged]

“Nothing to be concerned about,” says Officer Whiting. “Mysterious figures in the trees could be shadows, could be hobos. There’s no definitive proof that the girls went anywhere near any ‘mysterious [faded, smudged] saw what Mrs. Hillebrandt describes, wouldn’t they just run away and holler at the top of their lungs?”

That’s one thing everybody who lives near the park can agree upon: for the first time in years, Joaquin Miller Park was silent on the 4th of July. “Not a single firecracker,” says Ed Proust, whose backyard is separated from the park by a low picket fence. First time I haven’t [smudged] hose ready for a fire in a decade. If those girls were screaming in there, we’d have heard them.”

“The girls could be at a friend’s house, and they both have cousins in Reno. There’s no knowing what they might get up to,” says Officer Whiting. “Speculation only fans the flames. We expect them home any time now.”

For the sake of the friends and families of Louise Archer and Bess Tremaine, we hope it’s sooner than later.

Setting aside the rampant editorializing and somewhat egregious alliteration, it was an informative article. A little too informative, in fact. I began to suspect I was being pranked. So convenient, this article — just sitting there, coincidentally tacked to the bulletin board in her office. I went in search of Judy, but every time I got close to her, she was called – or simply went – away.

Call me paranoid. I started watching everyone very closely. Did I see a hint of mischief behind Linnea’s smile? Was Joel intentionally not looking in my direction because he might laugh if we made eye contact? Was Johann laughing at me, or at something Bryan said? That seems unlikely – Bryan’s what we call, “destined for hammers.”

Retreating into my work, I doubled down on memorization. We ran what we’d staged, then continued staging the show to just after I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair – the only song in the R&H canon dedicated to cum.

I allowed my questions about the figure, the doll – and now, the disappearing girls – to be subsumed by the need to master my lines. By the end of the night, I’d concluded that it was all an ornate hazing ritual. This is my third year at Woodminster, perhaps this is how they test us at the end of a probationary period. Frankly, that’s what I would do if I had a theatre company. Which is why it’s probably better that I don’t.

With a lighter heart and a far less suspicious cloud hovering at the edges of my vision, I left rehearsal that night determined to get them all back. Something really clever, but simple. I chatted with Amanda for a bit before getting into my car, then sat listening to NPR and waiting for my phone to recharge enough to listen to Aaron Mahnke’s LORE podcast on the way home.

Charging my dead phone to 5% takes about five minutes. Someone back at the stage door was laughing. Occasional cars would pass my spot – the last on the right in the lower lot, if you’re looking at the lot from the stage door – as the remaining actors and staff went home. The laughter at the stage door continued intermittently – like someone was going, “Ha-Aa! Aaaaaahhhh,” every thirty seconds or so.

I saw the lights turn off, and Judy left about one minute afterward. My phone was at 4%.

There were still people laughing back at the stage door, so I decided I’d drive over there in a second to mock them for their late-night caterwauling. There was a pause on the radio, and in that silence, the laughter came again.

It sounded wrong. Like someone in pain.

I glanced back through the hatchback on my Prius, but the glass is tinted – it’s hard to see details that far away.

I rolled down both front windows to see my driver and passenger rear view mirrors better, putting the car in reverse, which starts it beeping. The radio was still on.

The laughter was much closer to my car now.

I turned the radio down, put the car in drive to stop the beeping, and turned to look back at the stage door, rolling down my back windows, too. I could see the stage door clearly now.

It was locked. There was nobody over there.

From the trees on the dark slope in front of my car came, “Ma-ma! Ma-MA! Ahhhahhhhhhhghhhhhssssss …”

I froze. I didn’t want to look.

“Ma-MA! Ma-MA! Ahhhahhaaahhhhhghlllllhhhhssssss …”

It was louder.

Closer.

I turned front.

It stood in the shadows, just down the slope from the front of my car, baby doll held out into the glow of the streetlights, tilting side to side.

My windows are down.

It took a step forward. More of its arm was exposed. Pale white flesh. I did not turn my headlights on. I didn’t want to see.

Throwing the car into reverse, I tried to speed backward. My emergency brake was still on. I slammed my foot into it – unlocking and re-locking the brake three times before it released.

Another step forward.

I zipped backward, braking to avoid slamming into the curb separating the lot from the slope. The figure turned toward me.

I tried to roll up the windows. They wouldn’t move. I looked at the control panel. I’d engaged the driver lock. In my car, it stops even me from rolling the windows up or down. Also, the cruise control has stopped working. Unrelated. Moving on:

I’d like to say I tossed a few witty bon mots before I got the windows up. Something like, “How’s this for a glass ceiling?” Or, “You know what they say, when the Lord closes a window …” Too wordy. Maybe, “Glass half full me once, shame on you!” Or maybe, “Listen, Precious, I don’t have the ring.”

What I think I said was, “Holy fuck FUCK! Get the fuck, get the FUCK, GET THE FUCK –”

Giving up on the windows, I threw the car into drive and hit the gas, slamming into every pothole on the road out. I think Oakland Parks and Rec is aiming for a record. There are more holes in that road than in my plots. And that’s saying something.

I remembered to turn on my headlights as I was passing the Ranger Station at the top of the hill. I wondered if the rangers know anything about Dolly Lurker. Regardless, I didn’t get much sleep that night, my thoughts returning to the same image for hours:

I could be wrong. It was dark. I never turned on my headlights while it was in front of me.

I thought the figure was wearing blue gingham.

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Woodminster: South Pacific, Day Two

In Theatre on August 9, 2017 at 11:56 am

(If you don’t know what happened, start here.)

Day Two: Wednesday, 19 July 2017

I’m always astonished when a Bay Area native says, “Woodminster? Where is that? I never heard of Woodminster.” Believe me, actors, singers and dancers know all about it. The shows we’ve done there attain a burnished glow in the memories of those bold souls who braved the cold, foggy summer nights to see us perform. There’s something special about Woodminster.

My first direct experience of Woodminster was seeing Ken Ross as Mayor Shinn in The Music Man sometime in the early 90’s – probably summer of 1993. Ken was one of my instructors at Las Positas College in Livermore, and had directed me in my first musical (Into The Woods, 1993, I was Cinderella’s Prince), so seeing him onstage was a treat. Things that stood out for me in that production: Ken, tall to begin with, looked even taller from the back of a 2,000 seat amphitheatre. There was a live pony or horse pulling the Wells Fargo Wagon, and it seemed to be disturbed – perhaps by the loud music – and had to be removed, kicking and screaming, from the stage. The third thing that stood out to me was the girl who played Zaneeta, Mayor Shinn’s daughter. There was something disturbing about her eyes, even from the back of the house. She smiled and stuff, but there was a strangeness to her. Little did I know how that strangeness would come to affect me.

The second time I saw a show at Woodminster was years later, after attaining my BFA at The Boston Conservatory and stumbling into a teaching job in Dublin, California – just down the road from Livermore. One of my students ended up in a production of Annie at Woodminster, and I went to see it. Veronica and I sat in sleeping bags on the hard plastic seats, we ate cheese and crackers and meats, we drank a few bottles of wine. The cold did not affect us, and the show was lovely.

I missed the auditions for Les Mis in 2014 because I was in a state of deep mental and emotional distress, teetering on the brink of self-destruction. I would have aimed for Javert or Valjean. I suspect I might have been a contender for Thenardier.

It’s always fascinating to experience the stage of a theatre where you’ve seen big shows. In this case, the warped boards of the stage itself, the occasional coffee can light hanging from what appears to be a cloth-wrapped wire with a single incandescent bulb glowing inside. The logo of the can is barely discernible beneath decades of rust. But it works. So it stays. Not unlike Woodminster itself.

This, our second night of rehearsal, consisted of reviewing the blocking of the previous night and continuing from where we’d left off. I’m obsessively early, so I arrived around 6 pm to find Josh Marx about to work on his music for the show in the men’s dressing room – which is where Daniel holds all of his small or individual music rehearsals. They roll a small piano into and then back out of the dressing room for this purpose. When we’re running the show, this piano is rolled to the stage. During the day, Daniel gets a large umbrella over him. Now that the orchestra has been moved to the stage, it seems we will need to keep large umbrellas on hand at night as well, for the freak thunderstorms that plague the occasional opening weekend.

When I saw Josh Marx, I demanded to know where Engels was. He got the joke, and I dropped my stuff on a couch before heading back up to the terrace above the men’s dressing room. I stood in the same spot and peered out at the thicket where I’d seen the mask. It was a hot day, barely a breeze. The branches didn’t move at all. I saw a trail running up the slope, right next to the theatre. Two ways to get there: down to the stage door entrance and down around the fountains on the back of the theatre, then up the slope – or up the steps to the top of the seats where the audience makes their entrance. I headed up because it looked easier.

Two tall, barbed-wire topped chain link gates stood between me and the trail beyond. I walked closer to see if perhaps the locks on the gates were not fully fastened, but – perhaps luckily for all of us – there was no way through.

I was about to head back down to the stage and take the long way when I saw something up the trail, almost out of sight around the corner. In a patch of deep shadow beneath tall trees stood a lone figure. Its exact features and shape were indistinct, as it was clad in a color which blended well with the inky blue of hot evening shade. It appeared to be tall, of that I felt certain. I wouldn’t have noticed it at all were it not for the object it held in its left hand, thrust out of shadow into bright golden sunlight.

It was a baby doll.

It had a cloth body and realistic plastic head, arms and legs. From that distance there appeared to be markings on its face. I wished I’d had my backpack with me, as I keep a pair of birding binoculars handy. The eyes of the doll appeared to be missing, and the cloth body was stained a deep rust brown. As though it had been doused with chocolate milk.

Or blood.

The hand holding the doll tilted it from side to side. A sound came from the figure, panting – only more rhythmic. I realized it was singing – or keening – a chant. I caught these words:

“Mister Place, Mister Place, [something something] get your face.

Mister guts, spilled in ruts, [something something something] butts …”

I reached for my phone to zoom in and get video.

From behind me a voice: “Edward?”

I damn near jumped out of my skin, whirling and fumbling for my phone before catching it.

It was a member of the build crew. He seemed amused at my jumpiness. “Judy’s looking for you. She’s got a note about props.”

I pointed back through the gates. “Do you see anything over there?”

We both peered at the darkness beneath the trees.

The figure was gone.

I fully intended to head down around the fountains and up the trail to that spot, but social and theatrical necessities took my attention. The next time I thought about it was well after dark. We were nearing a break, the ideal time to explore the darkened hillside. Several ensemble men had just bolted to the stage, late for their entrance on a second run of Bloody Mary. I was the only one in the men’s dressing room.

A noise came from outside the window in the wall farthest from the door. The window, frosted wire mesh glass, was open a crack. The noise sounded like a dying, asthmatic calf. I moved closer and listened. The noise came again, something familiar in its rhythm.

I tried to crank the window open further, but it wouldn’t budge.

The noise came again and I recognized it: a broken, distorted toy voice box was saying, “Ma-ma, Ma-ma …,” trailing off into a wheezing moan.

I leaned close to the window to see if there was anything discernible in the darkness below.

Something slammed against the glass. I leapt back, knocking over chairs and falling over an old leather couch. Struggling to my feet, I saw it through the frosted glass: the baby doll, its face stitched like a crazy quilt baseball.

From the darkness beyond came the same rhythmic keening I’d heard from the trees up the trail. In spite of the evening’s heat – it was 72 degrees outside – I was chilled to the bone.

I left the dressing room. Better to be near people – even if they were onstage and I was just off, just out of the light, trying to drown in music the memory of the keening voice and the wheezing baby doll.

We were released at 9:35. I walked straight to my car and turned on the heater. Loud jazz all the way home.

I’m not so sure I want to explore that slope anymore.

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Dinner Detective

In Comedy, Employment, Theatre on February 5, 2015 at 10:21 pm

As part of my recent scramble for theatrical employment, I have joined the Bay Area cast of Dinner Detective: “America’s Largest Murder Mystery Dinner Show!” It’s incredibly fun as an actor and often involves a meal for the cast, which is always a plus. Of late, I’ve been doing several off-site shows, which are generally private events for local corporations. Last week it was HP, this week it was Google.

I won’t spill the beans of precisely what I do in the show — no spoilers! — but it’s interesting to note the differences between the two events and the two companies.

Walking in to HP, the dominant aesthetic is sleek and clean-lined. One wonders if one has stumbled upon a secret training base for James Bond villains. The free Starbucks Coffee machine is a dead giveaway that villainy is twirling its hipster moustache somewhere in the vicinity. They’ve got awesome displays of the kinds of projects they’re working on and a full kitchen and staff, with excellent service. They’ve kept an oak tree alive in a central courtyard, its twisting organic fractals highlighted by dramatic lighting at night, splendidly offset by the clean, clean lines everywhere else.

The people themselves — most of whom are actually vendors that work with HP — are all dressed in upper business-casual, almost all of them could model for Anthropologie and Nordstrom — or obscure quarterlies with names like Dogme-95 Cabin Chic and Beluga Mudbath Eros. The wine and beer flow freely at the open bar, and the volume in the room rises as the evening rolls on. It’s accoustically hot in there, and several key moments of our show are lost amid the chatter. At one point late in the performance, about thirty people leave the dining area and retire to the Starbucks Coffee Machine to continue their very loud conversations. While those who stay are clearly interested in our show, we are still competing to be heard — no way to sneak a fart at HP, they’ll hear it three floors away.

Because the dinner is a buffet and I don’t have a chance for a break due to the role I’m playing, I don’t get a meal. Our green room is a hallway leading to an exit. At the end of the night, two of the cast interrupt notes from the Host — who is essentially our director for the evening — to say they simply have to leave because it’s so late and the drive from HP to wherever they live is so long. I am astounded by this. One does not interrupt one’s director during notes unless there’s an emergency: building on fire, ubersexy Anthropologie models scalding the homeless with hot Starbucks, corporations forced to pay taxes on foreign income — things like that. When I leave, there are four or five of the partygoers out front, figuring where to go to create their little afterparty. It’s fascinating to watch drunk people with money as they wrangle for top dog in the fuckability olympics. I wish them a festive evening and they wave me away with the casual arrogance one reserves for gnats and fruit flies. They make more money in a day than I make in a month.

The Google event is at the Clift Hotel in San Francisco. The lobby looks like Loki’s private throne lounge. I want to go back there for a meal or drinks sometime, but I think I have to lose forty pounds and wear all black. Also, money. So. Anyway: the event is in the Velvet Room, where the walls are gigantic floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains. There are four wooden columns in the room, each stained in a deep, rich tone that hearkens back to Boston’s Oak Room and various similar old-school establishments. Again, clean lines dominate the Clift, but with quirky leather chairs sporting cattle horns and faux fur — though the Velvet Room’s plush darkness is nicely offset by the white linen on the tables and matching slipcovers. A row of tealights in the center of each table adds pretty sparkles. As we’re rehearsing in the space beforehand, our Host says that we’re safe to go more adult with the humor: this is a private show, the people from Google are smart and savvy. We don’t want to go too far, but it’s safe to pepper some jokes.

Everyone from Google is dressed very casually. Not even business casual: the sheer number of plaid shirts is remarkable. Not merely plaid: un-ironed plaid. Maybe even a button missing from a collar or something along those lines. It’s important to note, however, that even though there’s a lot of plaid, it’s the very most fashionable and recent plaid. No Black Watch or Royal Stewart Tartans here, no Tattersall, Madras, Glen or Houndstooth: it’s all variations on Windopane, Graph and Shepherd’s Check. Most resplendent in his blue and white Graph Check is the boss, and it’s clear that the smartest men in the room are those wearing the same pattern.

The Googlians are approachable, and some are quite aggressive in their own approach to the murder mystery. I’m supposed to be dressed like a member of the Hotel staff, but because I didn’t do my due diligence on what the staff wear, I stand out slightly: instead of black pants, black apron and black shirt, I’m wearing black pants, black apron, white shirt, black vest, black tie. One of the kitchen staff stops me to ask if I work in the restaurant as well — I explain that I’m an actor. He says I look exactly like a waiter. I realize that I could wear this same outfit, enter through the kitchen of a restaurant where they have the same uniform, scoop several tips off the tables and skedaddle. I hope I’m never that desparate, but now I know I’ve got the right camouflage.

Except that — of course — all the Google guys in their matching plaid variations immediately see the difference between my uniform and those of the other servers. I’m stopped as I’m bussing tables to be interrogated. But the other servers have decided that, owing to my height and silvering beard and slightly more formal uniform, I am El Capitáno: they pretend to confer with me for direction, clarification and such. They decided this on their own. These guys are now my favorite. I am rescued from interrogation by Mario, who says the Chef needs to talk to me. The Google Plaids thus recognize my status and cross me off their lists.

Well into the dinner, one of the detectives makes a couple mistakes, inadvertently insulting a guest. (We’ll hear a lot about this later, in notes from the Host after the show.) Owing to the relative freedom of my character, however, I am moving past the most fun table in the room near the end of the night when the other detectives says, “I think we’ve been a little hard on you guys tonight …”

Pitched for the ears of those closest to me, I say, “‘Little hardon‘ … ?”

This causes a carpet-bombing ripple of amusement in that corner of the room. It is quick, subtle and extremely effective: they can’t stop laughing.

When we get our notes for the evening, we learn that there are several audience members who felt that some of the actors’ jokes were unnecessarily cruel or inappropriate.

I have a momentary spike of alarm until I remember that the audience response forms had already been submitted before I made my cock joke. My quiet, subtle and hilarious cock joke. I am off the hook, ladies and gents, so of course I’m writing about it here.

In the end, we never get our curtain call: the hotel needs the room cleared by 8:25, something that came as a late-in-the-game surprise for our Host. When I head toward the kitchen to return the black apron they loaned me for the night, I see one of the guys who was suspicious of me early on — one of the only ones not wearing plaid, I should note — and he shakes my hand in the Lobby. “You totally had me fooled, man, the way you talked shit about working in Hospitality. Awesome show!” I thank him and head to the kitchen through the bar. I return my apron and thank the staff profusely. One of them asks if I want a job. I say yes, and she laughs. Joking with the underemployed actor. Ha ha ha. Yep. Zinger.

When I exit through the Velvet Room, I notice three of the other actors in the space, each pretending to look for something they left behind. It’s clear that they have no reason to be in there — none of us bring anything personal into the space other than our cell phones. I realize in an instant why they’re there: we didn’t get our curtain call, and we’re all desperate for validation of our work, our selves, our choices — both as actors and as people: tell us you liked us, please, so that we can continue to justify this lifestyle, this profession, this quiet 4:30 am doubt that whispers us awake and sits us hollow-eyed on the edge of our bed wondering if we could have had a family, a house, a car, a career … if only we’d killed our dreams and used their corpses to fertilize a fresh crop of practicality. It saddens me to see them doing this, and it saddens me even more to realize that I didn’t have to exit through the Velvet Room, either. I could have gone back through the kitchens to the service elevator. I am just as desperate as they are, but now that I’m aware of it I’m also deeply chagrined.

I make a beeline for the exit. Two of the hot Asian Indian chicks I saw aren’t in the room, and their giggles were my primary reason for this path.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

They left before dinner was served.

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Today’s Haiku

In Comedy, Employment, Intent, Open Mic, Standup, Theatre, Writing on January 22, 2015 at 9:44 pm

I’ve started doing standup at open mics in SF.

The following are haiku based on my experiences en route, during, and at home afterward.

If you like them, I welcome your comments. If you hate them, I welcome your comments.

Last two nights: SF
Open mic standup is fun
Ev’ryone is sad

White guy wizard beard
Walking lone through the Mission
Nobody comes near

Unemployment sucks
Hard to wake up before nine
Debate: write or wank

How to get to BART
All I have is a dollar
Soccer moms need cock?

Foot fungus in chunks
Time to get some tea tree oil
Expensive? Sell death

Job interview good
Haven’t said too much but then
Ha ha foreskin joke

I will look like that
When I’m sixty-five years old
Need to learn more spells

Guilty Christmas cards
Are the only kind I send
Mass apology

Pornhub so much fun
Comment on the happy vids:
“No sex life for me.”

She-she speaks the truth
Thus inspiring standup act
Transformation thence

Satan has a bump
Satan shares his bump with me
Now I have a rash

Cabbage soup today
Blood pressure too god-damn high
Dad expressed concern

I am unemployed
This is White Male Privilege:
I am still alive

First audition miss
Since one seven seven six
Shame chagrin and guilt

House so cold at night
Heating with the gas stove thanks
Yes I know the risks

Money running low
How to get to open mic
Soccer moms are gone

EDD card what?
Oh that paid the WordPress fee
Monetize or die

Postcard mystery
Last year so anonymous
Then the postcards stopped

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Jobs I Didn’t Get: Thenardier

In Employment, Theatre on December 18, 2014 at 9:37 pm

Since returning from my summer at Sierra Repertory Theatre in lovely Sonora, California, I have been auditioning for jobs all over the country via video. This has required the cobbling together of material, often at the last minute, often with sub-standard karaoke tracks or — heaven forfend! — a cappella.

A company in Indiana was holding an open call for Les Miserables. On their website were character breakdowns with sheet music and accompaniment they required us to use in our auditions. I auditioned for both Javert and Thenardier. I could have gone for Valjean as well, but I’d rather play J or T and I had a short time in which to prepare the material. So I downloaded everything I needed and got to work.

Mystery of the Ages: All of the Javert material was played at an incredibly fast tempo. Imagine Javert’s Suicide at three times the speed of the original recording. Perhaps there is a superb reason for this — maybe they were tired of actors taking ten years to get through all the schmackt, maybe they’re planning to shorten the show by playing dramatic moments at 78 rpm — but it made all emotional and focal transitions feel comical. How the hell was I going to sell this?! And here’s the kicker, friends and neighbors: the name of the track was, Javert Suicide Slower. So, if that was slower … what the fuck was faster? The Nathan Lane recording? I’d love to add Klezmer orchestration to this:

How can I now allow this man — ZING! — (slide whistle loop-de-loop)
To hold dominion over me?! (oh-ooooooooga!)

So it was a relaxing pleasure to be able to work on Thenardier, which was played at the actual speed one might associate with a reasonable and balanced production. Here, then, is my audition video for Thenardier.

Master of the House:

I did not get the job.

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The Sound of Music: Act II, Scenes 5 – 7

In Uncategorized on June 28, 2014 at 9:16 pm

There’s a no cell phone / no tablet / no computer rule in the rehearsal space.

I broke it last night.

The reason for the rule is that it distances the cast and crew from one another; people spend all of their time buried in their devices. It’s certainly true: the cast of Spelling Bee at Berkeley Playhouse were all so connected that we didn’t necessarily connect as much as we could have. Who’s to say if we needed more in-person connection? It was a great production, one I am proud to list on my resume. But there were times backstage when, owing to my unpopularity in certain quarters of the world (home), I had no messages to respond to (or, more accurately, nobody was responding to my messages). As a result, I would accidentally begin one-sided conversations with the gentlemen in the dressing room, not realizing that they were hooked into their phones and wouldn’t be responding. This is something of which I was just as guilty when I would have some form of communication to which I could respond.

So the rule at Sierra Rep is one I fully embrace. I love it. And when I broke the rule last night, I was instantly chastised.

Here’s what happened: when I arrived, a question of trivia was raised that I could not immediately verify or refute, so I went to check Google right away, forgetting that there is no T-Mobile reception in Columbia, CA. So there it was: my phone couldn’t connect to the internet. But while I had it out, I wanted to look at the rehearsal schedule. For The Sound of Music.

“Hey, Edward? Could you put your phone away? Thanks.”

This from Scott Viets, Artistic Director of SRT and director of The Sound of Music. Utterly polite and professional.

“Oh! Of course, I apologize,” quoth I, turning the phone off and putting it away.

Boy did I feel like an assnugget. Haven’t felt that way in a while, and I’ll be honest: it stuck with me for a little bit. So I had to ask myself: why are you so stung by this? You knew the rule, you forgot, Scott was totally nice about it. What’s so special about you that you shouldn’t be reminded of the rule when it happens?

I couldn’t find an answer of any use, so I chalked it up to residual asshole on my part: the asshole who forgot the rule was still smarting from having been caught forgetting the rule. Ridiculous. Time to focus on the work. So I took my lines outside and started working on them.

Well, I started to take my lines outside. But as only those with regional reception can check their phones, everyone else is free to chat. So somewhere between the top of the stairs backstage and the stage door at the bottom of the stairs, I was shanghai’d into about ten conversations. By the time I made it outside, I had to pee. Then I was called to stage my portion of Act II, Sc. 6.

Gotta say: Act II, Sc. 6 is delicious for me. That is all.

After that was staged, I went outside and recorded my lines and blocking into my phone verbally, writing down what I’d missed as we staged it. After that, I went in to look for something and Drew asked if I’d like to run lines. So we ran his lines for a while, until he was called to stage something.

Which is when I went downstairs to find that Gretl’s dad had heard me say something about backpacking and had brought a map of the Carson-Iceberg/Emigrant & Mokelumne Wilderness Areas to show me where the best trailheads are.

He also told me where to get the map (Forest Service Office / Ranger Station), and where to find the Forest Service Office / Ranger Station (Greenley Road, Sonora).

Thus has my quest attained direction.

He even told me where there’s an awesome little cache in the woods, near a pond near a lake. That’s all I’m saying for now.

Something else splendid happened last night when I was sitting downstairs in the green room, but in order to tell you about it, I need to give a little backstory:

At the first read-through, I was sort of sitting across from Gretl. I made a joke about crocodiles. She just looked at me. Drew said to her, “You know what, I’m gonna give you a piece of advice: just don’t listen to anything he says. He’s very silly, and just about everything that comes out of his mouth is ridiculous.”

Now, that’s funny. And it might be true. But I’ve had someone tell a child actor that before, and the result was atrocious: when I played Guido in Nine, an actress said roughly the same thing to the kid playing Young Guido. So when he wouldn’t make eye contact with me AT ALL during the emotional climax / revelation of the show, I was trapped: this kid’s eyes were everywhere; floor, ceiling, wall, shoes, audience. I was trying to connect with a tiny Mad-Eye Moody, it wasn’t working, so I went to the director and asked him to talk to the kid. He said he would.

Next performance, nothing.

So before the performance after that I went to the kid and said, “Hey — did Ken talk to you?”

“About what?”

“Eye contact.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, you know how in the last scene I’m singing to you about how I need to go off on my own?”

“Yeah …”

“You know what would really help me, would be if you would just look me in the eyes when I sing that.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re staring all over the place and you’re supposed to be my younger self, and since I’m talking to you it would really help me, as an actor, if you would just look me in the eyes — nowhere but my eyes — when I’m singing to you. Can you do that?”

“I guess so …”

“It would help a lot.”

He kind of sidled away and I crossed my fingers, but at that night’s performance he was tracking international moth competitions. I went to the director and asked if he could talk to the kid again. Turns out he’d forgotten.

Still nothing in the performance after that, so I went back to the actress who’d originally told the little shit not to listen to me. I explained the situation, and she called him over and said, “Okay, you know what? When I said that about not listening to him, I meant if he was being silly. But when he’s asking you about acting stuff, it’s important.”

Right about then, the director walked in, with his checklist. At the bottom of the list I saw, as he came over to the kid, was the kid’s name. He took him aside and reinforced everything we’d been saying, and for that performance (the final performance), the little shit looked me in the eyes. I got what I needed (emotional connection), the waterworks started, it was incredibly moving. It was the best performance, by far, of the run.

Would have been nice if he’d talked to the kid, oh, I don’t know … weeks ago.

Back to the first readthrough for SOM: Drew told Gretl to ignore me, and I said, “Wait a minute, though: if I say the building’s on fire, or watch out for that open trap door, I’m not kidding.”

“Umm, no, in those cases you should pay attention,” he said.

But it was too late. At the second rehearsal, Gretl told Marta, “Don’t listen to anything he says, Uncle Max says he’s silly.”

But last night, Gretl’s dad told me she’d made a three-mile hike with him, easy. So after we staged Sc. 6 and we were all leaving the stage, I said to her, “Hey, Ruby. I hear you hiked three miles recently. That’s awesome.”

She stopped, turning, about to step off the stage onto the single-step cube that we’re using as a convenient (if unsafe) stair. “What?” she said.

“I hear you went on a three-mile hike. That’s awesome. Well done,” I said.

She just looked at me, silent, then stepped down and went to her seat. I wrote it off.

Later, however, when I was in the green room talking with her dad and the kids were on break, she walked by and whacked me on the shoulder: a single pat, almost a smack, but it was a silent greeting, a hello, an acknowledgement. It said, you’re people, I get you, I trust you, hi. No eye contact, not a word spoken. Just a whack on the shoulder as she passed, looking for her snack.

The simplest and most meaningful gesture I’ve ever experienced in my life. Probably nothing to her.

In these times it was a powerful, unexpected, reassuring moment. I’m still trying to work out why.

All I know is, I’m delighted that I wasn’t buried in my phone, cut off from the world around me. The asshole who was upset at being reminded of a rule would never have noticed that gesture.

Good rule, Scott. Thank you.

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The Sound of Music at Sierra Repertory Theatre

In Uncategorized on June 26, 2014 at 9:58 pm

I’m spending the Summer of 2014 working at Sierra Repertory Theatre (SRT) in Sonora, CA. If you know my work, you know that there are two roles I would ordinarily play in this show. But I didn’t audition for it, back when they had auditions — I don’t even know when that was. This production was not on my radar. What I did do, was contact the AD about a production of Spelling Bee that they’re doing in the Autumn. Having recently — and successfully, I might add — played Panch in Spelling Bee in Berkeley, I sought to parlay that experience into being cast up here later in the year.

SRT said they’d love to see video of my stuff in the show. I said, absolutely. I asked Berkeley Playhouse if I could get some video of my audience interactions, and they said, essentially, we’ve already got video — what do you need? So I told them, and I got the video. They were lovely about it.

Sadly, my video editing skills are nil. I did not succeed at getting trimmed video clips to SRT in time, and I wrote it off as a sacrifice to the Gods of Timing. Then, some weeks ago, Scott Viets contacted me and asked if I was interested in reading for Herr Zeller in The Sound of Music (SOM).

For those of you who don’t know, Herr Zeller is the Nazi who tries to strong-arm Captain Von Trapp into joining the Nazi Navy. What Scott said he was looking for was, a real German dialect and a genuinely intimidating presence. He also said they needed a video asap — probably remembering that my other video never arrived.

Let me be clear: dialects and presence are my meat and potatoes, my cup of tea, my MO and my MA. I love dialects. I love playing the “bad guy” (I put this phrase in quotes because my villains always believe they are heroes). I love combining all of the above, and I just love playing Nazis. Reason being: is there a more immediately evil character than a Nazi? Nope. So, really, the uniform does all my work for me. All I have to do is pursue my wants with life-or-death stakes, and everything’s superb. No reason to play “evil,” and charm can be chilling.

So, one night after we got home from an A’s game (at which, it should be noted, they kicked the Angels’ collective ass), I threw on some un-summery clothes and created this little gem. I share it for amusement only. I made about ten or fifteen versions, and that’s the one with the fewest fuckups. As you can see, there are some moments when the pauses are too long and I have to fill them with schmacting, the camera angle is wrong and emphasizes my gut. I’m sure there are other problems, not least of which is the hiccup at the end. By the time I shot this one, it was after 1 am and I was tired.

Uploaded the video, submitted it to Viets at SRT, and within an hour of its arrival he called to offer me the job.

A miracle, I tell you. Couldn’t have come at a better time. Long story, there: best saved for another day.

Fast-forward over the following events: paid off outstanding fines from traffic violation, got new license, new car battery, SMOG check one [fail!], oil change, two attempted diagnoses of failed! SMOG check lead to my usual SMOG check place who — SMOG check two — PASSED! my car (they had no explanation for why the other place failed it, everything passed just fine), paid registration at DMV, got insurance and, BOOM: my car is running, insured, registered and splendid.

Sure, right now it leaks oil like a sieve.

Sure, right now it leaks steering fluid like a sieve going over Niagara. In a barrel. Made of sieves.

But it’s a 1988 Honda Accord with 134,000 miles on it. DONE! This is my forever car until I can afford a hybrid bio-diesel Honda campervan. No, those don’t exist.

Yet.

So I drove up here on Tuesday, arriving in Sonora around 10:30 am. Checked into my housing (delightful, more on that later), and attended the my first rehearsal, which was a read-through with the full company.

There is one other actor staying in the same house as me. His name is Drew Boudreau, he plays Max Dettweiler in SOM and he’s hilarious. Hire him, now. We carpooled to and from the first read, and on the way back I had to state the obvious, “You, sir, are hilarious.”

He said, “And you, sir, are fucking terrifying. I’m sitting there, as a Jew, shaking in my shoes.”

Laughing in delight, I said, “You’re Jewish?”

“Yes! And you’re asking them about their electricity and I’m having fight-or-flight reactions to the guy who’s staying in the next room.“

Every time I think about this, I chuckle.

So far, things could be worse.

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Spelling Bee: First Rehearsal

In Theatre, Uncategorized on April 25, 2014 at 8:06 pm

March 8, 2014
Thoughts on my first rehearsal for The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee at Berkeley Playhouse, as dictated to my phone while moving my car during a break at rehearsal. I will include both what my phone perceived and my attempt at translation, followed by elucidation as needed. Enjoy.

“Thoughts on my first rehearsal for spelling bee Playhouse, largely based on well everything. The cast appears all to be under 30, possibly even under 25. I feel like a dinosaur. I’m wearing plaid vest red tie navy blue shirt weather double batch the next AM., is that matters is that I feel so old in this cast I think I could I’m old enough to be something simple father.”

The cast appears all to be under 30, possibly even under 25. I feel like a dinosaur. I’m wearing a charcoal plaid vest, red tie, navy blue shirt. Overdressed. Will have to slob it up over the next couple months. This is a new experience for me: I feel so old in this cast, I think I’m old enough to be their father.

“The directors very attractive.”

The director seems to be a lovely human being. That always helps. I say “seems” because I have made the mistake of believing first impressions in the past, and it did not turn out well for me. So, I’m cautious. But she really does seem to be awesome. Time will tell, and I will trust with a grain of salt.

“I’m determined to be on my best behavior in this cast, but generally that’s true of every cast I will try to come apart. At the moment always comes when I make jokes that actually, it doesn’t always come. But it could come. And since I suspect that the majority of my doctors last year for from 510, and specifically Berkeley California, then I am cautious about making jokes. So dot dot dot its tricky.”

I’m determined to be on my best behavior in this cast, but generally that’s true of every cast of which I become a part. And the moment always comes when I make jokes that upset or offend someone. It doesn’t always come, actually. But it could come. And since I suspect that the majority of my cast hail from the 510, and specifically Berkeley, California, then I am cautious about making jokes. So … it’s tricky. I always assume that Theatre People will get my jokes, will be entertained by my schtick. Apparently, however, I am an acquired taste. Having been attacked and vilified by complete strangers — in a Theatre group — on Facebook, I am cautious. I will try to stay silent, say nothing, interact with nobody. That is a very difficult challenge, because I’ve hardly left the house since last May. I feel a bit like Robinson Crusoe thrust into a garden party.

“Interesting the first two musical numbers reversed are considered group members in which I do not appear to sing it note I have spoken words with them and I suppose it was good that I was there, but. No focus is given to my aunts music is fun absolutely fine, not necessarily I’m entering the cafe close email goodbye.”

Interesting: the first two musical numbers we rehearsed are “group numbers” — in which I do not appear to sing a note. I have spoken words within one of them and I suppose it was good that I was there, but: thus far, no actual focus is given to my material in the music. Which is absolutely fine, we had a lot of material to cover. Panch does not sing anywhere within the score. I hope that we’ll get them nailed down before it gets stressful. I can already feel how peripheral I am to this production. I’m entering the cafe across the street to refresh my beverage before returning to rehearsal, so I will close this email and say goodbye.

***

Interesting to note how accurate some of this was.
As of this writing, we have two weeks left. The reviews are all stellar, and there are currently some cheap tickets available via Goldstar: http://www.goldstar.com/e/81887

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Spelling Bee at Berkeley Playhouse: Auditions and Callbacks

In Employment, Theatre on March 20, 2014 at 10:07 pm

I’m documenting my experience playing Vice Principal Douglas Panch in The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee at the Berkeley Playhouse (BP). In the past, when I’ve written about my theatrical experiences, it has usually been in hindsight, and/or filtered through a fictional, amalgamized company. The one time I told the truth as I was experiencing it was during Oliver! in Idaho, and I didn’t follow through with consistent writing at the time. In this instance, I plan to document my entire experience, including the highs and lows as they come.

A little background: I’ve been acting for a long time. Started in 1989. In 2009, I hit what I didn’t know at the time was my personal glass ceiling: playing Max Bialystock in The Producers for Solano College Theatre, followed immediately by The Storyteller in The Cotton Patch Gospel for Custom Made in San Francisco. Bialystock won me a Sacramento Elly, Cotton Patch got me nominated for a BATCC Award. Right around that time I was offered a job directing Thoroughly Modern Millie at Solano College, which I accepted.

In hindsight, while it paid very well, directing Millie was the wrong way to go for my career. I didn’t know it at the time, but the Theatre Department at Solano College was on a fast-track to destruction — though at whose hand, precisely, remains a mystery as of this writing. I stuck it out, having been privately told I was the first choice to step in as head of the Theatre Department when George Maguire retired. Directing The Wizard of Oz at SCT in 2011 remains one of the single most disappointing artistic experiences of my career to date, for reasons detailed elsewhere. My last, and apparently final, directing job at Solano College was The Three Musketeers in 2013. Adapted by Charles Morey, that production was in many ways an artistic triumph. However, it was not enough to get me the full-time faculty position at the college, for which I am eternally grateful: it would appear that the college has succeeded in stamping the Theatre Department down into the same realm of mediocrity in which most other community college theatre departments reign supreme. I would have been deeply unhappy under the oppressive thumb of a school determined to disembowel our every endeavor.

Since May of 2013 I have been unemployed. There have been one or two small independent projects which have paid a couple hundred dollars, but I had arrived at a personal crossroads: at age 40 I remained firmly ensconced in a semi-upper echelon of community and regional theatre, not yet a member of Actors’ Equity, but having done this for so long that accepting a $250 travel stipend for a nine week commitment was suicidally embarrassing. I was offered work here and there, but it was all small-time, small-fry, small-pay. 100% Rinky Dink.

The jobs I accepted were the ones that a) paid well and b) weren’t embarrassing.

Then came an opportunity to audition for SHREK! the musical, at Berkeley Playhouse. I leapt at it, fumbling, and failed. First mistake: wrong material. I have nothing in my rep book which would suitably pop me into the Shrek spot in the minds of anyone watching. I sang something that was very general, and quite boring. I knew it at the time, but I was too broke to get my hands on other music. Yes, even taking the bus to the library and photocopying sheet music was impossible. No, nobody who lives close to me has sheet music I could have copied. I was in a pit I had allowed to erode beneath me, but determined to leap out of it by willpower alone.

I was called back for Shrek, but at the callbacks I was seen only for Farquaad. In all honesty, as the Farquaad sides were a late addition via e-mail, I didn’t work terribly hard on them. My work that night was what could only be called pure shit. Truth be told, I was really, really confused: why was I called for Shrek but then lumped in with the Farquaads, with no explanation? I was struck dumb by this turn of events, barely able to speak. It dredged up every lurking phantom of self-doubt, every insidious goblin that has ever jabbed me awake in the wee hours. Had I been out of the game so long? Was I suddenly transformed into everything I loathe?

I had been asked — either in person at the audition, or via e-mail, not sure which came first — if I would also be willing to read for Douglas Panch, the one role which remained uncast in BP’s production of SPELLING BEE. At the callbacks, I was told they would read me for Panch as soon as they could. After reading and singing badly for Farquaad, I waited on the stairs of the Berkeley Ballet School (which shares space with BP) for hours, the numbers of bunheaded women carrying heavy dance bags down the stairs dwindling along with the numbers of actors called back in the foyer below.

Asking an audition intern/assistant if I was in fact called back for Shrek, I felt certain I had misunderstood: I must have misread the e-mail, I must have mis-heard their words at the audition; he confirmed, however, that I was called for Shrek. This only served to compound my doubt. It was as I was sitting on those steps, listening to several other men singing the music I had worked for the last two weeks to master, that I made up my mind to leave. Had there been a back door, I probably would have. But the only way out of there was down the stairs, past other people and past the doors to the callbacks space. If the doors opened as I was making my getaway, wowsers, everything that was bad would be worse. I sat, frozen with indecision, very much aware of how pathetic my situation had become: my work is so universally unknown that I am sitting here thinking of ways to escape an audition for what is, essentially, a community theatre.

I was read for Panch by Matthew McCoy, Casting Director and Assistant to the Artistic Director. He recorded my reading via tablet or smartphone of some sort, to e-mail to Kimberly Dooley, director of SPELLING BEE. He thanked me for waiting, I replied with something amusing and polite — I’m full of amusing and polite statements in case of soul-crushing embarrassment — and, rather than raise the question of for which role, precisely, I had been called back, I quietly collected my belongings and left.

I could not trust myself to keep it together, whichever way things might fall. I have dissolved once when discussing an issue with a director, and I will never allow myself to do so again.

No surprise came with the e-mail telling me that I was not cast in Shrek!, but the e-mail that came a couple weeks later offering me the role of Panch was a pleasant surprise.

Here’s what I believe now: I was never seriously called back for the role of Shrek, for any number of reasons (non-AEA? Poor audition material? The role was pre-cast?), and Farquaad was an afterthought. Panch was what they wanted.

This job pays more than most other local non-AEA jobs, but my preliminary calculations indicate that I’m making about $.26 per hour. My unemployment has run out. I did not get the job at REI. We have many expenses. Veronica will only tell me how she truly feels about my employment status when she is intoxicated.

I hear it a lot these days.

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Bus Stop: Next Stop, Livermore! Part III

In Theatre on February 24, 2014 at 12:47 am

The producer is in the bar at Uncle Yu’s, slamming a double scotch and desperately calling everyone she knows. She even calls the set designer, isn’t that nice of her? She knows he’s done some acting, and it’s not really his sort of role but would he be willing to fill in or does he know someone? Thankfully, this set designer is realistic regarding his type and the time he would have to lose 30 lbs. before opening: one week. He declines, all gracious charm, and says he’ll put the word out. The producer keeps calling people.

The designer, after his luck with the door, is cautiously sending out feelers to the young male lead types in his network. Prophecy: none are close enough / available / willing to do the role. [Ed.: originally, the word “door” linked to a blog I wrote about finding the right door for the production of Bus Stop upon which this bit of fantasy is based. The gist: in 2008, Role Players Ensemble could only find one type of door for the entrance to the diner: a contemporary internal tract home door. I tried to find a better door. Shenanigans ensued. We were stuck with the shitty door they had. Moving on:]

On her third scotch, the producer sees something amazing; she blinks, leans forward … there, across the restaurant, a very handsome young man is putting on a customer’s cowboy hat at the behest of the customer and his younger, bleached and leathered wife. The handsome young man is a waiter. Server. Whatever the fuck, he’s wearing the hat and he looks … let’s not jinx it: he looks like he might work if we tweeze his eyebrows.

At his side, she stuffs a hundred-dollar bill into his hand, “You’re coming with me, I’m a theatrical producer, we need your help immediately, where’s your manager and will this nice man let us borrow his hat for twenty minutes? Here’s fifty as a deposit on the hat.”

“I’m the manager,” says the manager, overhearing from the host station. Drunk producers are loud.

“I am borrowing this darling boy for twenty minutes, please do not fire him, there’s a set of comps we open at the Bankhead next week tell them I sent you and before any of you think I am going to do naughty things to this boy I want you to know that I am happily married for the fifth time and so it shall remain!”

This does not stop her from thoroughly squeezing the young man’s biceps, pectorals, buttocks and one or two other pieces of prime real estate as she whisks him across the street and down the block and into the middle of rehearsal with a triumphant cry of, “I’ve found our lead!”

Rehearsal stops dead.

Director: Can he act?

Producer: Of course he can, what’s your name young man?

Waiter: Bo.

Director: You’re shitting me.

Producer: Ever done any theatre?

Waiter: That’s what I’m studying at the local college.

Producer: This is a paid production. Contracts are involved. Could you get the time off from school and Uncle Yu’s?

Waiter: Sure. I usually work lunch, I’m only filling in —

[Edward has to interrupt: I know it’s completely unrealistic. It’s what I’d want to happen. Can you blame me?]

Producer: Shut up, Edward.

Waiter: I have to finish my shift.

Director: That’s fine, be here tomorrow night —

Producer: Tomorrow night, seven o’clock, erhm, six forty-five on the dot, darling, early is on time in theatre and if they haven’t told you that at the college yet you should kill them all.

Waiter: I’m always early. Except where it matters.

He smiles a little at the female lead. She stops her frantic and destined-to-go-unanswered text to the former male lead.

This is the miracle they needed. It galvanizes the cast, new energy and innovation zap into the show and it sells out every performance. The Village Theatre has a pretty nice talent show, proving that there is Talent in Danville. The set finally has curtains on the window, the front door has a real window in it, and there is a snow machine and everything else the set designer could dream of, to improve the show.

Right?

Right. A wonderful fable.

But what really would have to happen would be an independent production company in Livermore approaching Role Players with a brilliantly prepared presentation which they would have to be insane to ignore, particularly because it will cost them very little or nothing at all and Role Players will get the credit for originating the production.

This would possibly involve a new director, and one or two actors might need to be replaced depending on conflicts.

It’s possible. I would even say plausible, were there an independent 501-c3 in Livermore who could pull it off.

Do I think it will happen / would have happened / could ever happen?

Maybe, with the current (as of late February, 2014) management of Role Players and the Village Theatre.

But could it ever have happened in 2008?

Nah.