I ended up at RADA through a study abroad program run by my university: every semester our drama department sends 16 lucky students across the pond to wreak havoc on a British institution while its posh and proper teachers attempt to reign them in. It all leads to a very spirited and highly educational semester, I can tell you. And the culmination of this acting school marathon is the mounting of a full scale production of one of Shakespeare's plays. In ten days. From casting to opening. Ten days. Sleep, you say? I laugh in the face of sleep (or I lie on the floor eating mashed potatoes out of a ziploc bag because I am delirious. More on facebook, I'm sure).
This is probably the least attractive picture ever taken of me.I'm not sure why I'm posting it here, but it certainly illustrates the point.
Our chosen play (though not chosen by us) was Much Ado About Nothing, which is one my favourites. It was set in a Great Gatsby-esque mansion post-WWI, performed in the round in the Geilgud theatre (the black box theatre above the RADA bar. Yes, there is a bar. But no, it isn't really relevant to the story), fully designed, fully teched, completely and utterly insane. It was definitely the most beautiful production I have ever been a part of (and one of the most educational, to be sure). It was also very well received and reviewed by the Dean of the RADA in its brief invited guest only run. Here is how we got there in ten short days:
Day One:
Casting announced. Half the group whines, half rejoices. Standard fare for the posting of any cast list, to be sure. Eventually everyone pulls it together because a) you aren't allowed to quit, b) whining doesn't change anything, and c) we've been living on top of each other for four months by now and further complaints are likely to be met with a punch to the face. No one wants to leave RADA needing a nose job.
I rank amongst the jubilant. Call me Dona John. It has a nice ring to it. I wanted to be Beatrice and thought I might be Hero, but this? This is way cooler. Shakespeare didn't quite write it this way but it will work (it does work). It remains to this day one of the most challenging and gratifying roles I have ever played. In short: I am a badass.
Day Two:
Creating relationships 101. There will be relationships on this stage, not just actors reciting lines at one another!!! Enter scary director. A lot of walking in circles ensues. Literally.
Power blocking begins, from top to bottom. It will, of course, change 17.3 million times in the following eight days but that doesn't stop us from running it at least as many times in the interim. The mood is jovial, no one has turned on anyone yet.
Day Three:
Working scenes endlessly. Dazzling Darren comes to teach us all relevant choreography. Oh yes, he is dazzling. And so is the dancing. But I don't get to do the Charleston because Dona John is a big party pooper. In response, I sulk in a corner. I really wanted to do the Charleston. I am angry. Until I become the Dance Captain. A curious development. I am curious but I don't complain.
Day Four:
Imelda Staunton is teaching a masters class in the room next door. Ability to focus on task at hand is non-existent. We crowd the hallway as nonchalantly as 16 people can crowd a narrow corridor. We act oblivious. "What? Imelda Staunton? Oh, I hadn't heard. Well, isn't that nice..." Right. There is still a kink in my neck from trying to peek into her room. Finally, she emerges. She is four feet tall. I swear it's true. She asks what we're doing.
"Rehearsing for Much Ado About Nothing."
"Oh! I was in that once, you know."
Obviously, we know.
"I hope your version is better than the one I was in."
She departs. Jaws drop. Did she just knock Branagh? Oh, she did.
Day Five:
We work my scenes. I sit in a chair a lot. I don't move, people move around me. I enjoy this kind of power. They decide I should smoke. I tell them I've never smoked anything in my life (I haven't). They still decide I should smoke. I sigh. Fine. This will require practice: I refuse to be that actress everyone knows doesn't smoke because she doesn't know how to inhale. Bring on the cigarettes.
Day Six:
The battle to be off book begins. It is difficult to commit anything, let alone Shakespeare, to memory when you have had approximately 20 hours of sleep in six days. I hate everyone. That vein in the director's forehead throbs every time someone misses a line. We cower, then soldier on. On which note, the boys now spend all waking hours learning how to march, a.k.a. step with the same foot at the same time. Coordinated, they are not. Comic relief, it is.
Day Seven:
I get chamomile cigarettes. These are training cigarettes. Apparently someone has decided that I should not actually develop a nicotine addiction in service of this play. While I am okay with this decision, these cigarettes taste like burning paper. I am told tobacco is what gives cigarettes a flavour. Chamomile is a crappy flavour.
My smoking tutor, Sam, informs me that no, we cannot start lessons before breakfast. He doesn't believe in coffee and a cigarette, apparently. We begin, instead, at lunch. Lesson one:
"The important thing to remember about smoking is that the cigarette is on fire. It's a flaming object. You're going to want to hold it as far away from you as possible."
Brilliant.
Day Eight:
We get a tech crew, costumes, and a theatre. It all starts to feel very real. My costume comes with many accessories, including a fox wrap with a face and a cigarette holder. We re-choreograph all our movements to include these items. The cigarette holder complicates the issue. The director insists we keep it. I sigh. The director is frustrated by everything. I begin to panic that I am not up to this and am actually not a good actress at all. I contemplate alternative career choices; there are none. I comfort myself with the fact that I look gorgeous (and am not at all vain) and am flanked by a pair of tall, dark, handsome men. If nothing else, at least I will look good.
Dona John and Borachio. Having minions is where it's at.Day Nine:
Tech/Dress rehearsal. Cue. Hold. Cue. Hold. For twelve hours. We have managed to amass a staggering number of tech cues in the last nine days. I marvel at the tech ninjas doing stealth warfare around me. I am then distracted by my fox with the face. And feet. The feet are worse than the face. This begins to wear thin at around 10 PM. I miss my bed. But we decide it is all worth it to hear our posh British stage manager, Lucy, coming over the intercom in our dressing room:
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Much Ado About Nothing company, this is your half hour call. Half hour."
In some small way, we have arrived.
Day Ten:
Nothing like getting in those last six hours of dress rehearsal before call. Of course, at this point we no longer need sleep. We survive on caffeine and adrenaline. And chamomile cigarettes. We are primed and ready to go.
We open. The boys and I do shots of whisky in the dressing room. Our rationalization is that we enter coming home from war. We're getting into character, stop judging us. On stage things are off to a good start. I gaze longingly (or stare piercingly) at Claudio: Dona John is in love with him, if only he knew. So is Don Pedro. Go figure.
We come to my big scheming scene. I toy with my minions, lamenting Hero's existence. Borachio grabs my cigarette, which is in its holder. This angers Dona John; I wear the pants here, even if I am in a dress. I grab the cigarette back. My lit chamomile cigarette dislodges from its holder and cuts a trajectory over the heads of half the audience and land in the middle of the space. Which is, incidentally, where the piles of dry leaves that dress our set are located (No, I am not joking. Or exaggerating. Not even a bit). It is Fall outside, these aren't fancy theatre magic dry leaves but actual leaves that fell from trees outside, dried on the ground, and were gathered up by our designers in green garbage bags. Don't worry, though, the leaves have been fire-proofed. Although the detailed description I never received about how exactly one fire-proofs dry leaves leaps suddenly to mind.
In the nanosecond after it happens, I hear the director (who is, of course, seated next to the Dean of RADA) inhale sharply and hold it. What I don't hear is screaming. Like the kind one might associate with being scorched by an airborne chamomile cigarette. Nor do I see flames or smell smoke. I take this in and decide I should just keep going as if the flying cig were part of the blocking. It is, after all, tricky to ad lib Shakespeare, even in prose form. We finish the scene without incident and head toward our exit, in the direction of my still lit cigarette.
I see an opportunity in this ember on the floor. It lies directly in my path. So, without missing a beat, I deliver the line about wishing the cook would just save me the trouble and poison them all while grinding the little sucker into the stage floor. While wearing my roommate's $400 custom fitted character shoes. I will check the soles later for scorch marks. I leave the stage exuberant.
As we learned on day one: I am a badass.
Dona John and Conrad (a.k.a Sam the smoking tutor)
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