Twelfth Night: The Post-Mortem

Here is the final instalment in what has been quite the saga.  In short, the show went up this past weekend, went better (for the most part) than anticipated, and closed on a high note.  Despite all the insane weather.  We did our best in the final week, as a cast, to solve as many problems as possible.  We bonded and we worked together.  Or most of us did.  And I am proud of what we eventually accomplished.

For those not in the know, a theatrical post-mortem usually happens between the heads of all departments within a production (design, direction, management, producing, etc).  They get together after a show closes and talk about everything that was done right and everything that was done wrong throughout the process and how it could all be done better in the future. 

Our SM asked mid-weekend when the director was planning to hold one.  She said she wasn’t planning to for this particular production.  In a show that has been plagued from the outset (everything that could possibly go wrong did) this seems, frankly, stupid to me.  It’s easy to throw your hands up in the air and say, “Well, the fates were against us!”  It is hard to sit down and take responsibility for mistakes and inadequacies and to really look at the issues that made this show difficult.  In the end, what this says to me is that she isn’t interested in really learning anything from this experience.  And that not only renders the experience a complete and utter waste of time, but it is an attitude that is counterproductive to doing good theatre.

So here is my personal version of the post-mortem.  Because I refuse to not learn something from this experience.  Be prepared: very little was done right in this show.  Also, this is just my interpretation of events, with a few insights from others throughout the week.  It isn’t to say I would’ve done a better job in the driver’s seat.  I’m not sure I would have.  That isn’t my purpose.  I just think trying to learn from mistakes, whoever makes them, is probably a good idea.

This does, for the most part, lack the conversational, communal aspect of the theatrical post-mortem that is so useful.  So if you happen to be reading this and you were involved with the show, comment with your version of events!  Or email me with it and I will so gladly post it here…And onward:

Getting off on the right foot is worth its weight in gold.  So is a good stage manager.  I don’t know everything what was happening before I was a part of this production, but I can say that their ducks were not all in a row when I (and the rest of the cast) came on board. 

As of casting, we had no venue, no stage manager, and, in hindsight, no real plan.  We had an idea without structure.  And by the end, all of this showed.  Our rehearsal schedule was schizophrenic, which meant none of us ever really fully grasped the show’s story arc.  Our rehearsals themselves were mediocre and seemed largely without purpose, mainly involving us reading the scene and then wandering around a tiny room whilst reciting the lines.  And our take on the production (rock ‘n roll) fell by the wayside almost immediately.  Following it into the abyss went just about all production values and design.  Except for two chairs and a car. 

My point in listing all of this right off the bat is that if you don’t start with a strong foundation, you will have to work infinitely harder to bring it all together by the end.  I haven’t directed seriously ever and at all in a long time.  But I think in order to direct successfully you need to find a way to articulate exactly why you are doing the show, how you want to do it, and what you hope to accomplish by doing it.  Every little thing that follows, including every minute of rehearsal, should be in service of this.  Write it down and keep coming back to it.  Never lose sight of it.

Additionally, we had a revolving door of stage management throughout the show.  We went through two SMs before we finally ended up with one for the show and a few rehearsals prior.  He was great, but at that point, all he could do was damage control.  For most of the show we had no one.  Except the director.  And then she became an actor in the show, too.  So the cast had to share stage management duties depending on who was present at what rehearsal.  This wasted a lot of time and was the cause of much disorganization.  SMs are the rock of a production.  They tend to be more organized, more stable, more sane than the rest of us.  We need them.  They are mediators, moms, dads, nurses, babysitters, friends, listeners, coaches, mentors, and, of course, the gods of all things backstage.  For the love of all that is sacred, find a good one and pay him/her to stick around.  If you pay no one else, give the SM a stipend (our SM got nothing, our director got 20% of the box office…).  It will pay dividends.  

  Some of this early disorganization can also be attributed to the strike at York University (our producer was a student there and should have been done before the show went up), but most of it is just the result of having no clue what you’re doing.  This happens.  It’s okay.  But own it, acknowledge it, let other people help you, and learn from it.  We won’t judge you for not knowing, but we probably will for refusing to learn.  Which leads us to…

You’re producing theatre, finding creative solutions is your job.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t directing all about finding a creative solution for turning something two dimensional (a script) into something three dimensional (a play)?  Problem solving is part of the job description, and that’s before anything goes awry.  And something will go awry.  Things go wrong even in the best, most carefully planned productions.  This is actually what makes live theatre fun (see: burning down RADA).  You have to think on your feet and find solutions on the fly.  This is the rush!

Here is one example from the list: we lost an actor (the first one…eventually two walked, both with good reasons unrelated to the state of the production) about a month before we went up.  He had been to maybe three rehearsals.  The director sent us an email asking what weekends we would be available later in April/early May because she wanted to push the production back.  She didn’t even bother to ask any of us how we felt about the situation.  We fought back and said we couldn’t do it later.  And then we put our money where our mouths were and found her another actor.  All in the space of two days.  And he was awesome.  Really, finding creative solutions is everyone’s job. 

When we lost the second one, the director put herself in the show in a large role.  This rendered directing the show nearly impossible.  We could’ve found someone else, though it was last minute.  And there were offers from within the females in the cast to reorganize the roles we were playing to solve the problem.  She still would’ve been acting, but in a smaller part so she could still direct.  None of these ideas were entertained.  Even after our success in the first crisis.  Use your resources; this is also a creative solution.

This is not about your ego.  Know your limits.  Accept help.  I feel like this could’ve been the motto of the production.  Our producer was in over his head because he didn’t know what he was doing (to his credit, he would’ve been the first one to admit this).  Our director was in over her head because she didn’t know what she was doing, she let herself get intimidated by the people who did (in their respective production roles), and she took on too much.  She was more interested in being right and being in charge than she was in having a good show.  I was in over my head because no one was listening and I’m genetically programmed to want to fix everything. 

Admittedly, I am guilty of not always knowing my limits and not always asking for help (which is how I ended up with stress-induced heartburn for a week and why I didn’t have the sense to sit down/take it easy when I had heat exhaustion).  But the only real casualty of my pig-headedness was/is myself.  And after heat-exhaustion Saturday I did decide it was time to chill out a bit.  This is something I’ll always be working on.  My personality type is ENFJ (and I fit the type to the letter).  Seriously, I’m programmed.

The real problem with getting in over your head is not knowing how to get out.  Or when to ask for help.  Or how to accept help when it’s offered (I have gotten much better at this one, I must say).  When your ego is either so big or so fragile that it can’t handle the situation.  I tried, as did several others, to help the director out.  She just was not willing to hear any of us.  And this didn’t really spell doom for us until she decided to put herself on stage.  In a sizeable role.  Prior to this things were rocky, but she still had a handle on the situation (she did start the show off sounding like she knew what she was doing).  After, she just shut down.

Most talented and experienced actors can’t direct and, essentially, star in a production.  Kenneth Branagh does it.  And as much as I love him, I would argue he doesn’t generally do both as well as he could at the same time.  Add to that the fact that she was an untrained actress on stage with people who have training (varying degrees of it, but everyone else had some).  And then she didn’t want to listen to any suggestions we (diplomatically and very gently) made.  So we had someone with no clue what she was doing onstage and no direction.  In the end, she dragged down a portion of the play by making selfish choices.  Which was sad to watch.  Especially because there were other ways out of the predicament.  But she refused to listen to us.  Which was one of the biggest problems in this production.

Your ears were put on your head for a reason.  Listening is not the same as hearing sounds and nodding your head.  It involves the thoughtful processing of information.  Suffice to say that it didn’t happen with the director.  Ever.  I could go on ad nauseam.  And in refusing to listen she alienated herself from the entire cast.  Which is unfortunate, because I think she’s a nice enough person outside of this show and, sadly, she’s walking away from this production without new friends and with a bunch of people who don’t want to work with her again. 

Finally, it came down to if you won’t listen to anything we have to say why should we listen to you?  To the point that when we disagreed with her (all of us, as a cast) on opening day, we had to send the SM to let her know what we wanted and to hash the matter out with her.  And the understanding was that we as a cast were going to do what we thought was best for the show regardless and that asking her, at this point, was just a courtesy.  Never, ever, should any production come to this.

The producer, on the other hand, did listening really well.  I won’t go so far as to say he took a great deal of action, but he understood the principles of communication.  When I called him, we spent two hours at Starbucks having a very friendly and productive conversation about what was going wrong.  And he was open, receptive, and willing to hear everything I had to say.  And I appreciated that more than any actions because what I really needed at that point was to feel like I was being heard.  And he did that for me.  So kudos to him for that.  Great example.

He also showed up at rehearsal the night of our conversation.  And in a very non-confrontational manner, he brought up some of our troubles.  Then he went around the room and asked everyone to share something positive about this show or something they were looking forward to (which is when I learned how many people in the show had never done Shakespeare before…probably half the cast) and something they were concerned about and to offer some constructive criticism.  So we went around the circle and we sat there listening to each other.  And the director sat there too.  And she contributed.  But she still did not listen to a single word any of us had to say.

I think what happens if you spend long enough not listening to people is they cut you out of the conversation.  If you aren’t interested in having a dialogue, they stop talking to you.  And they find a different way to make decisions and to have that conversation.  I think that is what happened here.  And it was the best choice for the sake of the show, but it’s a painful way to put up a production.

Cast bonding: it shows.  So sitting in that sharing circle, the one concern nearly everyone shared was the lack of community within the cast/production team.  There were people who didn’t know each other’s names because they’d never rehearsed together up to that point.  And you could tell on stage that people weren’t trusting each other.  There was no ensemble, no camaraderie, nothing.  Oddly enough, the first step to creating that was acknowledging our shared frustration over it. 

The second step was me throwing a cast slumber party that night (Dream Phone, Kings, and Strip Poker…but that’s a different blog post!).  I think it’s very important to know the people you’re working with as people first.  Theatre, acting, is such an intimate activity.  I would rather describe my sex life to someone in detail than describe to them the intricacies of how I work as an actress.  It is intensely personal.  Which is why that bond in a cast is so important.

Post-slumber party, it started to become a completely different show.  It began to look more like there were relationships on stage instead of actors talking at each other (although I don’t think we ever fully succeeded on this one).  And when you know people you appreciate the way they work more.  I mean, it was this bonding that made planting a kiss on me seem like a totally acceptable choice in our closing show.  And you start to support each other and to support each other’s choices on stage as you become friends.  Acting is a team sport.  You have to work together.  This isn’t the same as your co-workers at the office. 

I think the responsibility for getting to know each other is on everyone.  We should’ve started sooner and I regret that we didn’t.  I would change that next time out, make more efforts early on.  But I’m glad we got to it before the end.  Because now I have some new, talented friends with whom to work in the future.  Or with whom to drink beers on a Friday night.  Or both.  You know, whatever.

Time is our most valuable asset, don’t waste it.  Wasting people’s time is never acceptable.  No matter who you are.  Wasting people’s time when you aren’t paying them for it is worse.  Most young theatre people are willing to work for free.  We’re more interested in the opportunity to work than we are in the paycheque (or something to that effect).  In a good production, there are other payoffs—networking, growth as an actor, learning, exposure, etc.  If we accept the job, trust that we’re okay with the not being paid part.  We’ve made our peace with it.  Your way of paying us is making the experience worthwhile.  And if you waste our time, we will eventually turn on you.

We lost time in as many ways as there were minutes of rehearsal.  Primarily, we lost time to tardiness.  If you’re late to rehearsal, you’re wasting someone’s time.  If you’re late starting rehearsal, you’re wasting someone’s time.  In fact, anytime you don’t do something you’ve said you would, you’re wasting someone’s time.  And I think this was a vicious cycle for the most part.  Someone would be late for rehearsal and the director would therefore not start rehearsal on time.  Which meant people started showing up later, knowing we never started on time.  I say, nip it in the bud.  Start rehearsal when it’s supposed to start.  If someone isn’t there and the cast they’ve bonded with is having to rehearse without them, they will feel like a jerk.  Feeling like a jerk is generally enough to improve one’s time management skills.  At least, I know it is for me. 

Now, I have to take a moment here for the most infuriating exercise in time wastage that occurred in this run.  Because it’s a perfect example of both the poor communication and the lack of respect for people’s time that plagued this production.

The Saturday before we opened we were on site (AKA in the parking lot) for rehearsal.  The last hour of the day was reserved for our Media Preview.  Which no one came to.  Which was related to our poor publicity performance.  Instead of then using this time to really work on some of the show’s problems (see: Act V in its entirety), the director wanted to take production stills. Production stills themselves aren’t a waste of time.  I actually like them (sometimes).  But we were going to have to take them using someone’s point-and-shoot camera while setting up moments from the show out of context.  This is staging production stills.  And it isn’t very authentic.  And it shows.

So because I like nice pictures, I volunteered my awesome boyfriend, The Photographer, to come later in the week and take them during dress rehearsal.  Which he did.  He has a professional camera and could shoot during rehearsal (so the moments were authentic) and without being disruptive (because a point-and-shoot doesn’t have the same powers of zoom as a pro camera).  The director said “Okay, we can do that” to my offer and then turned around and started staging production stills anyway.  To everyone’s great confusion.  And frustration. 

Eventually we sent our poor SM over to ask about this.  Apparently she wanted to take some pictures to put on the facebook event page before the show opened.  Which was perfectly reasonable.  If she’d told us.  The simple act of speaking that sentence to us would have saved a lot of animosity.  Until those pictures never appeared on facebook.  She never put them up.  And, of course, she never explained why not.  So it’s an hour of my life I could’ve spent rehearsing or doing other things.  It’s disrespectful.  And it makes me angry.

Good publicity requires a plan. Asking your actors to put up posters does not a plan make.  Production stills are also frequently used for publicity purposes.  None of ours were.  Because there was no publicity plan.  While this show was happening Lois and I were having a Twitter talk about theatre, publicity, and the internet.  Basically, we were lamenting that not everyone has caught on to the wonderful resources at their fingertips.  Of course, if you’re reading this, you probably have. 

Anyway, asking actors to put up posters is not a publicity plan.  It can be part of one, to be certain, and should be.  But that can’t be it.  And sending out press releases for a small production in a city full of big theatrical activity isn’t terribly effective either.  You have to get in there and get personal.  Make connections, submit to people’s listings directly, use your network.  And if you don’t have a network, find one!  In fact, this production was sponsored by people who have an online presence.  And they didn’t even publicize it on their own website.  I fail to comprehend this.

Also, publicity takes time.  Ours happened at the last minute.  Giving posters to the actors a week before the show opens doesn’t leave them with sufficient time to put them up (and I’m sure most of ours weren’t posted).  Rebecca Coleman is a Vancouver publicist who specializes in the arts.  Today she tweeted about how getting exposure is challenging (she was talking about a TV appearance for the cast of a play that it took her two months to get).  And this is from someone who knows what she’s doing. 

I guess what I learned here is that you should have a serious, viable plan for publicizing a show before you even cast it.  And that if you don’t know what you’re doing, it might be worth paying someone who does.  Our show cost less than $500 to put up.  They could’ve made bank on this with five performances (one was cancelled due to weather) and $10 tickets.  They made about $100 (we were glad they at least broke even).  Do the math in terms of attendance.  This is a result of poor publicity.

Shakespeare.  He knew his shit.  You.  Don’t.  It was actually another actor in the show who pointed out that we never really worked on the text of Twelfth Night.  And “Shakespeare is 90% text” (his wise words).  At which point I nearly had a heart attack because I realized he was right: we never looked at the text in rehearsal.  Wow.  Are we a bit arrogant to assume we could put up a good production of Shakespeare without ever really examining the words?  Because Shakespeare was a very generous playwright; he gave his actors everything in the words and in the structure of his verse.  So to not have looked at that was just, well, stupid.  I actually don’t know what to say about it.  It’s such a simple step that we so completely missed.  It’s straightforward.  And there were a few moments in the show that we did finally work on text in small groups during the last week.  They showed.  These were some of the clearest moments in the show.

And then…

Respect: what goes around comes around.  This ties into not working on the text (and pretty much every other aspect of the production).  We finally had a conversation as a cast in the final week (way too late) about speaking verse.  My character never spoke in verse and it had never occurred to me that there were people in the show who had no idea where to start.  And I only realized a few days before this conversation how many of my castmates had never done Shakespeare/verse before.  Again, WHAT?!?  How could we not have worked on this right at the start?

So when the director said something that was blatantly incorrect (something about breathing in the middle of a verse line…and we can fight about throwing the rules out the window and whatnot, but you have to at least know what they are before you can throw them out) I spoke up, politely.  And I explained why you aren’t actually supposed to breathe in mid-line (which I won’t go into here because, seriously, could this be longer?).  And she said, “No.”  To which I responded, “Well, that’s just what I learned at RADA.”  It sounds worse/ruder than it was.  My point was that this wasn’t me disagreeing with her, it was RADA, and that I wasn’t just making shit up.

She studied Shakespeare from an academic and intellectual standpoint, and she understands it very well.  Better than me, from that perspective.  I studied Shakespeare from a performance standpoint.  She should know more about his obscure references and whatnot than I do.  I should know more about speaking verse than she does.  Otherwise neither one of us did our homework.  It’s not a competition, it’s about different areas of study and knowledge.  This should be an asset to a production.

And she said, “Well, fuck RADA.” 

In my shock, I ignored her and continued my explanation to the cast.  I didn’t need to prove her wrong, I just felt it would be irresponsible and unfair to teach people doing Shakespeare for the first time things that are generally accepted as incorrect by people who have a lot of experience performing/teaching Shakespeare (not just RADA, but the RSC, the National, and every good book ever written on the subject of Shakespeare in performance).  The verse structure is there to help you; learn how to use it and ignore it at your peril. 

I was actually not terribly offended by her comment.  My castmates were more offended on my behalf because they felt it was disrespectful of my training and experiences.  Which it was, but I’m not so precious as to be outraged by her comment in this context.  She couldn’t handle being wrong.  I was more shocked that she would say it.  Because, I know, RADA is a kind of a self-important institution, “the man” if you will (and they know it), but they have a track record of success and are one of the most respected drama schools on the planet.  Who are you, director? (Or who am I, for that matter?)  It was very telling of the lack of respect for other people’s experiences and knowledge.

At that point, all bets were off.  I think that was when I stopped trying to help her by being nice and decided to help the cast instead by taking charge.  And if that makes me a jerk, fine.  I can live with that.  But it made our show better.  And I couldn’t have lived with the knowledge that I could’ve helped and didn’t.  I’m not the type to wash my hands of things.

Around the same time, one of the gentlemen in the show also more or less told her to shove it.  Though not in so many words.  She spent the whole month and a half prior to this outburst treating him like an idiot.  Her notes and direction to him were, frankly, rude and incredibly condescending.  She never found (and I’m not convinced she ever looked for) a way to help him understand what he was doing or saying.  Directing is about helping, isn’t it?  And he wasn’t a brilliant Shakespearean actor, it was his first time with the Bard!  But he was a good actor and a very smart one, too.  And he made stronger character choices than anyone else in the show and he committed to them fully.  But she couldn’t (or wouldn’t) see past his troubles with the text.  The text we never worked on.  Finally, he got frustrated.  And he said to me one night, really sadly, “I feel like she just doesn’t see my talent.”  Which broke my heart.  Because he was absolutely right.  

Leadership is about more than a title.  It is generally accepted at the outset of anything that if your title is “director,” you’re in charge.  You’re the leader.  But history has shown that those who don’t use their power wisely are eventually overthrown, regardless of their titles.  In fairness, I think she just got swallowed up in trying to do too many things.  And being a leader fell by the wayside.  But we needed one.  Every project needs one.  Or several working together.  Which is more of what we ended up with in the end. 

When the traditional hierarchy broke down, I sort of became the director.  Because I was the first person to speak up.  And because my castmates respected my opinions.  Because I respected theirs.  And, you know, they listened to me because I listened to them.  And I was always willing to hear their ideas and to help them.  I wanted everyone in the show to be the best actor they possibly could be and to learn something in the process.  I think I helped to facilitate that.  And it brought out leadership qualities in them, too.  They started helping each other more and taking charge of the scenes they were in.  And the show got better.  It even became more fun.

I definitely stressed myself out more than I maybe should have in the process, but my heartburn was worth it for when they decided to make our Friday night post-show drinking cheers to me and to thank me for helping them and for taking charge.  I was also told I’d make a good director and to let them know if I’m ever directing anything.  I appreciated that, it’s all I needed.  I saw an opening, I felt like I could fill it.  So I did.  And it worked.  That’s all.  And the highest compliment you can be paid, I think, is to be respected by your peers. 

Generosity amongst actors breeds better theatre.  My stepping up caused others to do the same.  And this cemented the bonds we finally made as a cast.  This made us more generous on and off stage.  It made us playful.  As one actor who left the show (who is my new theatre best friend) put it, “This is not the show I left.  It was way better than I expected because you guys looked like you were having fun.  It’s called play, after all.” 

We started to discover things we hadn’t before.  And we were finally having fun.  We also started watching each other.  And acknowledging when people were doing really great work.  And asking each other for feedback.  Which was given generously and constructively.  We helped each other.  We were asking questions of each other, challenging each other in the right ways.  And one result was that I saw what a smart group of actors I was working with.  Another was that I was reminded that I, too, am a smart actress.

This sort of peer direction can be dangerous territory when there is a lack of trust and when people are being selfish.  It could have been mean or catty.  But in this case, it worked out really well. We all managed to set our egos aside and people were honest, constructive, and helpful.  To everyone.  It was an ensemble attitude that was really beautiful to see and that, ultimately, improved the show immeasurably.  I am sorry that it had to come at the cost of one person’s alienation, but we tried everything to make her a part of it and she refused us at every turn.  Still, this is something we, as a cast, did right.

Failure, no matter who is responsible, is collective.  We did wind up with a decent show (for an audience made up mainly of friends and family), but I think the production was, overall, a failure.  Another actress in the show really summed it up: “We, as a group of actors and characters, never really came together to tell a story.”  While the show turned out okay, I think this hits the nail on the head.  She also pointed out that it was ego was that derailed the show.  I think this is also true.  But what killed the show from an audience standpoint was the former, not the latter.  Whatever the reasons in the end, the failure to tell the story is on all of us.  We all have to take responsibility for our part in that. 

My complicity in it is that I let my character and my acting take a backseat to trying to solve all the other problems within the show.  It’s a tough call to make, which way I should’ve gone.  In the end, I think I made the right decision.  I was still good, but I could’ve done more.  I’m capable of more.  And this is unfortunate for me as an actress.  Since I have no ambition to be a director at this point, my future choices will be to take on projects that I know will make me a better actress.  This one made me better at a lot of things, but I don’t think acting was one of them.  

Finally…

Speak the fuck up.  I think this is the ultimate lesson to everyone who was part of this show.  And to anyone reading this.  If it’s falling apart, speak up.  If you have concerns, speak up.  If you think you can help, speak up.  If you think something’s great, speak up.  If you think change would be beneficial, speak up.   Whatever you think, speak up.  There is no guarantee that you’ll be heard.  But trust your instincts.  If you feel like something needs to be said, say it.  Chances are someone else is thinking the same thing.  Conversation helps all of us. 

Good theatre is about taking risks.  So take some.

So I guess that’s the story of this show…

Thanks again, everyone out there in internet-land, for your support.  It helped me a lot.  And you’re great! :)

And now it’s on to the next thing, with a parking lot tan,  several lessons learned, and a few new theatre friends.  As luck would have it, there are several “next things” simmering right now.  And it’s sunny out.  So I can’t do anything but smile…and move on.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek is a jerkface.

 

Ok, no he isn’t.  He’s actually one of my new favourite people. His name is Jordan. And he’s quite a talented actor. But for the purposes of this post, he is a jerkface.

Before I launch into my serious thoughts on this production, I thought I would share this fun little moment from yesterday’s closing…

There is a lovely moment in I.iii of Twelfth Night when Sir Toby urges Sir Andrew to “accost” Maria, accost being “front her, board her, woo her, assail her.”  Eventually, Maria wins the battle of wits and walks out of the scene, getting the better of both of them…the exchange goes like this:

Andrew: Do you think you have fools in hand?
Maria:  Sir, I have not you by the hand.
Andrew:  Marry, but you shall have; and here’s my hand.
Maria: Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar and let it drink.
Andrew:  Wherefore, sweet-heart?  What’s your metaphor?
Maria: It’s dry, sir.
Andrew:  Why, I think so: I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry.  But what’s your jest?
Maria:  A dry jest, sir.
Andrew:  Are you full of them?
Maria:  Aye, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren. (And she peaces out…yes, that’s Shakespeare’s stage direction)

So in our show on Sir Andrew’s second line, Jordan was supposed to take my hand, get down on his knee, and give it a kiss.  And throughout the run this turned into further molesting it until I stopped him—usually he would lick my arm.  We always had a playful little moment.  And then we carried on with the scene.

Until yesterday.

We got to our lovely little moment.  And the little shit kisses my hand, drops it, grabs my face, and plants a big one right on my lips.  And then he stands there looking at me with this giant, shit-eating grin on his face.

I am not generally caught off guard on stage, but he got me.  Good.  Really good.

I stood there shell shocked for a second, all flustered and glaring at him, walked over to Sir Toby, hit him (because obviously, within the world of the play, Maria would feel this was Toby’s fault…and it was even better because the actor playing Toby hadn’t seen what happened), walked back to Sir Andrew, stuck my finger in his face accusingly, and huffed and puffed for what felt like an eternity because I could not for the life of me figure out what the next line was.  Because it was about his hand.  Which I was no longer holding.  Because he grabbed my face and kissed me.  Which necessitated the letting go of my hand. Jerkface.

Eventually I figured it out, but not without cracking a tiny smile. I could’ve killed him.  I never go up on lines.  Although, I have been known to crack the occasional smile on stage…

Anyway, the audience never realized he wasn’t so much supposed to do that.  But the looks on my castmate’s faces (who were standing behind the audience and could see it all) were priceless.

These are the moments that make theatre fun.

And now Jordan and I have to do another show together so I can get him back…

Question...

Why does it seem that everyone is producing Twelfth Night this spring/summer? I have no objections, I am just curious. I have seen audition notices for at least six upcoming productions, and today the NY Times announced that Anne Hathaway will be playing Viola in the Shakespeare in the Park production of the same this summer.

I have no objections, I am just curious--why this play now? Thoughts, anyone?

Ten short days to Shakespeare, or, in which I almost burn RADA to the ground...

There was a conversation on Twitter yesterday that reminded me of this story so I thought I would share it. It's absolutely one of my favourite theatre experiences. And one of my best quick thinking recoveries.

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)

Happy Birthday, Mr. Branagh.

It's Kenneth Branagh's birthday today. I'm a big fan. Like, I might have a big crush on him. Don't worry, it's a talent one. I just think he's lovely. And he might even entice me to go see Valkyrie. Although Tom Cruise provokes my gag reflex, so maybe not. But I do wish him a happy birthday, and all future success. I highly recommend checking out his work if you're unfamiliar. I quite enjoy his Much Ado About Nothing, although Imelda Staunton is not as big a fan (random story, another day). But I really recommend his Henry V. Sigh...

"Et tu, Ignatieff?"

This came up in my Google Reader this morning and I happen to think it has potential...although, certainly, time sensitive. Act quickly, producers...it may become irrelevant and obsolete at any moment.

Click the link above and you will find the plan of another theatre blogger for a production of Julius Caesar set in our modern Canadian political climate. He presents an interesting cast of characters...feasible, certainly.

I, for one, am not tired of Shakespeare re-imagined...so long as productions don't force the play to fit the modern parallel. Rather, the play should be as it is, adjustments as minor as possible, and if it really works, the parallel scenario should be manipulated subtly to illustrate the point of the production.

The reason we still read, produce, perform Shakespeare is because his works are still relevant. And sometimes it takes losing the Elizabethan garb to make it more widely accessible.

I, for one, would not only buy a ticket, I would play a part.