Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Oxy-Cute Em
Well, opening weekend has come and gone. It leaves in its wake a number of laughs and even a few fractured funny bones, but there are definitely some blemishes to clear up for next weekend.
The hazard of working in the same place all the time is that sometimes you try and overcome its limitations with grandiose plans. Plans that often play to a space's weakness and leave audiences and crew scratching their heads. That is what I faced watching the show this weekend. I'm afraid my desperate need to better delineate each location led to bruised shins for my actors, excessive calluses for the crew (no they weren't fantasizing about me) and purgatory for audiences as they waited for each scene. So, the answer?
Back to basics. Part of the magic at the Creole is the audience collaborating to engage a story, not overtelling it or overpainting it for them. So, while there may be minimal changes, the set has been blown out and now we can enjoy the brilliant lines of Elaine May and the remarkable characters created by the cast without languishing in the dark wondering if we turned the iron off.
Yet another flaw, that reared its ugly head, was a free-wheeling relationship of the actors to the lines. There was more swapping and dropping than a swingers convention sponsored by Viagra. Even worse is that some of the actors were even forced to notice their or others failings.
So, with another week to work and embrace the lines, I'm sure that will be properly covered.
Course, I note the flaws and the reality is that I'm always going to see the flaws. It's like wearing those x-ray glasses you can buy in the back of the comic book and everything has this halo of looking through it. A director has either buried or knows where the bodies are buried. So, once a show goes up all we can see are the gaps rather than the beautiful strokes that are filling the canvas.
Which is nothing like the way the audiences watch and enjoy the show. They come to it with the goal of being entertained and are much more forgiving than those who created the work.
Well, enough blather, on to another weekend!
The hazard of working in the same place all the time is that sometimes you try and overcome its limitations with grandiose plans. Plans that often play to a space's weakness and leave audiences and crew scratching their heads. That is what I faced watching the show this weekend. I'm afraid my desperate need to better delineate each location led to bruised shins for my actors, excessive calluses for the crew (no they weren't fantasizing about me) and purgatory for audiences as they waited for each scene. So, the answer?
Back to basics. Part of the magic at the Creole is the audience collaborating to engage a story, not overtelling it or overpainting it for them. So, while there may be minimal changes, the set has been blown out and now we can enjoy the brilliant lines of Elaine May and the remarkable characters created by the cast without languishing in the dark wondering if we turned the iron off.
Yet another flaw, that reared its ugly head, was a free-wheeling relationship of the actors to the lines. There was more swapping and dropping than a swingers convention sponsored by Viagra. Even worse is that some of the actors were even forced to notice their or others failings.
So, with another week to work and embrace the lines, I'm sure that will be properly covered.
Course, I note the flaws and the reality is that I'm always going to see the flaws. It's like wearing those x-ray glasses you can buy in the back of the comic book and everything has this halo of looking through it. A director has either buried or knows where the bodies are buried. So, once a show goes up all we can see are the gaps rather than the beautiful strokes that are filling the canvas.
Which is nothing like the way the audiences watch and enjoy the show. They come to it with the goal of being entertained and are much more forgiving than those who created the work.
Well, enough blather, on to another weekend!
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
The Process: Or Never Ask How They Make Sausage?
Tech Week
Seven parts adrenaline, two parts desperation and one part inspiration.
The process of Tech Week always reminds me of my brief time pledging a fraternity and the sleep deprived chaos of Hell Week. You're excited to have reached that point, but then all of the obligations are coming due and it hits the fan. (Not to mention the overwhelming stench of body odor and wondering who thought a diet of beans would be good for a dozen young men in close quarters for a week.)
The set isn't ready, the lines are like strangers and the vision you thought you had has become a glaucoma filled haze. Every step is at a break neck pace, but the progress is mired in a swamp of restarts, changed blocking and technical snafus.
You quickly begin to wonder what the hell you were thinking and can you pull it off. You're wondering if it even makes sense, but then you wonder if you care as the midnight hour looms near.
Luckily, I've got a wonderful collections of misfits, madmen and madwomen around me. That doesn't mean there isn't a desperate urgency coupled with an overwhelming dread, but it does mean that they understand and I can count on them. It's just a matter of remembering that as everyone plumbs reserves that have been tapped and tries to focus and close out the urgent demands of the outside world. The million tiny details that you have convinced yourself must be in place, when they will only exist for a moment and then the real story will continue on, continue to wedge their way into a mind already overcrowded.
Three more days and then it's in the hands of the theatre gods and a remarkable cast.
Seven parts adrenaline, two parts desperation and one part inspiration.
The process of Tech Week always reminds me of my brief time pledging a fraternity and the sleep deprived chaos of Hell Week. You're excited to have reached that point, but then all of the obligations are coming due and it hits the fan. (Not to mention the overwhelming stench of body odor and wondering who thought a diet of beans would be good for a dozen young men in close quarters for a week.)
The set isn't ready, the lines are like strangers and the vision you thought you had has become a glaucoma filled haze. Every step is at a break neck pace, but the progress is mired in a swamp of restarts, changed blocking and technical snafus.
You quickly begin to wonder what the hell you were thinking and can you pull it off. You're wondering if it even makes sense, but then you wonder if you care as the midnight hour looms near.
Luckily, I've got a wonderful collections of misfits, madmen and madwomen around me. That doesn't mean there isn't a desperate urgency coupled with an overwhelming dread, but it does mean that they understand and I can count on them. It's just a matter of remembering that as everyone plumbs reserves that have been tapped and tries to focus and close out the urgent demands of the outside world. The million tiny details that you have convinced yourself must be in place, when they will only exist for a moment and then the real story will continue on, continue to wedge their way into a mind already overcrowded.
Three more days and then it's in the hands of the theatre gods and a remarkable cast.
