The joy of techs revisited

For me, the last week in October was largely spent dressed in black, navigating with the aid of blue lights.  In other words, it was spent backstage, specifically as a stage manager for Herne Bay Operatic Society’s compilation show Thoroughly Modern Musicals, the first time I’ve performed that particular function for a show (though I have played the character of a stage manager before).  I thought this was a rather crazy move on the part of the Society’s committee, and was fearing I would manage to do something truly disastrous.  As it turned out, I  didn’t cause a calamity, but the day of the tech and the days afterwards were still remarkably scary and exhilarating.  After all, the stage manager is in charge once the show is up and running – the thought that it was all my responsibility was positively terrifying.

As an actor, you know that the technical rehearsal is really all about the technical side of things – lights, sound, traffic control, set, stage management, props etc.  But from the other side of the line, you know that almost all of these things involve the actors in some way – where they stand, how loud they talk or sing, what they do or what they have in their hands.  In the amateur world, you have a very short period of time to sort everything out – how a particular moment will be lit, how sound equipment will be used, where all the props should be, and so on.  This, being my first attempt at stage management, was theoretically a simple show, with only one set, no costume changes and minimal props.  However, as I found myself alone backstage, with between 2 and 3 people in the lighting booth to control lights, sound and the spotlight, I found myself involved with everything: putting the set up, rigging and focussing lights, managing the props, passing the microphones to the right people, rounding people up and, in the end, providing some off-stage narration.  As a consequence, there were some periods of the show when I had very little to do, and other periods when I was running around like a headless chicken (though hopefully with the appearance of being in control).

I found that the key was lists.  Or rather one list, but with three copies scattered around my backstage domain.  This list included the running order of the show, which props were needed at a given time, who needed microphones, when I was supposed to be narrating (and what I was supposed to be saying) and so forth.  I wrote in exactly when to get each item ready, so that it would be where it was needed when it was needed, and hoped I had everything covered.  Sometimes I needed to be ready in the stage left wing to grab a hand-held mic from a cast member who’d just done a solo and was about to be involved in a dance routine.  Sometimes I was needed in the stage right wing to hand a stool over or collect a half-full wine bottle (half full of grape juice, of course…).  I spent a *lot* of time listening under the platform which housed the band to check that the soloists could be heard loud and clear over the foldback, as the balance between foldback and feedback was very fine indeed.

And, happily, I loved it.  It took until the third performance for us all to feel that we knew what we were doing, I think.  The cast adapted readily to several changes in what became known as the microphone relay race and I eventually worked out the optimum timing for a lighting cue which needed to fade over fifteen seconds at the end of the overture.  I learned a lot about lighting and discovered that stage managers should be sent on people management courses, as there were a few personality conflicts which I felt powerless to resolve.  I learned to appear calm and in control even when I really wasn’t (though this was something I could have done with learning before the week began, so that I could have seemed in control at the technical rehearsal rather than assuming this during performances).  This is something I will definitely do again, though probably for another small-scale show or two before I dare tackle a full-scale musical.

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• The joy of techs
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More deadly than the male?

Last night, I headed over to the Whitstable Playhouse to watch The Female of the Species, in a production by the Lindley Players.  This is a play by Joanna Murray-Smith, inspired by an incident when Germaine Greer’s home was invaded by an upset student.  As it is a very new play, I wasn’t really sure what to expect, having only vaguely heard of it.  Luckily, it proved to be very good indeed.  The script is surprisingly funny, the direction was strong and the cast interpreted their varied characters well.  Certainly £9 well spent, I thought.

Central to the play is the character of Margot Mason, a feminist thinker/celebrity/writer/intellectual, who is supposed to be writing her next bestseller, but isn’t doing too well.  Her attempt at work is interrupted by a former student, who blames Mason for her problems then holds her captive at gunpoint and threatened to kill her.  As you do.  The situation is complicated by the arrival of a series of other characters - Margot’s daughter and son-in-law, a taxi driver and Margot’s publisher, who complicate an already delicate situation in a variety of unexpected ways.  Each new arrival brings a fresh perspective on the character of Margot Mason and on the positives and negatives of the feminist movement over the last several decades.  However, the play is not a debate about feminism as such, even though the characters spend a lot of time debating feminism and its effects.  It is also about relationships (particularly between mothers and daughters and between husbands and wives) and about intellectualism and academia in general.  Above all, though, it is very, very funny.

There are aspects of the plot which are absolutely preposterous (not least a final revelation which is simultaneously ridiculous, disappointing and predictable), but it doesn’t really matter.  Once you accept that Margot Mason is chained to her desk and nobody’s going to let her go, then events and characters merrily sweep you along.  I found that my sympathies switched several times (though I never managed to find myself on the same ’side’ as Molly, the girl with the gun) as characters revealed further depths or further shallows, and was intrigued to find myself agreeing with very different viewpoints as the play progressed.  What do I feel about the place of women in today’s society, about the changing face of feminism and about the responsibilities or otherwise of academia and the intelligentsia?  I’m not sure, as I felt and thought so many different things about each issue.  I do remember noticing a few points when I laughed but nobody else did, which I suspect was a result of working in higher education – certain observations about students, academics and university life struck a chord with me yet would mean very little to most members of the audience.

The six characters were very distinctive and each was played very well, but I particularly enjoyed the performance by the actor playing Bryan, the son-in-law.  A few sandwiches short of a picnic, but not unintelligent, he was very charming in a sweet and somewhat useless sort of way.  He had many of the funniest lines, and the performance made me really warm to the character as soon as he appeared, even if none of the other characters actually thought much of him at first.

It does me good to see a non-musical play from time to time (and it really should happen more often) and this was well worth the trip.  Intelligent, funny and well-performed.  Magic.

The joy of techs…

The technical rehearsal is one of the milestones of production week, a sign that if you don’t know your lines/steps/harmonies by now, it’s too darned late. It’s a run-through of the show in the show’s location (as most likely, rehearsals prior to the tech will have been held somewhere other than the theatre), which is essentially for the benefit of all the crew, the army of people dressed in black who make the show happen – lights, sound, set changes, props, wardrobe etc. A tech run is a slow old process, as it is the only chance you have to make that complicated set transformation work, or sort out the levels on the microphones or ensure that the soloist is slap bang in the middle of their spotlight. It is when the cast learn how to negotiate stairs and doors which have previously been imaginary, and when you find out just far you have to run in order to complete a quick change in your dressing room. It is when everyone gets very, very stressed, as they are either very busy or sitting around doing nothing, both of which can be equally irritating. It’s a time for getting a bit of an electric buzz as you step onto the stage, and a time for tearing your hair out because a dance number has to be re-blocked to accommodate the set.

I have enjoyed and endured many techs over the years, both on stage and backstage. Hopefully one day I’ll experience one from the other side of the footlights as a director, as well. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a perfect tech, and there’s never been one that keeps everyone happy. Sometimes, scenes have to be skipped because nothing happens in them from the tech point of view, and this can upset the actors. Sometimes, a particular technical issue can’t be fully resolved as it’s taking too much time and this puts the crew on edge. Sometimes, the atmosphere could be cut with a knife and you can sense everyone tiptoeing around each other. But for all their frustrations, techs are great – it’s the first time you get an inkling about the set, the sound and the lights, the first time you get the sense that the show is really happening very soon indeed and it’s an excellent chance to get to know the people in your dressing room or your fellow crew members a bit better. It’s the Fame tech tonight. Joy!

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Living forever and learning how to fly

Fame flyer

So I’m back rehearsing with Phoenix Performing Arts.  And it’s good.  This time, the implausibly talented young performers are doing Fame, which makes my head hurt sometimes – I’m rehearsing a scene about a rehearsal, with a group of trainee actors and dancers playing a group of performing arts students…  As in West Side Story, when I doubled up as Doc and Officer Krupke, I am an imported adult, playing the drama teacher Mr Myers.  This is very much a supporting role, giving the student characters someone to react to in various scenes (indeed, someone to be cross with for quite a bit of the show), but is good fun.  Myers does not sing, so it’s another chance to concentrate on the acting side of things, and PPA always make sure that I pay proper attention to this – I do more character work with them on my minor roles than I do with anyone else on larger roles.

Working on the character side of things is interesting.  Last year, I spent some time chasing the director around Whitstable Castle to discover that Officer Krupke was a gorilla.  This year, it has been decided that Myers has elephantine characteristics (I’m still working on the walk), I’ve passed shoes around to demonstrate the balance of power in a classroom and I’ve growled at the actresses playing Carmen in order to…  Actually, I forget why I had to growl, but I’m sure there was a good reason.  Unlike the rest of the class, my character is English (former RSC, we think) and he is truly passionate about acting and about communication this passion.  Unfortunately, we’re not sure he’s a very good teacher, bless him, and he certainly makes some odd choices.

All the student roles are double cast, and there is certainly enough talent to go around, with some of the cast being equally talented in acting, singing and dancing, true triple-threat performers.  If they weren’t also nice people, I would be spending rehearsal periods feeling very jealous and loathing them with every fibre of my being.  Since they are, the moments when Myers is watching his students and feeling quietly proud will be no trouble at all to act.  I am proud to work alongside them and proud that they welcome me as part of their family.

Fame runs from 9th to 12th September at the Gulbenkian Theatre, Canterbury.  The choreography is stunning, the energy levels will be through the roof and the young talent on display is inspiring.

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Wetly done indeed!

Last week, I headed to the picturesque surroundings of St Augustine’s Abbey in Canterbury to see a play.  I have attended a number of Shakespeare productions there before, including a particularly good version of Much Ado About Nothing, and it has proved to be an atmospheric location for an evening of outdoor theatre.  The play on this occasion was Heartbreak Productions‘ adaptation of Jane Austen’s Emma.  Before I discuss the play, though, there is one thing I need to address.  It rained.  A lot.

Audiences – a vital ingredient

Theatre does not exist without an audience.  Live performance of any kind is only really performance if it is being watched – if not, then it might as well be a rehearsal, a game or a private jam session.  This is not simply due to the ego of those acting, singing or dancing, but it is a result of the vital role that audiences play. 

At any theatrical performance, the audience can enhance or detract from the production on offer.  Mobile phones, flash photography and random talking can be distracting (sometimes dangerous) for the cast and irritating for fellow theatregoers.  A badly timed noise can break the spell in a tense or moving moment, puncturing the suspension of disbelief that has been built up and reminding everyone that they are, after all, watching people pretending to be other people in a small, dark, warm building with mildly uncomfortable seats. 

For the actor, the response of the audience can be vital. 

Show the librarians some love!

Sometimes you find the most surprising things in the book return box.  First thing on a Thursday morning, this is one of my tasks, carried out as part of the routine of getting the temporary library up and running for the day.  Gone is the hideous wooden thing lurking in the corner, replaced by a much older, but more aesthetically pleasing blue metal drop box.  Given previous form and stories of drop boxes across the world, you might expect to find bacon rashers, dead squirrels, old underwear or hastily stashed contraband in there.  However, the only item I’ve found in there so far which wasn’t part of library stock was much more unexpected.  This:

“It’s like science has won.”

Last week, I was struck by a moment during the first of Torchwood’s five episodes.  Gwen Cooper, Torchwood agent, was talking to Doctor Rupesh Patanjali, someone who could potentially be brought in as a new member of their team.  His explanation of his interest in alien life was intriguing:

The past few years, suicide rates have doubled and that’s ever since the first alien.  My first case… my first… death, was a suicide.  D’you know why she did it?  ‘Cause… she’d written all these letters, been a Christian all her life, and then alien life appears.  She wrote this bit, she said “It’s like science has won.” [Gwen comments 'Lost her faith?'] More than that.  She said she saw her place in the universe.  And it was tiny.  She died because she thought she was nothing.

Leaving aside the fact that we can’t necessarily trust what the charming Dr Patanjali was saying, as his motives in the conversation were not quite as Gwen or the audience believed, this is an intriguing statement, and I suspect it may reflect the views of the scriptwriter (for Day One, Russell T. Davies) to some extent – that the existence of alien life would terrify some, amaze others, and cause believers to lose faith and hope.  I wonder – is this true?  If alien life were to make itself known somehow, whether in peace, war or otherwise, would faith suddenly become meaningless?

Torchwood: Children of Earth

Torchwood, the adult spin-off from Doctor Who, has had its ups and downs.  Some excellent episodes and some truly awful ones, and a steady progress from its beginnings on BBC3 to last week’s special storyline in prime time on BBC1.  A week-long series, one episode per night, which told a five-hour storyline which is surely the show’s best output yet, but may also be its last.  Yes, I enjoyed it an awful lot, and yes, spoilers follow below.

Farewell to the Library of Doom

So, on the day of the penultimate Hot Mikado performance, we closed the doors of the Library of Doom for the very last time.  Since then, most of our stock has gone into storage, while the merry band of librarians and library assistants have been scattered to the winds, dispersed across five different buildings on the university campus.  My team is based in a Temporary Library in an examinations hall, and we are all waiting out the summer, in anticipation of the grand opening of our big new, shiny learning centre.  Each day, as we go about our business, we can see the old library building being gutted, as teams of builders prepare it for a new life as a collection of teaching labs. 

It was hardly a perfect building. It leaked, sometimes causing large chunks of paint to fall from the ceiling.  It flooded once, which was rather exciting as an old storm drain suddenly made its presence felt in the foyer.  A shelf once came loose and made a valiant attempt at decapitating me.  The carpet tiles made endless attempts to trip people up.  The building was always either too cold or too hot.  The book return box was an eyesore.  It had slopes in inconvenient places which made it difficult to wheel the trolleys around.  Some of the light switches were behind shelves of music books.  The layout didn’t make sense, even after nearly nine years of working there.  There was never enough space for the books.  It had wheelchair access issues and a frightening lift.

I miss it, though.  I was the final member of staff to go through the closing-up routine and even as I passed the dodgy shelves, switched off the inconvenient lights, wrestled with the complicated doors on the first floor and took in each of the building’s faults, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss as each room was plunged into darkness and sealed away from marauding students.  I locked the Group Study Room and remembered the Children in Need fundraiser event, S Club Library.  I chuckled as I saw a few videos which reminded me of our Easter Egg Hunt (bags of mini eggs were hidden inside some of the video cases).  I passed the office with the hideous yellow shelves and remembered the student who came in there and asked for photographs of the Great Fire of London.  Almost eight years is a long time to work in one building, and had clearly allowed many memories to build up.  The different areas we’d sealed off with hazard tape from time to time.  The hysteria I’d shared with a colleague when the shelf tried to kill me.  The desk where I was sitting when I got the email asking me to perform in Aladdin.  The secluded part of the Open Access Area (computer lab) where I’d done some of the assignments for my librarianship qualification.  And more, of course.

All gone, now.  But the stock remains (and believe me, some of the books, DVDs and equipment have memories attached to them) and more importantly, my colleagues are still around as well.  I couldn’t hope for a better group of peers.  We share a lot of laughs and the odd tear now and then.  Whole shelves of librarians turn out to watch my shows, and we have regular trips to the local noodle bar and other eating and drinking establishments.  Frustrations are shared, ideas are passed to and fro and we seem to cope with anything, from the complete loss of our library management software (otherwise known as The Month We Do Not Speak Of) to unspeakably rude library patrons, and from yet another brood of ducklings in the garden to malfunctioning exit doors. 

So in a strange way I miss the nasty old Library of Doom, even as I look forward to the new building.  Whatever the environment’s like, I know we’ll be forging some new memories there.  I just hope it never becomes the Shiny Learning Centre of Doom…