Opening Night: Jekyll and Hyde

It is done. Opening night. Though the final dress not a disaster, it was in many ways a rough night, and as a result, we were unable to run the show front to back as intended for performance.

Which meant opening night itself was the first chance we had to do so.

And did we do so? Yes. But not without some potholes.

I'll say that certain parts of the show have improved each of the last several nights, including opening night. Compared to where we were a week ago, things could have been a lot worse on our first performance in front of an audience. (I'd say about 25 people out of a house of 44.)

I was more nervous, even apprehensive about opening this show than any I have been in for years. There have been more uncertain variables and unexpected problems, (some of them avoidable if not for poor choices by certain people) that I wasn't sure what to expect at times. I felt prepared mentally going into last night's show, but I wasn't at all certain that all of the variables I mentioned would allow me to accomplish everything in my performance as intended.

For the most part, I delivered an acceptable performance. And though certain doubts still hang over elements of this show, which will probably make me more nervous each evening than I otherwise should or would be after opening night, I cannot doubt the great relief of having put our first official performance behind us.

There are just some plays where, silly as it may seem afterward, one wonders if it can be done. One wonders if on the whole the cast can actually deliver a show before a paying audience. With the completion of opening night, we proved in this case that we are capable. This of course doesn't at all mean that every performance of the show for the remainder of the run will be without issues. That's one reason I remain, at least for now, a bit nervous. But what it does mean is that we can do this show. The parts of my subconscious that perhaps wondered if I/We could pull it off at all have at least been quieted. That will make the hours leading into tonight's performance less stressful than last night's.

A few missed entrances for a moment or two were probably some of them ore distracting elements for me. I myself am unlikely to make that particular mistake, because I am almost always on stage, even when my character is not "present" in the scene. I skidded a few times with a word hear and there with my lines, but nothing I am overtly ashamed of.

The biggest issues last night was a door on the set; it broke in the middle of a scene...left hanging on one hinge. It is supposed to be this way at the end of the play, but for one reason or another it broke prematurely. The actress who had stepped through it was flustered in her attempts to fix it. I was flustered because it would throw the scene. As I happened to play Jekyll, and the actress happened to play Jekyll's servant in that moment, I "ordered" the servant to leave the door be, and tell me what she wanted.

Not the greatest possible save, but it was a gaping hole, almost literally in the narrative that had to be addressed somehow, at least until a techie came out and fixed the door. Had it been another scene, I don't think an ad-lib would have been as readily appropriate. So sometimes we must acknowledge that even goofs, if they must happened, can have good or poor timing. That one, if it had to occur, was probably the best timing available.

Otherwise, it was satisfying to me, at last being able to move about as intended. I am hoping we improve overall a bit each night. If we do, the first weekend may act as a sort of extended tech, allowing us to close out next weekend in high fashion.

But long before that, is tonight, and tomorrow afternoon. 

Thoughts On Watching Theatre With Someone Else

Actors do in fact sometimes sit in the audience. Granted, I haven't done much of that over the last several years, and when I have done it, it's usually in the exact same venues in which I perform. (Which can be a distraction sometimes, if you get to a pivotal moment in a performance and find yourself wondering if they've fixed that wobbly part of the stage as a friend of mine makes his entrance.)

But whether in my local playhouse or in major professional venues, I enjoy being in the audience, when I can shut out my inner actor and just watch. When I do, and it's a quality performance, I remember why I choose to act in the first place; the imprint a show leaves on those in the seats.

I came across this piece last week, in which the author asks about the ideal date to take to see a show. I hadn't thought much about it. I have been since I read it though. My natural inclination is to see theatre by myself, to be frank. That way I can absorb the experience and interpret what is going on, letting it wash over or pour into me without impediment, in whatever fashion I choose. I can even get up and leave if it comes to that. (It hasn't yet.) The author of the piece is of a similar mind, as she points out in a previous article she wrote years ago about seeing shows alone. That piece is linked within this one, so I'd suggest reading both.

But for the sake of the subject, and the question posed by the article, I'll speculate on what my ideal theatre date would be like. For the purposes of this question, let's suppose this isn't limited to a romantic date, per se. (The author placed no such limitation on her question.)

First and foremost, somebody who would be talking the whole time, or even at key moments is out. The rudeness factor aside, I can't connect with what I'm watching as fully as I'd like if I have to allocate energy to responding to my companion's question or observation. It's too rude for me not to, but I'm there to see a play and I can't do that if I'm diverting energy to what a companion is saying. If there must be commentary, it needs to be brief, declarative as opposed to interrogatory, and should happen during some break in the action. Sustained applause or laughter, or during a scene change black out.

I also prefer to be with someone who either already does, or is willing to enjoy the show for its own sake. I think that friendships and certainly romances are built upon sacrifice and accommodation of the other's needs and desires from time to time, but I don't want the theatre involved in all of that. I don't want someone I am with to come with me to a show just to make me happy, or to do me a favor. Nor do I want them doing, as so many parents on Christmas Morning, getting most of their joy out of seeing my joy. I feel like I have to be "on" when a companion feels that way, and if the production isn't good, I don't feel as free to respond accordingly.

That doesn't mean I'll only go to a show with someone who is as much into theatre as I am. I'd go with a novice, or someone that rarely goes. So long as on that day, for that show in that place they are excited about being there.

I also don't enjoy seeing theatre with someone who has already seen the show, or at least that production of the show. If someone has already seen Hamlet, that's fine, but if they've seen this production already, I won't enjoy seeing it with them. True, live theatre is a little different every night, but not different enough to feel as though both I and my companion are discovering the show at the same time. I'm the same with movies; if I haven't seen a movie yet, I dislike going to see it with someone that already has. It takes away from the experience. Especially if it's a lesser known play or a new play.

Finally, as much as I want quiet during the show, I want to be able to converse about the play afterward with a companion. There are so many things that go into seeing a show with someone else that if I do so, and they have nothing to say about the show on the way home, or at drinks after the fact, I feel I would be better off having seen it alone. This isn't to say they have to like the play, but if they aren't willing to talk about why they didn't like it, or why they did like it, or who they thought was the strongest performance, that sort of thing, it's quite the let down for me. "I liked it," or "I didn't like it," don't work for me as a post mortem. Be eager to talk about the show, or let me see it alone.

There are a few minor characteristic of the ideal theatre date that i won't mention here, because I think those mentioned above are most important. The other things are preferences at best. If not met, i could still enjoy the experience. But if any of the above concepts are lacking it will take away from my theatre experience. I'd rather see shows alone than with people who don't meet these qualifications.

What about you? What makes a good audience companion at the theatre?

A Little Help?

If you happen to find yourself near a park where some kind of ballgame is being playing, and the ball gets loose and lands near you, chances are someone will yell, "a little help?" For whatever reason that seems to be the ball yard translation for "Can you throw my ball back to me please, since you're standing there?"

It's easy enough to do, so I venture to say most people do it. I would, and have. It doesn't ruin my day, and it lets the folks get on with their game quicker. It's a nice thing to do.

Sometimes I think audience members for classical shows, such as those of Shakespeare, may be thinking, "a little help?" when they don't follow what's going on. At least those who are not tuned into Shakespearean language and such.

That is of course assuming that they come to see the show in the first place, and haven't dismissed it right away as soon as they hear it is Shakespeare. (Or Greek Tragedy, or something of that kind.)

I feel that audiences may get more out of such plays if productions were willing to give them "a little help".

For this point, I'll stay with Shakespeare. (But it could apply to any classical theatre, so long as it's in the public domain.) I've been reading Shakespeare for years, and I still have trouble with some passages. That's the nature of his language, and how removed it is from our own in some ways. So when I think of someone who has never read it or seen it performed, I have no problem seeing why they would be reluctant to do so. I applaud people who say, "Sure, I'll try it anyway," but I can't blame those who feel intimidated by not knowing what the characters are saying, or what exactly is happening. It can be tricky. 

Yet I think Shakespeare has much to offer, both young and old alike. So if by doing a few unconventional things within the production of a Shakespeare play we can convince, say 30% of those who previously refused to watch to give it a try, why shouldn't we do that? A little help.

Actually, some productions do in fact do this, to a degree. Especially productions for younger audiences. (Though to me, when such productions eliminate all of Shakespeare's actual words, it defeats the purpose to somewhat.) But there are also shorter productions. Workshops. Handouts to explain the scenes. You can even of course go online and look into the play before you go see it. Numerous ways to see what is going on in a Shakespeare play you might not otherwise understand.

Reasonable, but problematic for me in a few ways. To begin with, not everybody wants to invest in a workshop before a play, or a talk-back afterwards. Theatre is suffering from dwindling attendance as it is. If our goal is to get people back into theaters to enjoy productions of Shakespeare and other such classical plays, I don't think we should expect people to spend even more time at the theatre.

As for handouts, they can be useful, but how many average theatre goers can either memorize the entire thing before the curtain comes up, or find a way to read it in the dark during the performance without distracting everyone around them? It needs to be as little work as possible if audiences not familiar with such works are to embrace the notion of actually watching and enjoying a performance.

One possible solution? (And I imagine somebody somewhere has done this, but I'd like to see more of it.) Have a host. A chorus of sorts, if you will. (Which Shakespeare himself did, to a degree, in Henry V.) A Meta-Character. Perform The Merchant of Venice as a full, regular production, but  before each act, (or even before key scenes) have this Meta-Character speak to the audience in modern language in order to guide them into what is about to happen, or to remind them of where they are in the story. 

I don't mean to bring up the lights every half-hour and clear the actors off the stage to make room for some pompous stuffed shirt to come out and deliver a verbal Cliff Notes Lecture. I mean come up with creative ways to create a character within the action but not directly affected by it, to move in and out of the story as needed to make sure the audience is still hanging in there. (Sort of like Arthur Miller did with Alfieri in A View From A Bridge.) Let this Meta-Character establish a relationship with the audience at the start, and let him reappear to tidy things up a bit for those not as used to the language. He doesn't have to explain every word of every line, he merely needs to keep the boat sailing. Just make sure everyone knows he himself isn't a Shakespearean creation. 

And let his lines be brief, but memorable. Suited to the mood of the piece, but removed enough from it so that the audience still feels they are not left alone to fend for themselves. Let him know more than the audience does, but also allow him to discover things and reflect on them as they happen.

It doesn't have to happen for every production. I still want to see conventional Shakespeare performed. But I have more experience with it, and can enjoy it more than less experienced people. Have a "Shakespeare for Rookies" production once in a while, with this Meta-Character. Bill it as a more accessible version, and try to get more people to come. (Especially on the community level.) Then, surprise, what the audiences see is still 95% a standard Shakespeare play. By the end they may not even feel they need Meta-Character.

And that's when they become willing to go to a more conventional production.

I've shared this idea with a few people before, and their reactions are usually negative. Though my views on this seem to be unpopular if not controversial, I'll respond to a few common complaints about this approach.

-It will take people out of the story. 

Why does it have to take people out of the story? Perhaps for people already in love with and familiar with what is happening, there may the briefest of speed bumps. But if what those who already know the play would call a speed bump should make certain things less confusing to a newbie, would that not tend to keep them in the story, instead of zoning out of it, waiting for intermission? Or worse, just leaving? Besides, if you put a little time and thought into it, you can come up with ways for this to be interesting in its own right. You're an artist. Think of something.

-It's too much extra work.

So suddenly doing good theatre is supposed to be free of hard work? I don't know many actors who would refuse to work harder on a scene if they knew that the reaction from the audience would be twice as positive. This bit of extra work would, I strongly believe, allow more audiences to enjoy more of the play.

-It insults the intelligence of the audience.

Sometimes I think actors, playwrights and directors that are in love with their own vision, no matter how complex, tend to convince themselves that audiences are sure to "get it" if they are only left alone, and we don't insult their intelligence. The problem here is that if people actually don't understand what we are trying to do after all, we are forced to conclude that they must be unintelligent, and not that what we are doing needs work. But here is a newsflash: Intelligent people can also find Shakespeare confusing. I already mentioned that sometimes I myself do. 

Plus there are all kinds of intelligence, none of which bestows upon someone an instant knowledge without study of some kind. Take those do-it-yourself pottery mills, where you go in and make your wife a vase with her name on it for your anniversary. Is it an insult to your intelligence when the people who run those places explain how the wheels and the clay and the other equipment work? Are you stupid because you have to be shown the first few times? Or is that merely learning something new, and eventually being able to do it on your own, if you so choose? Why can't Shakespeare be approached in the same way? To assume it cannot be, and that audiences will forever be ruined to "pure" Shakespeare if these ideas are adopted is the greater insult to intelligence. 

This leads into a similar complaint:

-When performed well, any audience will be able to understand Shakespeare's language. There is no need for help.

I will concede that those who are trained and have practiced performing Shakespeare will be able to deliver a good portion of his lines in such a way that many will be able to sense the emotion and the motivation, and infer the rest from context. That's true with any play. But some rely so much on the perfect recitation of the meter and lines to produce clarity that it borders on a religion. As though Shakespeare's work were not writing, but a mystical spell which, when cast properly, removes all barriers in everyone that hears it, thus magically making its purpose obvious. No matter that the guy in Row G, Seat 114 has never read or listened to a word of Shakespeare in his life. Get the meter exactly correct, and he will instantly get it.

The "Open Sesame" of the theatre world.

The truth is, Shakespeare has endured for centuries because it is powerful and usually beautifully written. But people have also grown up hating it, and it is losing ground as time goes on. I don't think it will ever die. Still, need not hobble around, begging for younger people, or non-scholars, or those with shorter attention spans to love it if we could rid ourselves of this fallacy that well performed Shakespeare will always equate to well-understood Shakespeare. If all people truly understood it when it was performed well, do you think there would be so much aversion to it today? I don't. 

Besides, I'd rather keep the general spirit of the piece, with a bit of an aid for newcomers, than keep every word exactly as is, but resort to stunts. I think this happens quite a bit among the "purists" of the language. They keep the words and structure the same, but add antics and side shows in order to make it "more accessible" to modern audiences. (See here.) If greater accessibility is the goal, why does it matter what sort of device is employed?

This next response is one of the most common, but perhaps the least defensible in my view:

-It's arrogant/inappropriate to edit Shakespeare.

This is to laugh. Shakespeare himself sliced and diced work all the time. That of others, and that of himself. His contemporaries did so. Speeches or even whole new scenes were added to productions of old plays just to fit in with the specific event for which they were being performed. Other scenes would be cut from plays for the same purpose. That was Elizabethan playwrighting. 

Yet forget Shakespeare's own time. Look at today. A full length Hamlet takes about four and a half hours to perform, depending on a few things. Professional companies edit that play. The histories have been staged with guns and tanks. That's quite an edit, even if you keep all of the words the same. Olivier himself edited the words, and not just for his movies. The point being that the Bard's work gets edited. Added to. Subtracted from. Adapted. Re-imagined. Does any of that prevent "purist" productions from ever taking place again for those who want them? Does doing any of that take away from the majesty of the original work? Or does it enhance it, and make people sit up and realize there may be something there more worth exploring than they originally thought?

A little help. That's all I think it would take to win a few more fans to classical plays and stories. They recieve it when they read the plays in certain volumes, via footnotes and such. Why not when they come to see them? Obviously, having this Meta-Character in a production is not going to convince a hoard of new people to come see Shakespeare. It won't make everyone everywhere fall suddenly in love with Antigone. But is it really any less troublesome than assuming that if we do nothing at all and let everything be exactly as it is, the classics will come into their own again, and the public will embrace them? That hasn't exactly worked so far, and to continue on that track I fear will allow the continued disintegration of the public's interest in these beautiful, important, human works. And that would be a tragedy I'd need no help in understanding.

Milking is for Cows: Earning Applause

Like everything else in both the theatrical world and our daily lives, balance is the key. Extremes don’t sustain satisfaction for very long, and yes, that includes the idea of getting applause.

Applause, and in particular an actor’s embrace of applause, gets a bad rap. It’s true that few things are more obnoxious to cast mates, directors, and some audiences than a performer who is clearly “milking” the crowd for more laughs. More applause. More reaction. One who wrings that sponge with such a vengeance that they end up tearing it in half. Sure it may work sometimes, but overall this is a sign of an attention starved hack, and not a consummate performer. You can see these people coming from a mile away. Don’t be one, no matter how much you love the crowd.

The enjoyment of applause is not, however, a sin in and of itself. Applause and other positive audience reaction is significant. Don’t be afraid to embrace it, enjoy it, to be empowered by it. It is even acceptable to try to cultivate more of it, if it is done in a very skilled, subtle fashion. Despite what some may tell you, this does not make you a smaller person or a smaller actor.

There is no getting around it; performances are designed to be seen. Period. Acting, in the very end, is nothing in a vacuum. Ergo, hoping for, and enjoying applause, laughter, or crying from an audience that is moved by the show you are in is a wholesome thing. It proves that people are being touched in someway by your craft. It can also sharpen your senses, deepen your investment, and help you stay steady during a show. It may not be everything, but never ignore the synergism between the audience and the cast.

I have always said that the audience is the last character to be cast in a production. It’s a different character every night. Like characters on stage, one shouldn’t rely 100% on what they are doing to get through the night. But neither should this character be ignored totally. You don’t have to play directly to the audience to respect them, and sense they are there.

Which is why it is crucial to be aware of reactions from the house. Any actor who tells you they don’t care if the audience laughs or applauds I venture to say is either lying to you, or to himself. If such people really mean what they say, it is to their detriment. For if you do not care about audience reaction, then you are refusing to acknowledge them. If you do that, you are not respecting them. And you can believe this if you believe nothing else I have ever written about stagecraft; audiences as a whole know when you do not respect them. They can sense when you are up there just for yourself, or worse, simply killing time until you get to be in something better. That shows, and the audience responds to it.

Balance. Middle ground. Yin and Yang. Call it what you like, but the key is to love and respect applause enough to avoid stealing it, but also to try your hardest to earn it.

(Originally appeared on showbizradio.net on August 5th, 2009.)

Acting Alfresco

I have never performed in a play at an outside venue. I have been in the audience for a few outside performances. (All Shakespeare.) And I have at times rehearsed outside, when casts on a nice day whine and beg for the privilege to do so. And while I will concede that an odd rehearsal outside here and there is not the same thing as an entire production taking place outside, what I learned from those experiences has convinced me I wouldn't want to perform outside in most circumstances.

I have often said here on the blog that an actor must always be prepared for any contingency. The lights going out, the sound system not functioning. Last minute costume changes. To be a good actor one must be adaptable to many different situations that may arise during the course of a production. To insist on everything being perfect in order to perform well is just asking for trouble.

That doesn't mean, however, that I welcome an extra dozen or so variables just for the fun of it. I'd like to at least aim for as much control as possible. Performing outside by default puts so many things outside of the actor's control.

To begin with, weather. While with enough focus I could perform in the pouring rain, why would I opt for the risk? What is that proving? I hate being in wet clothes, and if I am that uncomfortable it is putting an undue strain on my to keep said focus. The same with gusting wind. And the idea of canceling a show due to weather is not an enviable option, seeing as how often weather tends to screw around with my plans anyway. All of that work down the tube because on the day we open it rains? No thank you.

Also, people these days tend to have a hard enough time keeping quiet and respectful in a theatre. Put that same group of talking, texting, food munching patrons outside and you might as well send out an invitation to everyone in attendance that says,

"You are cordially invited to make a bunch of noise as often as possible."

And that is just the patrons. If you are outside, you are guaranteed to have people who couldn't care less about theatre laying on their horn for minutes at a time as they drive by, putting their radios on loud in an adjoining area, or just generally going out of their way to screw everything up. If they did that at an indoor venue they could be asked to leave and if needs be, forcibly removed. How do you eject someone from "outside"?

The classics such as Shakespeare and obviously the Greek tragedies can be played well in such venues, if you are into broad, sweeping interpretations. Which sometimes I am. But most outdoor venues deprive one of intimacy. Subtleties in performance, which I both like to see as a patron, and use as an actor, are lost in your standard outdoor venue. Plus many modern plays simply would not work outside, whereas Shakespeare or the Greek tragedies can in fact be adjusted to work inside.

I'm not unaware of some of the positive points made by those who enjoy outdoor theatre. For one, yes, I realize that the very first theatres were outdoor venues, and that to perform outdoors does provide one with a semi-intriguing connection to ancient theatre. But that was two thousand or so years ago. They also killed people for sport and entertainment back then. The age of a practice is not by itself proof of it's prudence.

Also, most outdoor shows are by default minimalist in regards to sets and props. This I like, because as I have often said, I am a theatre minimalist. But minimalism as a concept is not limited to outside venues.

It is said that outdoor venues are less stuffy and more inviting atmospheres than are traditional indoor venues. The casual theatre goer would feel less intimidated about coming to a show outside in a park than inside in a theatre. I give this a maybe, but with the caveat that there is nothing wrong with a little bit of stuffiness and decorum inside of a theatre. Furthermore, an open, relaxed atmosphere can be established inside as well, if desired.

I suppose there could be an outside venue in which I would consider performing, if it met several criteria.

-An enclosed venue, specifically set aside for theatre. This as opposed to an open, available space in a city park somewhere. If I am going to perform outside, I want to be sure that anybody who can see me is at least there with the intention of seeing a show.

-Observant staff that keep the audience respectful. If people in the audience are held just as accountable at an outside theatre as they are in an inside theatre, that would make it more palatable to me.

-A weather proofed performance area. Or at least one that would be shielded from the rain and wind as much a possible. That way the performers could continue, and let the audience decide if it's worth getting rained on.

-Reasonable size. Some outdoor venues actually have seats, while some just have patrons sit on the ground, or bring their own chairs. But either way, I don't want a sprawling, thousand person "house". If it is still limited to a few hundred people that are rather close to the stage, some amount of intimacy might be saved, and make it worth it.

-Secluded location. Or at least semi-secluded. Far enough away fro major highways, public parks, and other such distractions to make it feel as though despite being outside, everyone has arrived at a theatre once they are there.

-Dressing rooms. I think I need them. Not so much for the privacy of changing clothes. An actor gets used to not caring who sees what backstage. But for the sake of having someplace where the actor can be "off" when he needs to be. I know I need that.

-Some lighting. I'd hate for every show to be a matinee...

All and all, I suppose I could be persuaded under those conditions, to be in an outdoor show. Perhaps I still could be persuaded even without all of these safeguards if the chance were a great opportunity. But all things being 100% equal, I will almost always choose to perform inside instead of outside.

Have you ever performed in an outdoor venue? What did you think of it?

Celebrating Five Years!

Five years! 508 entries. 12 or so productions of various lengths at six different venues. More than 20 individual roles. Who knows how many audience members. Not to mention scores of articles, stories, reviews, and random theatre related musings not pertaining directly to one of my shows. And the comments for the same.

And my loyal blog readers. I thank you all for being there through all of this. Even during the months sometimes when material was thin.  

So what can be said on this anniversary of the launch of this blog? It hasn't been earth changing, I know. It doesn't get thousands of hits a month, or even a year. And while I admit I would really like to get some more comments on my posts, I like to think that the adventures I have shared here have contributed at least a bit to someone's enjoyment or understanding of community theatre. I can't be sure that it has done so without feedback.  But I can hope.

Actually, I hope a lot of things about the last five years of Always Off Book. I do it because it means something to me personally, and I get satisfaction out of it, regardless of external outcome. Nevertheless, I do hope that it has accomplished certain things for others over the last five years. For example:

-I hope it has made clear that amateur productions do not always mean low quality anymore than professional theatre always equals great work. On that same page, I hope it has shown that an amateur actor, as my subtitle suggests, really doesn't have to have amateur thoughts about the world of acting. It comes from inside each individual performer.

-I hope that people read my sometimes technical but always truthful "sausage making" posts about how rehearsals for a production are going, and become more aware of all that goes into even a smaller stage production. And I hope that by knowing such, I have enriched the experience of going to see a live performance, even if it is not my own performance.

-I hope that by being frank about as many things as possible as I write here on the blog, I have gained the trust of my readers. That by now they can know whatever I post is sincere and frank.

-It is my hope that people have noticed I continue to come back to live theatre, despite being in some truly miserable shows with some truly lousy people sometimes.

-I hope that Always Off Book has succeeded, at least sometimes, in conveying to the reader a tiny portion of the exhilaration that can be felt by an actor when a play is going right

-I hope the advice I have given here, both in articles and through relaying my own rehearsal experiences has been of use to fellow actors out there in their own shows.

-I hope those that know nothing at all about being in a show have learned something useful about not just theatre, but about professionalism, passion, motivation, and quality in any aspect of life. Because though it is about my theatre adventures, a lot of what I talk about here is about putting my name onto something, and committing 100% to its excellence. You can do that whether in a show, or cooking a meal.

-I hope my minimalist, "content is king" approach appeals to those who actually want to take the time to read something in depth, instead of just skimming the surface of an issue, and playing with the bells and whistles of a website.

-Readers have laughed, been given pause, reconsidered a position, felt comforted, or just educated by my posts at some point I hope.

-But most of all, and I would think this is obvious, it is my sincerest hope that somewhere in these 508 entries, I have written something that has encouraged someone out there to either attend, or appear in community theatre for the very first time. Someone who otherwise might not have done so, because of fear, or misconceptions, or uncertainty as to what to expect. Someone who may have lacked the interest, or the confidence to try such a thing until they stumbled across Always Off Book and read about something that I have been through.

-And my "uber-hope", if you will, is related to the last one. It is my "uber-hope" that at least one person not only decided to try theatre for the first time based on something I have written here, but subsequently fell in love with it, and decided they want to dedicate passion, energy, and time to it for a long time to come. That the very act of reading one of these blog posts was the first step in an epiphany, like the one I had years ago. An epiphany that reveals to someone out there that despite what their career may be, there is a place, an important, rewarding, influential place for them in the world of live theatre. And that such a reader will, without shame, assume that place, and change their life, and the lives of others in the process.

And then one day that person will introduce the theatre to someone else who never thought theatre could be for them…

These are my hopes. This is my blog. I am Ty, an amateur actor sharing his not so amateur thoughts on the world of acting. I have been doing so for five years today. And I have no intention in the world of stopping anytime soon.               

In Honor of World Theatre Day...

I want to present a story that demonstrates why I love theatre.

Sure, I could write some sort of complex essay about the reasons, including the service to man and the primordial importance of story telling. But I won't tell, I'll show. I will re-post here today a story I posted on the one year anniversary of this blog of mine. A story which is an excerpt of a much longer memoir that I wrote after completing what to me was in many ways a pivotal point in my relationship with performing. The play was "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Abridged." The time was college. The place was the Lincoln Theatre in New Martinsville, West Virginia.

And now, the extended excerpt from that memoir, which is just as relevant now as it ever was to the reasons I still do this.

The Lincoln Theater turned out to be the largest one we would perform in on the road, as far as seating. If I had to guess, I would say a full house would be able to hold roughly 700 people or so. By no means were we getting a full house, but from what we had heard in the proceeding days from their ticket office, it was nonetheless going to be a large crowd.
                                                                                                                                                                The stage itself was much bigger than the space we had to work in at Marietta College. There was some space in the wings, and backstage, but not much. Off to the side both left and right, there was a depth of about 5 feet from the walls of the building, to the actual stage, on both sides. Both wings were separated into little sections by a series of mini-curtains, which, in effect, created 3 or 4 cubicle type areas on either side of the stage. It was in these areas, (which were already cluttered with folding chairs, pipes, and other various stage related material), that we had to place all the costumes and props. Kind of a tight fit, but it worked.
                                                                                                                                                                              I spent most of the prep time in the dressing room in the basement. (The rickety staircase to which was behind the back stage curtain, stage left.) I never did wear any make up during those road trips, mainly because I did not own my own, and did not know how to put it on or anything. Yet the dressing room is where we actors hung out and got psyched for a show, and so in the dressing room we convened.

Once our stage manager called for places, I made my way back up the staircase, and took my usual spot, in the down stage right wing area, between two of the mini curtains, giving the sort of feeling of having my own private warm up booth. I could hear the large murmur of the crowd, and I just had to peer out very slowly from behind said mini-curtain, (The house curtains were not closed for our show opening). It was the largest audience we had yet performed for. I estimated maybe three or four hundred people.
                                                                                                                                                                There was a sense of anticipation in those last few moments before starting that night that was somewhat different than previous nights. There just seemed to be a bit more of an edge to the energy of the crowd. Finally, the lights dimmed a bit, and Gloria, who opened the show, walked out on stage. The large crowd quieted down.
 
Right away, I noticed something different. They clapped when she entered, which no one else had done. Furthermore, as her speech went on, they were laughing at several of the jokes. This was unique, because normally Gloria would go through her speech, and audiences would generally laugh, (modestly), at the same two jokes, if they laughed at any of them at all. (This speech was in the original script.) This audience was laughing at things that others had never laughed at; things that we as a cast had basically forgotten were supposed to be funny.
This was also true of the first few gags of the play. This crowd was not only laughing more heartily at moments that others had only giggled at, they had showed signs of enjoying things that no one else had yet laughed at. In fact, more than once or twice, I think our timing was thrown off in the first few minutes, during the opening sketch or two, because this crowd was actually laughing at things that even we as the writers and actors had forgotten were supposed to be jokes.

The energy of the crowd only built as the show went on. The folks in the house were not just watching a showl; they were letting themselves be drawn into the show. As though they all knew us personally. As a result, the cast took on a new, more exciting dynamic, unlike anything we had accomplished up until that point.

With each passing sketch or joke, the audience became even warmer, and as a result, everyone in the cast became bolder, and more confident in their individual performances. Lines were delivered with new power. Jokes were punched with better timing than we had ever had. Ad-libs came flying forth at a pace unmatched by any of our previous performances. The audience kept eating all of it up. Nothing felt like it was failing, as I was able to lose myself totally in this audience before the end of Act 1. Speaking for me, it felt fabulous.
                                                                                                                                                                      During intermission, a very excited cast chattered about how well the show was going, as we all got into out “costumes” for the beginning of Act 2. For me and two others, this entailed putting on makeshift Roman togas. 
                                                                                                                                                                         About halfway through intermission, the toga wearers had to exit the building through a side door, so we could walk up an alley, and enter the house at the top of the Act from the lobby of the theatre. Our director had told us that we could, during these moments, interact with audience members if we so chose. All audiences at all the venues found this mildly entertaining, or in some cases confusing, when they swathe actors walking amongst them at intermission, but this crowd was impressed by it. Their excitement at watching me walk by on my way to a seat in the house was palpable. Some woman I think even whispered, “that’s him”, as I walked by.
                                                                                                                                                                                 When we interacted with the audience at this time, we could choose to do so either as ourselves, or as the character we were portraying. I myself, chose the former, opting to be myself. But I did not seek out interaction with the audience. I simply sat there quietly, and responded if anyone had anything to say to me. (Which several people did.)
One the total opposite end of that spectrum another one of my cast mates was on the other side of the house as dressed as Richard III. At that moment, he was attempting to start "the wave" with the audience members. At first I thought it a bit much to ask of them, but the audience complied! Nearly everyone in the theatre was doing it, including myself. Wonderfully fun, for all involved.
                                                                                                                                                                            Act 2 finally got under way, and it went even better than Act 1. This crowd was giving me all kinds of energy. The audience itself was so energetic throughout the entire show, it would be hard to be performing for them and not have energy yourself. All my life I had desired reach out to a group of people like that; warm, intelligent, willing to have fun. We had all been interacting with them the whole time, of course. But I had two special chances to reach out to them all by myself.
                                                                                                                                                                         There were two points in this particular show where I was left on stage all by myself, to deal with the audience. The first of these took place during our Hamlet sketch. When we announced plans to present Hamlet, one of our actors would get nervous, have a breakdown, and run down the aisle of the theatre to escape the show, with everyone in the cast pursuing him, except for myself. This of course left me on stage alone.
This audience totally adored this part. They applauded as the cast rushed out of the building. I knew soon enough, however, that I had not been forgotten in the fray; for when the clapping died down, I heard a girl from somewhere in the middle of the crowd shout "Yeah Ty!"

At this point in the action of the play, I would yell after the rest of the group, telling them not to “leave me with these idiots”, (referring to the audience.) Most audiences rolls with that punch. But not that night. This audience moaned at the notion of being called idiots! Imagine, 300 or so people going "hey!" collectively because of something you did. Now, I am sure they knew it was all part of the show, and were willing to go along with the jab, but so surprised was I by their response, I knew I had to make up for it somehow. Simply continuing with the bit as written would have felt false. So I bowed at the waist unto them, in an apologetic manner, saying;
"No, ladies and gentleman, I was just kidding, of course. You are not idiots. You are in fact probably the best audience we have had so far."
 
At this point, I pointed to some of the people in the balcony, (yes, they had a rather large balcony with a particularly enthusiastic crowd) and added,

"Especially those of you in the balcony".

The balcony applauded and waved at me.

Getting back to the script, my job was to explain that the cast would be returning any minute. When they did not after a few moments, I was to awkwardly stall, until they had the cue to come back to the stage. To accomplish this, I had written two very lame stories about how the cast knew what their duty was, or something. Everyone seemed to really enjoy these lame tales.

Perhaps that is why when I finished each story, this group applauded as though they were good, instead of being amused by the lameness of them. Even the parts that by design were supposed to appear bad and poorly constructed were adored for what they were. I am not sure if they, or I, was having a better time, though I would guess them, despite how high I felt. They just really seemed to click with me, and I with them.

That was always one of my favorite parts to perform, and that night it was even greater for me than usual. I dare say here and now, that during that part of the play that night, I ruled. It was just me, and four hundred people, who paid total attention to everything I was saying.


Not bad.

Of course that segment could not last forever. But less than an hour later I would get to be alone with them all over again. So I ended that bit, and cued the rest of the cast to come bursting back in through the doors.
The Hamlet sketch, like the whole show, was received far better than previous performances. I will never forget one particular example of how the jokes in Hamlet went off much better that night than ever before.

After the Hamlet segment, we would begin to close the show. We would thank everyone, mention where our next performance would be, and one by one re-introduce ourselves, before declaring unison “We are the Reduced Shakespeare Company”
 
But it was a false ending.

We had written our version of the show, so as to in a very subtle manner avoid all mention of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The gag was, the cast would claim to be done, and I would send them off ahead of me, while I would“clean up”. Once they had left, I would reveal to the audience that my cast has totally forgotten to mention that particular play. I would then proceed to provide the true closing of the production, by reciting, in a straight manner, Puck’s closing speech from that play. Afterwards, the lights would go down, come back up, and I would call back the rest of the cast.

As you may have come to expect, it did not work exactly likethat on this night of night. After our false ending, I heard someone yell "hell yes!" moments before the place erupted in very powerful applause. I assumed many of them thought it was over, as was the point, of course, but for a moment I was worried that the audience would start leaving before the final speech. I could not be heard at first, over the roar. Yet I still had to tell the cast to leave without me. Though it somewhat broke the apparent spontaneity of the moment, I felt I had little choice but to raise my hand to call for quiet, in order to deliver those lines. I honestly thought if I had not, people would either keep applauding, or begin to leave.


Thankfully, not one person stood up to leave early.

Just as the crowd was quieting down, I sent the cast on their way. As soon as they were all out of sight, I heard someone in the front row say something to the effect of, "They left you all alone again, Ty." I looked down to said person and replied, "Yes, they did, but this time I wanted them to."

I then began my usual bit. I looked out on that amazing audience. Four hundred quiet faces looking right at me, wondering what I was up to. Yet you could feel they were, as ever, open a receptive to anything that was coming next. You could feel them waiting to be delighted.

I mentioned to them that we had not done all of the plays, but that we had skipped "A Midsummer Night's Dream". In response, a female voice in the audience called out, "I knew you had missed that one!"
 
These interruptions may have bugged other people, but it never really bothered me. I figure they would not be so anxious to be a part of the play if they had not enjoyed it so much. This particular time I was not sure who exactly had said it, so I looked in the general direction and said, "You are the smartest person I have ever met." Laughter all around.

I have to say that although the nature of the show allowed for this back and forth with the audience, with ad-libs and everything else, at no time during the run of the show did it feel more natural than it did that night with that crowd. I was one with this audience, as clichéd as that may sound.

I gave my speech, and ended the play with the snap of my fingers. The lights went out. The darkness in the large theatre made it more dramatic when thunderous sustained applause again erupted. Our hands down greatest performance in front of our greatest audience had ended.

And the "ups" did not stop once the show was over, either. In fact one of the most rewarding aspects of the whole experience took place after the cast exited the house at the end of the show, and waited in the lobby.
We all stood behind this unused receptionist desk type thing, (or perhaps it was an unused concessions stand). It resembled a bar and faced the entrance to the house of the theater. The idea was to greet the audience as they came out, and to thank them, if any of them should come to us with comments and congratulations and such.

Come they did. In droves. Within moments fans surrounded us. Not simply those trying to exit the building, but those who gathered around us for a chance to meet us. (Which is why I call them fans as opposed to merely audience members.)

There were small spurts of applause, handshaking, chatting, and a great deal of autograph seeking on the part of the fans. It was a very constant stream of people wanting us to sign things, (Who were very excited to have us do so.) I signed programs, flyers, notebooks, memo pads, just about anything. I had never signed my name so many times in one night before. (Not that I minded for a moment.)
 
I was amazed and very humbled by this. For a time, I caught a glimpse of what the Beatles must have felt like.
These people were no fools, either. They wanted to engage us. They talked to us at length about theater, about the play we had just did, about Shakespeare. Several people mentioned that they had seen the "Complete Works" performed according to the original script, and had found our adaptation to be much better.

After a few minutes of mingling and signing and vigorous hand shaking, three girls came up to me whom I recognized right away. They were the girls who were in the front row of the audience during the show, one of whom had been the one I had talked back and forth with during my closing bit. I would say they were between 15 and 17 years old.
                                                                                                                                                                One of the girls identified herself as the girl who said "I knew that", when I mentioned on stage that we had skipped "A Midsummer Night's Dream". I remember telling her that I hoped she had not taken offense by my remark of her being the "smartest person I have ever met." She had not, and I suppose had I been thinking, I would have realized that she would not have been talking to me at that moment, had I pissed her off.

I talked with the girls for several minutes, taking measures to maintain humility in the face of such adoration for my performance. They invited me to come see them in the play they would be doing for their high school in a few weeks. I told them honestly that I was not sure if I would be able to make it, but that I would certainly try, because I was sure that they had enough talent to put on a performance that was just as enjoyable as mine had been to them. (I was not able to attend, as it turns out.)

At one point the younger of the girls asked me if I had seen any of her signs while I was on stage. She said, "They were small, so I was not sure if you would be able to see them." I confessed to her that I had not noticed them while I was performing. She then pulled out a small assignment pad, on which she seemed to have written in bold letters during the show, several messages that she had intended me to see from my vantage point on stage.
Flipping through the pages slowly, I read each of the make shift signs that I had missed during the performance 

"You rock!" "Awesome!", and "We love you" were all among the little notes she had scrolled, in hopes of being seen from the front row.

It was at that moment that I began to realize that we had not simply entertained that night, but had overjoyed people. During these moments, I became certain that theatre was not simply a hobby, or a way of passing time, but when used properly, could do good in people's lives, and make a significant impact, if only for 2 hours at a time. Though I did not know what the future would hold for me and theatre, in the lobby with those people that night, I ceased to view it as merely an exercise.

I humbly thanked the girl, and told her she was very kind. I asked to see the pad, so I could sign it. It was the very best way I knew how to show my gratitude for her gratitude. The more I would have tried to say, the less sincere I am sure it would have sounded. So, for better or worse, I left it at that.

This fan-fest had been going on to close to 20 minutes, when out director announced that we had to be moving on. I bid goodbye to those I had been talking to, and followed the cast back into the house of the theatre, in order to retrieve our stuff from the stage.

While we were picking up our props on stage, several cast mates began to complain about botched lines, costume problems, and the like. We had obviously knocked everyone dead that night, but I started to wonder if anyone else knew that, given the banter of regret I heard from various corners. One or two people did agree it was our best audience ever, and understood where I was coming from with the power of the evening. Sadly, they all did not seem to.

But as we piled into the cars to head back to campus, it did not matter to me what the others thought. I knew, though I could not define it, that I had been immersed in something that transcended inner monologue and blocking technique. In fact, it transcended theatre. It was a night I brushed up against a sort of immortality, brought about by what I have come to believe is the most potent combination in life; people being made happy, by other people working their ass off at something the enjoy doing.

That show, and many shows have opened and closed in my life since that night. Yet the impact has never fully left me. I think back on that night whenever I question why I choose to continue acting, and wonder if it is worth the time I put into it all. So far, despite years having past, upon review of those events my answer to that question has always been, “hell yes.”