Drama vs. Comedy: My Latest on ShowbizRadio

Right on the heels of my recent post about longing to be in a dramatic piece, comes my latest column for Showbizradio.net. In it, I discuss the false battle that has for ages been rages between advocates of drama and advocates of comedy as the more "worthy" or more "difficult" type of theatre. In essence I say it is time to stop this argument and accept that both are similar yet distinct and equal forms of theatre. Find out more by reading the piece, and let me know what you think.

It's About Respect.

When you get down to it, performing theatre, like so many other things, is about respect. The best productions are small, short lived communities, and communities are founded upon respect. That isn't always to say you must love everyone else, and enjoy the company of all theatre people. That's silly, of course. But if we remain honest to why we're in a show, and give respect where it is due, the theatre can be a crucible for not only culture and art, but dignity and perhaps for a special few, spiritual enlightenment.

So where does your respect lie, and how is it shown in a production?

-We need to respect our responsibilities in a production. Cast, crew, director. It doesn't matter what your job is. Respect it. Be dependable. Do your work. Show enthusiasm for what you are creating. Be on time. Go beyond your obligations. This is respecting your position in a production.

-Respect the others in the production. That should be obvious. Yet we often fail in this one. Not by intentionally showing specific disrespect for others, but by forgetting that there are others. By believing that we are the only aspect of the production to which we owe anything. If you come in late for rehearsals, leave your props all over the place, make yourself unavailable to help others out when needed, and other such things, you are being just as disrespectful. It doesn't matter how good you believe yourself to be, you are never the only concern, or even the most important concern in a production. So don't act like it. There are others involved in making this show possible. Help them do their job when you can, and treat them as they deserve.

-Respect the venue. Theatre is anywhere people invoke characters to tell a story. You may never find yourself performing in a large, posh, high capacity theatre. It may be a small black box, a school auditorium, or a converted storefront. How easy to conclude that a venue is unworthy of your respect as an actor. Track mud into the green room, (if there even is a green room). Leave your trash laying around. The place is just a little dump, right? Someone will come along and pick it up, and after all, you can't be bothered. You have your own problems, and this isn't Broadway.

Yet you are here. And others are here. Nobody put a gun to you head and forced you to be in a show. So if being in one is that important to you, consider the fact that performing is an art, as well as a responsibility. To some, a sacred responsibility. Not because anybody involved is superior to the world, but because decent human beings have opted to give of their time and energy so that others can lay down money to be transported somewhere else by your efforts. And it's been that way for for a few thousand years. Perhaps that alone makes any theatre venue worthy of your respect.

You don't have to feel this way about theatre, but if you don't, you are free to go do something else. While you are there, show respect for the craft itself by treating the any venue with respect.

-Respect the audience. I often say that the audience is the unseen character in any production. They come in all types. And sometimes there are cold audiences, and audiences that are asleep. Sometimes the cast will be barely bigger than the audience. Some audiences will never laugh at the comedy, and barely clap at the end of the show. And that can be obnoxious, I won't lie to you. But still, they are an audience, and in most cases a paying audience, and they deserve your best any given night. Unless they are heckling, (which no actor should tolerate), we mustn't pick and choose which audiences will get our best and which will not.

Nor should we try to trick them, or milk them for more. They will give what they feel moved to give. That isn't always as much as we, the actors, want, but it is beyond our control. Don't mug, or overact to try to get them to respond more than they are. Just perform, and receive what they offer.

-Respect the script. As a writer myself, I understand somewhat how testy playwrights can get about every aspect of their scripts. They want them performed exactly a certain way, down to every teardrop shed. Yet as an actor, I feel playwrights sometimes get too testy about their scripts. I like scripts that allow for broad interpretations of a play, instead of those who try to direct the production from the page. Most playwrights disagree.

Yet following lock-step every nuance that a playwright is demanding of the actor still does not show de facto respect for the script. Respect for a script, rather, has to do with internalizing it, and making every effort to understand the intentions of the piece. That means viewing the entire arc of the story, and not just your lines. That means seeking to understand the bits you don't follow. Don't try to blow it over, or hide it as you perform, but actually dig into the material to find what you can find. In a good script the answer is usually there somewhere. Contrary to popular playwright belief you are not a mindless drone on stage. But you do at least need to read a map. The script is your map. Don't rewrite the show. (Which is much different than interpreting.)

-Respect the director. This can be one of the most difficult, because directors often come down with a God complex. You don't have to look far in this blog to realize I am very much against autocratic theatre direction. Leave that to the movies where it belongs. Taken too far, someone barking orders and rude comments at performers doesn't deserve respect. No more than people in other positions that treat colleagues poorly deserve it.

And a good director is your colleague. You work together to put on a good show. You have your scenes and your lines to worry about, but they have the entire show, on stage and off, to tend to. They have to gather things together in a coherent whole. This doesn't afford them the right to establish a dictatorship, but it does mean their job is difficult in a different way than yours is, and you should remember that. If you have a problem, approach them in private, like a civilized human being. Avoid the temptation to confront them while rehearsing. It's a challenge sometimes, but you'll be better off for it, and most directors will appreciate it.

-Respect props and costumes. Yes, there are so many fun objects in a theatre. But it isn't your stuff, and quite often, it takes a long time and/or a lot of money to secure such things for a collection. Don't eat in your costume, and don't play around with props. If you ruin something, the whole theatre suffers. Don't be that person.

-Most importantly, respect yourself. Whatever your skill level, whatever show you are in, whether you make any money or not, respect yourself. When you are in a show you are involved in a tradition that is in some ways part of the bedrock foundation of Western culture. That isn't to say you ought to feel self-important, or ponder the complexities of this statement every time you are in a show. But if you stop and think about it once in a while, it's at least kind of cool, isn't it?

Think of all the others that have done it before you, just on the stage you are on today. Then multiply that by all the stages over time. Lots of people have done what you are doing in this show. Don't let people tell you it's pathetic, a waste of time, or simply, "playing dress up". It's none of those things, if you don't want it to be. It's art, and when you do it, you're an artist, worthy of your own respect.

In A Show, But Not On Stage

I'd like to talk about the blocks of time I spend in the theatre when I'm in a show but which doesn't involve my time on stage. It can be broken down roughly into several different type of time and in an ideal production, this is what they feel like.

There is the time between my arrival at the theatre itself, and when I start getting into costume. I'm always one of the first actors to arrive at the theatre during a show. Mainly because I consider it my obligation to respect call. Plus I loathe rushing. But it also gives me a chance to take in what I call the "duty-free" excitement of a performance night. It's an early enough time to anticipate the start of that evening's show without needing to take care of responsibilities, feeling nervous. Just pure positive energy.

During such times I lay on the couch, kibitz a bit with others in the show, and just take it all in. 

I also like to walk around on stage a bit, in front of the not-yet-open house. Some nights I can actually sense the future. As though the audience that has yet to arrive physically is already present on some level out in the seats. I love that time. 

Not all actors care about this time, or even want it. (They invariably arrive about 10 minutes before their first entrance. Every damn night.) But I do want this time. There is a particular quality of freedom and fun in the atmosphere of a theatre say, 90 minutes to an hour before curtain which is not quite replicated at any other time. Not even intermission.

Later comes pre-show costume time. I've gotten into costume. The taste of the earlier time is still there, but things start to get a bit more "serious" if you will. I love walking around and even playing around a bit in costume, because it helps bring my character into focus. It also serves as a reminder that it's just about "time to eat". I like to get comfortable with wearing the costume for maybe 20 minutes or so without the need to focus just yet. The plane may be out on the tarmac, but hasn't begun the take-off sequence just yet. So I look at myself in the mirror more than needed. Adjust a tie, straighten a sleeve, tie a shoe. Conversation starts to drift more towards the show itself.

The 15 minute mark is when I truly want to get serious in most cases. In an ideal world, I can find a place to be by myself as much as I need to, and pace. I listen to music, go over lines, try to go inward to prepare. Any given venue in which I perform may not be conducive to all of my preferences for this time, but I try to create them as best I can. At least on opening night. I have spoken of this time before here on the blog and elsewhere. My senses are heightened somewhat. I say much less. I try to melt into the significance of what I am doing. Of course, if I don't make my first entrance until a half hour into the show, this is a little different, but I attempt nonetheless to attain these moments before I go on.

Backstage, pre-first entrance. Whenever I make my first entrance, by the time I'm standing back stage, I'm basically 100% focused on the task at hand. Listening for cues. Possibly rehearsing my first line or two. Trying to determine the nature of the audience. I do have a bit of an eccentricity which shows up from time to time at these moments, though. When I know my entrance is soon, but not eminent, I sometimes will fixate on the smallest, most insignificant thing in my visual range. A tiny hole in the curtain. An obscure piece of gaffer's tape on the floor from a previous show, who's purpose is by then long forgotten. A stray thread in the pocket of my costume. I don't know exactly why this happens sometimes, and I have never allowed it to distract me away from my duties. But it happens, and I'd elaborate if I could. But I can't.

Backstage, after my first entrance is a bit of a different creature. The intense focus, concentration, and commitment to my character and the job at hand are all still very much intact. I would venture to surmise that more mistakes in plays happen because somebody was screwing around while backstage than for any other reason. So I don't. 

However, depending on the nature of the entrance, it is ever so slightly looser backstage than the first time I am about to enter. I'm not usually one of those people that remain 100% in-character during all of my time in the building, so one can catch glimpses of the "real" me if my entrance is anymore than a minute away or so. And though I realize it is generally forbidden, you might catch me make the occasional (and very quiet) remark on what is happening on stage, or out in the audience. But only to fellow actors for whom I have a high degree of respect and trust. People I know will not abuse the ability to secretly trade whispered commentary during the briefest of backstage exchanges. 

During these times, I feel a particular bond with the other person. Observations under these conditions are among the most pithy, insightful, or in some cases, witty in the entire experience, because they require timing, brevity and near-silence. It takes a special kind of actor not to annoy me with saying something backstage. If I don't respect you, I won't say much, or anything to you backstage.

The green room. I've already discussed what happens in the green room before a show. Yet there's almost always time in the green room between scenes. Time during which I am still on my toes, listening for the next cue, but also a bit more at ease. A great relief descends upon me after a long and/or intense scene comes to an end, and I step for the first time into the protected atmosphere of the green room. It's almost like the Bat Cave. Commissioner Gordon will call again at some point, but for now you can take off the mask. As long as you don't leave it too far away. 

The nature of this time is split in a way. When you first come out of a scene and enter a green room, you relax a bit as you see the empty chair waiting for you, and other actors/crew engaged in (hopefully quiet) conversation. Life, you see, has continued in the so called real world as you performed. It's easy to forget sometimes that it does, and coming back to the green room, with its mess, its chairs, its actors eating in costume when they aren't supposed to, keeps one grounded. And part of me is sometimes relieved when I see fellow actors about to leave the green room and prepare to enter. They are just building up to what I am coming down from. It's not quite "better you than me", but a close cousin. (Now that I think of it though, in any given show...)

Of course, the roles reverse in short time, and I am the one going over the next scene in the corner, waiting for a cue, as others come ambling into the room, 85% of the time with a heavy sigh. (This stuff is hard to do well, loyal blog readers.)

One amusing side effect of this ever changing greenroom populace is how conversations can be put on hold in an instant, only to be resumed 15, 20, 30 or more minutes later. More than once I have been in the green room talking with an actor, only to have them stop, run out, do their scene, and return to me, (if I am in the green room at the time) and begin with, "anyway, like I was saying..."

Intermission is as much for the actors as it is for the audience. A time to rest, yes. But also to fix that lump in your sock you haven't had enough time to fix during the show. To get that drink. Inform that techie that there is a stray nail rolling around on the stage that somebody needs to get. To asses the audience with other actors. To asses the performance with other actors. To engage with the one you have the small crush on. Whatever. The point being that for me, unless there is a highly emotional opening to Act II of which I am a part, I don't let intermission be about business. Costume/ make-up changes of course, but I'm not in character, I'm not pacing, I'm not meditating. I'm not loafing or totally goofing off either, because Act II energy drops are quite common in the type of theatre I do. I am still cognizant of being in a show. I just don't obsess over it as I often do at other times.

Afterward. Sometimes you are just relieved a performance is over. Usually you are simply tired. Once in a while you are pumped that a show went so well, and that the audience was so giving. Once in an even smaller while, you go out and feel the high of being praised by the audience personally, as you meet them and chat with them. (People rarely approach me, however, even when I go out to the lobby. So I now do that far less often than I used to.) With the exception of opening night and closing afternoon, the end of an evening of theatre for me is somewhat like the feeling of music that is far too loud being shut suddenly off; your ears are ringing more so from the instant end of all of it than they were from the noise itself.

When I'm lucky I'm in a show with people who sometimes like to go grab a bite after the show, in which case, clean up and post-show time has its own energy. But usually everyone just wants to go home, and it's a bit like 10:00AM on December 26th. I find myself sometimes wishing that everyone felt the same energy arc as I did, and want to at least go out for a drink. Yet, if they don't they don't, and I face the long commute home feeling as though I have left a party that was just getting started when the hosts threw everyone out. (This feeling is at it's worst for me after the first matinee is over. After a long tech week and the opening weekend, almost everybody want to get the hell home as soon as possible.)

I feel that at least a third of the "being in a show" experience lies in these non-performing moments. While it's true that an actor is there to perform, and should at all times prioritize his performance duties, (which I do), the best theatre memories I have from my career all had one thing in common; the time off stage contributed to the excellence of my time on it.

Bored with Boards

There are several large and well known online gathering places for community theatre enthusiasts such as myself. Message boards. Blogs. But I confess that I am not a part of any of them.

I have tried to be more than once at various points over the years. I may even try to be so again in the future, but I might now. I just cannot "get into" such online communities, even though I know that I should.

I am uncertain why it never seems to take. You'd think with all of the potential benefits of connecting with other actors like myself in other theatres around the country I would jump at the chance. And as I mentioned a few times before, I have. But after a short time it loses its appeal.

Maybe it is just the nature of message boards in general, but I tend to find the same situation in any theatre board I visit. The politics. The less than warm welcome new people receive. The dead threads that leave an open ended question unanswered for months sitting on the same forum right next to a post about something frivolous and irrelevant getting 156 responses and counting. A need to sell one's presence or one's concern before the tribe before any amount of attention is paid to what you say. It's maddening and deflating. If I wanted to bring up a subject and have nobody take an interest in it, I would just hang out in person with 80% of the people I know.

Perhaps such boards tend to attract mostly mainstream thinking. A "hotbed for the conventional" to coin a phrase. And while I am not one to push envelopes or challenge the status quo just for the sake of doing it, my ideas for acting, directing, publicizing and any number of other theatre related topics trend towards unconventional. You would think that artists, performers, and directors would be excited by such a challenge to the norm. And perhaps some are. Yet when I do express an opinion contrary to the standard acting or theatre practice, message board users have tended to respond with silence or with indignation.

Or perhaps I have just not found the right message board for community theatre.

In the end, I know that I need a fresh set of ears for some of my experiences. My theories. My ideas. I work with some talented, wonderful people in my local community theatre circle, but they are the same people over and over most times. The experiences are usually good ones around here, but at the same time I long for a different view from different people. Others who do love theatre, and know what they are talking about, but wouldn't have the slightest notion as to the politics of Theatre A in this town, or the nature of the casting preferences that are obvious in Theatre B. People who can talk of the nature of the craft and enjoyment of same, instead of gravitating towards local personality conflicts and specific tendencies of any given board of directors. I think we all benefit from new perspectives like that.

Any suggestions for such places for discussion online would be appreciated, though keep in mind I have visited the biggest three message boards already so far. Though not for years. Maybe I need to give them a try again.

Ex Nihilo

A church down the street from me was having an indoor yard sale the other day. The have plans to leave the building once their new facility is built nearby, so I imagine that is why. I had never been inside the building before, so out of curiosity, (more than my need for mismatched plates and coffee mugs) I went in.

The predictable collection of out of style clothes, ugly brick-a-brack, obscure book titles and stuffed animals was laid out in what I imagine is their soon to be abandoned social hall. Which interested me more than any of the stuff for sale.

For you see, there was a small stage at the end of this long room. Not simply a glorified platform but an actual stage. Proscenium arch, curtain, and what appeared to be a small backstage area, with access from another room. (The curtains were partially closed so it was hard to be certain.) My rough guess is that it was 20 feet wide maybe.

There was no permanent seating, so it I assume when the stage is used, if it ever is, it would be a folding chair sort of situation. Depending on how they were arranged, I figured you could probably seat between 80 and 100 people in the place, with room for an aisle.

Obviously I will not be able to buy this building when the congregation vacates it. Yet that didn't stop my from visualizing how much theatre could be done in this venue. Not all shows, of course. You wouldn't easily fit a production of South Pacific in there. But any number of smaller, intimate plays could find a home there. Especially those with minimal sets and scene changes. Minimalist plays, like the ones I like. Shakespeare could be done easily in this diminutive performance space. Theatre is begging to be performed here.

Not that a building has to even have a literal stage to be ideal for theatre. Literally right next door to this church is an long abandoned large storefront with huge windows that I have often envisioned as a potential site for minimalist productions as well. Down the block from that is yet another such abandoned building, complete with a raised floor that is even more suitable for the same purpose. (Brunswick, Maryland is a hopelessly dead city, in case you didn't already determine that.)

The point is, it all got me thinking again about how ubiquitous live theatre can be with the right amount of involvement and interest. This church's social hall had no special lighting, no flies, no cat walk. Yet it was just waiting for theatre. Same with the other buildings I mentioned. Theatre can be done just about anywhere so long as it is dry and safe for actors and audience. One doesn't have to look far to find all kinds of non-theater venues converts into theatres. Your town may have one. Either a permanent set up, or something that has been adapted for theatrical purposes for the length of a festival or a single weekend.

I am not a fan of performing outside, but many are, and if you are one such person, you literally have almost the whole world at your disposal for a stage. Fields. Hills. Clearings in the woods. (Just get proper permission of course!)

None of this is to suggest that I personally would want to perform Hamlet in any random location. I admit I enjoy the comforts of an actual stage, dressing room, and backstage. Yet the possibility that Hamlet, or King Lear, or Greek tragedy, or, if you have money to pay royalties for it, plays like Waiting for Godot can be performed anywhere there is room for an audience to sit fascinates and excites me. Theatre truly can be brought forth out of nothing. Ex nihilo.

As versatile as the live theatre experience can be, I wonder why it is not done more often. Is it that the modern digital age moves too fast to enjoy live theatre? That the society of iPhones and Google Reader just doesn't have the attention span to appreciate a play, even if for just a few nights at the local empty former Safeway that nobody else is using?

Is it geography? Are certain areas and cities less likely to embrace it than others? Perhaps this sort of "vagrancy theatre" happen quite often where you live.

Or are people not comfortable with the idea of watching a play in an empty warehouse? Or is it just prohibitively expensive to rent an empty building for a few weeks? That could be it too. I am not sure. I have never done it.

Whatever the reasons, it is unfortunate that it doesn't happen as often as I think it could. But then again, outside of my area, perhaps it does happen a lot more often.

Theatre is, or at least can be, almost everywhere, and I find that fascinating. Though I myself would not enjoy performing everywhere, (I am very much not a fan of the Shakespeare on Subway cars thing I have been reading about), I would perform in any of the venues on this very street that I mentioned. Furthermore I would attend a play someone else was putting on in such a venue.

Ex Nihilo. Out of nothing. That is what theatre can be.

Only the Lonely

A one-person show, or perhaps more accurately in this context, a "monodrama", is something I have wanted to try on stage for a while. Scores of examples abound, from Chekov's one-act, On the Harmful Effects of Tobacco, to the full length Give 'Em Hell, Harry! by Samuel Gallu. There are also collections such as Neil LaBute's Bash, which consists of several one acts, some of which have only one character.

I even have a few ideas in my own head for this type of show.

I have never attended such a presentation, and I don't know if it would be better to see one before trying it myself, or seeing it first before watching one. Certainly performing one myself would forever instill in me a greater appreciation for any one else who took it on.

Understand that it isn't ego which feed my desire to appear on stage alone. Nor is it a disdain for other actors. A performance of this variety would be twice as hard in some ways as any other show. Not just because all of the lines go to one person, and that person has no recourse from other actors should the stumble. But also because 100% of the time must the attention of the audience is completely on you.

In a standard show, a person has some break not only from their lines, but from the symbolic spotlight. If they are in the background for a scene, they of course should always be in character, because someone at some point could be looking at them. Yet even so the majority of the attention, expectations, and scrutiny are on others who at the time are the focus of the scene.

One doesn't get such a break with a one person show.

It's the same for an audience. Any variety in the experience must come from one actor, and the parts of the story he is telling at any given time. It is a delicate balance in a one person show to prevent the audience from being bored with you. For if they are tired of the one person in the show for even a moment, the entire production has failed.

This type of play does have its advantages, however, not the least of which is the great challenge to one's skills as an actor. If one can pull of such a show, that says a great deal about one's talents. And one will come out of the experience a stronger actor, almost no matter what happens.

Plus, 100% of the pacing and control would be in a single actor's hands. No adjustments to the decisions, mistakes or presence of another actor (of whatever talents) would have to be made during the course of the show or a scene. If I were the star of a one man show, I would only have to answer to me. Despite the extra "dangers" and work of such a situation, that freedom does hold a certain appeal for me, I must confess.

Without any figures and studies to back it up, my observation has been that community theatres rarely if ever produce such shows. Could it be that companies fear the talent pools are too small in a community to find an amateur with the chops to pull it off? Or do the think that patrons of a community theatre expect a more traditional, or at least larger experience than can be offered by a one person show? My guess is that both these fears, and others explain the lack of monodramas at the community level.

Yet I hold out hope that one day I shall be cast in a local theatre's one show experiment, should anybody offer it. Or perhaps I can commit such a show to memory, and seek a chance to do a special presentation outside of a theatre's season. The same is possible if I write my own and pitch it. It would be more difficult to get the chance where I am, on the community level, but I don't count it out.

Have you ever performed in a one person show? Have you even seen one at the community level? If so I'd like to hear you stories.

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?

Such Stuff as Dreams are Made On

I have had several dreams in the last week or two that took place inside a theatre. I suppose every actor, and indeed every person has their share of dreams pertaining to their passion or hobby, and I am of course no exception. Yet the last two weeks or so have seen theatres brought into my dreamscape with a higher frequency than is usual, even for me.

I will also point out that they were not unpleasant. I have a recurring unpleasant theatre oriented dream. I won't get into that here, but suffice to say I prefer not to have that dream. Yet each of these recent ones have not been unpleasant. Each of them has had a few other things in common as well.

It's funny what you can "sense" or just "know" is true within a dreamscape. A level of understanding that may or may not be directly related to the environment, but is true to you nonetheless. I am sure you know what I mean by that. You dream of a group of people and in the dream you know they have been your friends, and are going to miss you when you leave. But they are not actual people from your life, and you have announced in the dream no intention of leaving to go anywhere. But you just know you are leaving.

It's like you are being placed right in the middle of all of the backstory, emotions, and sensory input of a moment, without having lived the entire life that leads up to it. Not all dreams are like this of course, but those are the ones I usually remember best, and these theatre dreams came with similar knowledge.

For example none of them have taken place in actual venues with which I am familiar in waking life. But in the dreams I "knew" I was connected to them in some fashion. A vague sense that any given theatre in my dream was in fact a theatre with which I should be familiar. (And to go along with that, some familiar people from waking life were present.)

All of the theatre dreams of late were during rehearsal periods, as in empty houses. No audience. Nobody is performing. Actually perhaps not even that, because in a few of the dreams, people were milling about in the house, back stage, up in the booth and various other places, going about obvious work, but not directly rehearsing.

Plus, without a doubt all of the dreams took place at night. I got the sense each time in fact that it was later at night than most people would find themselves in a theatre. In the dream it always "feels" like midnight or later. Yet there was an importance to what we, (as in myself and the cast of characters within the dream) were doing. There was no screwing about. This wasn't play time. We were totally immersed in the idea of getting whatever production it was ready to go. Or perhaps getting the venue itself ready to go, I cannot be certain.

But I think it is that sense of 100% purpose, drive, and dedication within these "dream theatres" that made them so memorable. Everybody there was committed to the theatre as a whole, and not just the particular venue in which I appeared in the dream. IN each case I felt a profound sense of belonging and mission. I am no Freud, but I considered what these five or so recent theatre related dreams of the last two weeks may have meant. I've come up with a quasi-analysis.

The sense of familiarity may represent the simple notion that theatre is in me, no matter what the venue. That isn't hard to determine. The fact that others were present, but none of them goofing off would perhaps be a symbol of those with whom I share this total dedication.

The empty house I have come to surmise may in fact point towards how dedication and passion for the theatre cannot begin or end with the actual performances, but must be present throughout. And those that are committed to such an extent will put themselves into it deeply enough to accomplish success whatever it takes. (Which is why, I theorize, all of these dreams took place so late at night; staying that late to get things done, despite everything else going on being an indication of the type of commitment I feel drawn to when it comes to theatre.

The last place in waking life where I consistently felt theatre working that way was in college. Late nights at the theatre. Doing all it took to get things done, whether it be building, painting, doing lights. Setting your day around what you would be doing at the theatre that night, and watching the end result make it all worth it. There have been some experiences that have held touches of that sort of experience since college, to be sure. But college was where it was most concentrated. Probably because college is different, and it was part of what we were all doing. And you could walk to the theatre. (As well as "break" in after hours, if you absolutely needed to do something.) You don't get that much in community theatres.

Jobs, and kids, and houses and commutes and 101 other things in "real" life tend to get in the way of most people at the community level engaging fully in spirit and not just time and physical energy. Not to mention the sacrifice of quality that sometimes results in the corners that are cut in amateur theatre, resulting in a less satisfying experience sometimes.

Actually I should amend that and point out that this is my personal experience. It is me who has not had many chances in community theatre to find myself in "full immersion" mode. And it is not because of commutes and jobs and schedules. It just that it takes a certain confluence of circumstances, personalities and passions to make it happen. And to be fair, in some of my community productions that has in fact happened. Or come very close to happening. I treasure the memories of those times.

And theatre friends I have who are scattered across the country report to me of  productions and companies and such that do seem to attain the "late at night/at all costs/art for art's sake" culture of my recent dreams. So, it is not impossible.

And perhaps that is the final impetus to my dreams of late. A projection of my desire to not only dedicate myself deeply to the art of acting, but to the nature of theatre as whole, whenever I can. As soon as I can. And to seek out those who are of the same mind. Those that understand they have day jobs and lives outside of the theatre, but love to make the sacrifice for it anyway. Not because they are paid to do it, but exactly because they are not paid. Art for arts sake. A spiritual form of making love to the theatrical. And when I find such people, my desire to hold on to them, tightly. (I know a few, as I said, already.)

But if that is the message of my recent dreams, what has changed? Why am I being reminded of these desires? Have I somehow forgotten them? Have I, without even knowing it, softened somewhat in my expectations with theatre? Or has the potential of the theatre to be life changing slipped from my attention lately while I have been too busy worrying about it's minutia?

Perhaps the dreams are just friendly reminders of what I am inside? Projections of what moves me.

Or maybe they were all just dreams, and mean nothing.

Yeah, I don't believe that either.

More Than a Hobby

To many people out there, including those who perform in it, community theatre is considered a hobby. And I suppose that depending on how serious one takes it, it could be merely a hobby.

Yet acting in a stage production is more than a hobby to me, and while in general I don't like to label any given approach as incorrect, I have plenty of reasons to declare that if you are involved in community theatre, you should treat it as more than a hobby.

In most dictionaries, "hobby" is defined thusly:

"An activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation."

On the surface being in community theatre would appear top fall into this definition. Because few people make money doing it. Those that do do not make a living from it. Not as actors at least.

But let's look again. "Pursued for pleasure or relaxation." I can agree there is a certain amount of pleasure involved, though I think "satisfaction" is more applicable in my case most of the time.

I think we get into tricky territory when we include "relaxation", not only because theatre is not, by definition, a relaxing exercise for the actor, (at least it shouldn't be!) but because that cuts out just about all of the sports, and dare devil activities that people no doubt consider hobbies.


But even ignoring that, doing community theatre requires several things which place it outside of the category of the hobby.


To begin with, it is a collaborative effort. Even if one is doing a one-person show, there are at least several other people involved in making it possible. Director. Stage manager. Prop people. Ticket booth. The board of directors that gave the show the green light at their venue. None of those things are present when one collects baseball cards, or takes up knitting. The latter two examples are mostly solitary undertakings. A community theatre production, while not a source of income, does require accountability to other people. 


Not to mention other actors in any show that has more than one person. Other people are giving up their time to participate in a community production, and each for their own reasons. While your reasons cannot be forced to be exactly the same as those of the others, a lackadaisical approach to rehearsing and performing, wherein you justify half-assed attitudes by claiming "this is just a hobby for me" shows a lack of respect for other people. If you want to do things only for your own benefit, take up one of the hobbies I have already mentioned. Nobody will care how dedicated you are.


Then time itself is as issue. I don't mean to suggest that serious hobbyists don't put lots of time into their passions, because they certainly do. But unless they are entering a specific contest, or have entered into some kind of merchant's contract to sell their wares, their time is their own. I would argue in fact that the whole purpose of a traditional hobby is to take part in the activity in the time you have left after you fulfill all of your obligations. But when you are in a play, even at the community level, it is in and of itself an obligation on your time. At least it certainly should be. 

There are amateur actors who will blow off a rehearsal or two or three because "it's just a hobby". But as I have already mentioned, if you are going to show respect to all of those other people involved, you need to be present when you say you are going to be present. Your other actual hobbies may in fact have to take a bit of a back seat to your theatrical endeavors during the life of the production. It's not a sacrifice everybody is willing to make. But if one is not willing, one shouldn't audition.


And setting aside respect for other people for a moment, theatre, and all that it requires, has a lot to do with respecting yourself, in my humble opinion. Can you keep your word, without having to sign a contract? Does doing a good job at something, and producing a quality product with no pay something in which you can take pride? When your name is on that playbill, and you are there in front of public audience, what do you want attached to your identity? The mark of someone who tried hard to produce a visual art, or someone who screwed around in front of dozens or even hundreds of people just to get a chuckle out of it for himself? Being on stage when it is not the way you make your living is about stepping up and believing it is worth being there in more ways than one.


But if it is not worth it for you, consider that is should be worth it to the audience. The time, and certainly the money of people who come to see the show is being doled out. You may not be getting paid, but those people out in the seats, (no matter how few seats there are in the house), have paid money to be there. And for some of the community theatres I have been associated with, the ticket price is not always an easy one for working class people to cough up. 

But they come. They come because they want to laugh. To hear music. To think. To be moved. To be put into the Christmas spirit. To be scared. To escape. Any of those reasons, and more. But they come, and they give the theatre company money for the privilege. You may never pocket that money yourself, but that doesn't change the fact that people are handing over their own incomes for the chance to watch you do what you do on any given weekend night. I can't speak for every actor, but for me, that makes what I am doing in the rehearsal process a lot more important than simply, "it's just a hobby." 

Finally, I'll comment on the big picture for a moment. The importance of the arts to not just a society, but to a community. The arts as an institution play a vital role in society as a whole. They reflect where we are now, where we came from, and where we are going. Whether it be painting, dance, music, or of course theatre, the arts are a way for civilization to write a love letter to itself. 


I am frightened at how each year fewer and fewer people in power seem to understand this.  They write off the arts in schools as "flippant luxuries", and slash public funding for same right and left. This battle is a serious one that cannot be ignored, in my view. But until such a time as arts erosion on the societal level is addressed and reversed, each individual community can contribute to the overall health of the arts, by supporting them, and displaying them, and making them available to the public. 

There are many ways individual communities can do this. Amateur theatre is one of them. And even if your town's tiny little community playhouse is doing nothing more than its upteenth, unoriginal and boring rendition of "The Pirates of Penzance", it is at least weaving itself into the tapestry of arts patronage. And if you happen to be in that tired old production in your town, you should be able to take at least a bit of pride in the fact that you are playing not just a part in a musical, but playing a part in keeping the arts alive, even if only a bit, in your own community. When you look at it like that, it is far more than a hobby.

Remember, it isn't about how much talent you have, or how good your voice is, or how pretty you look under the lights. It is about how much of yourself you are willing to commit to a community production. How present you choose to be. How driven you are to do the best possible job that is inside of you, regardless of the company, the cast, the script, or the lack of pay. If you choose to view it this way, you are already the sort of actor with whom I love to work.

In the end, the standards I have set here are not going to be realistic for many people. And that's fine. People who don't want to approach it like I do are not bad people. Theatre isn't for everyone. But then again nobody makes you do it. It is voluntary. However, once you make that decision to volunteer your time and efforts to a community theatre production, upholding the standards I have outlined here to the best of your ability is, to me, the least you should be doing.

Proper Ethics for a Theatrical Education

Read this post written by Lois over at her blog. In it she talks about some of the principles that she and her colleagues have determined should guide the creation of a theatre curriculum. I found myself in strong agreement with a very high percentage of what is on the list she shares.

What I Love About Theatre: A Simple List

So it has been more than a week since "Heaven Can Wait" closed at the Potomac Playmakers. Enough time has passed that I have begun to adjust to a non-show scehdule, a non-show diet, and the overall different sensations of life when not in a show.

However, if all goes according to plan, I won't be in those mode for too long. There is a summer theatre project in the works in which I an involved, and am excited about. I will share more when things become more "official", but for now, suffice to say that I plan to have a highly theatrical summer. More to come.

But, to fill the interim, (I have been away from this blog for almost two weeks) I am presented here a list of things that I sent to some of my theatre friends a few months ago. In no particular order, this is a list of things about being in a play. Devised initially to celebrate the anniversary of my first ever opening night, I share it here on the blog now for those who may be new to Always Off Book.

So, here is the list.

In no particular order…

REHEARSAL RELATED

--I love when you complete a long speech without your book on stage for the first time, when you were not sure you actually had it yet.

--I love when you first wear a costume on stage…that sense that suddenly you are playing for keeps now, if you were not sure before that.

--I love long rehearsals so long as they are productive. The best are those that are split between perfecting something you are in, and being able to relax with your fellow theatre people backstage while a different scene is being run over and over again in order to get it. (Usually, but not always, during tech week.)

--I love how “starting at 7:00” entails getting started at around 7:15 or 7:20 in virtually every theatre ever constructed.

--I love how Olivier put it…the smell of a theatre. “A mixture of rancid paint, sawdust, and fear.” Or something to that effect. That’s exactly what every theatre smells like in some combination or the other. He was right on the money. But of course, he WAS Olivier…

--I am amused by the shouting back and forth between the people in the booth and the stage manager down on stage when the lighting is being tested without the benefit of a headset.

“Bobby! Is he up there? Bring up 10 through 21, and take out 22 through 40! No, I said FORTY!”

--I also am amused by the constant flashing and strobing of every light in the place for 15 solid minutes before rehearsal on the first evening with the lighting person.

--I love it when you bond with a cast you don’t know well. Or at least members of one. I have said before that this doesn’t HAVE to happen to have a good show, but it certainly makes it a more satisfying experience. And how often it seems to happen in a matter of moments…as though for weeks as a group you were building up to the right bonding moment. You start out professional and distant in the first few days. You move into cordial, and then maybe conversational. Then one day a specific screw up happens, or one off the wall comment is made, and everybody instantly responds to it, (or you) as though you are friends. As though everyone is ready for the crossing of the Rubicon at the exact same time.

PERFORMANCE RELATED

--I love basking in the blue lights in a dark backstage area. The shadowy, unearthly luminescent quality that everybody’s face has…a quality enhanced by the stage whispers with which everyone must (or at least SHOULD) communicate in. If I were to ever attempt to write a song, it would be about actresses waiting in the blue lights for an opening curtain, or their first entrance cue. It’s a sublime sight…like being in love for a moment with all of them.

--I love how backstage in a well rehearsed show you tend to find the same people moving to the same places, to get the same props or rush off to the exact same costume change at the exact same moments every night. I have been in shows where this was so consistent that the same two actors would bump into one another in front of the same prop table at the same time every night. You can literally set your watch by it.

--I’m almost always one of the first actors to the theatre during a show. I love being around about an hour before curtain. Walking around casually with a Red Bull, dressed half in my personal clothes and half in my costume, (I know, I know). Watching each actor meander in. (Or rush in, if they are habitually late.) Mingling with them. Watching them get into make up, do hair, check on props. Every moment, (when the cast is good and it’s a good night) the energy increasing.

--But I am not a fan of the last ten minutes before curtain. They always go so slowly.

--I love it when the stage manager says we have 20 minutes, and no matter how deep in thought actors are, or how off the wall rambunctious they are being, 90% of them stop long enough to say, “Thank you for 20”.

--I love before curtain hearing half of the whispered conversation between the stage manager and whoever is on the other end of a headset.

“Gary, are you all set up there?”

“Keerrbleeerberbever”

“All right, but be quick about it.”

--I love being greeted by people you know after the show that were in the audience, but whom you didn’t know were there during the show.

--I love how no matter what theatre and no matter what time of year, right before curtain it’s always just a bit cooler backstage and in the wings than you want it to be.

--I hate screw-ups, even though they are part of being human. But I love it when actors can course correct mid-scene and the audience never knows. (Which is 85% of the time.)

--In the vast majority of cases I actually am not that bothered by hot lights. I am amused by the whirling noise they make when they come up.

--I love how you just know before the show even starts if you are about to have your best crowd of the entire run. The way they are chattering, the sense of anticipation in the atmosphere. Whoever first called it “electricity” knew what the hell they were talking about, because that’s exactly what it is.

--I like watching other actors who are off stage mouth the lines along with the actors who are on stage performing them. More common for musicals and lines in songs, but it happens when someone likes a line in a straight show too.

--I love seeing the less experienced actors get it right.

--I love illegally using music cues and intermission music...

--I like talking about the nature of the crowd and how the show is going with other actors between scenes.

--I love getting something to eat with the cast after the show. (Especially since I usually don’t eat within hours of a show starting.) It’s even better if drinks are involved. Best yet if it is at someone’s house.

--But mostly, and this cannot be overstated, I love it when everybody cares. When all the actors, the crew, the stage manager, director, everybody wants the thing to succeed on all levels. Understands it’s not the end of the world if something goes wrong, but works to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Those who are truly gratified when things go right, and enthusiastically celebrate when they go great. People who WANT to feel the magic that is theatre, and will work very hard to obtain it. If that is present, all of the things on this list are twice as potent. Or maybe those things are potent BECAUSE people care?

If you have any of your own that didn’t make the list, I’d love to hear them.

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.”