I'm sure that, somewhere in this great nation of ours, there is an adult male actor playing Oliver Warbucks who -- for any number of reasons -- is opting out of shaving his head. This poor bastard has to arrive much earlier every day and take the time and effort to put on a bald cap and make it look real, make sure that there are no visible lines at the border between the cap and his actual flesh. Depending on the resources available to this actor, he might be struggling to get it right every night, because someone helpfully 'trimmed' the cap for him, thus making it impossible for the thing to fit correctly. In order to make his job easier, he might even have gotten a very close-cropped haircut -- even a buzz cut -- so that his hair is not as bulky beneath the cap.
Chances are, the actor is in this position because he is a) young, b) polite, c) stupid, d) all of the above. I speak from experience. I played Cyrano de Bergerac when I was 22. For those of you who don't know, Cyrano has a very large nose. My nose is, for lack of a better term, Welsh. Clearly, I needed to bulk up the proboscis. The director was relatively new to the department, she had been hired the year before and had suddenly become head of the theatre department. She brought in a costumer who did not know how to costume, firing the long-time costume and makeup designer, effectively halting any artistic cohesion between costumes and makeup. The result? Our makeup "designer" for Cyrano was a young woman of 19 who considered herself a makeup artist because she had taken a one-week workshop over the summer and been given a Microsoft Print Shop certificate saying she was certified.
Certifiable, perhaps. So I picture our fictional actor, the one struggling with the bald cap like some bad PSA actor in a video series on theatrical etiquette, sitting politely by in a similar situation as a teenage idiot blathers about her certificate and trims a good two inches off the edges of the bald cap. He should go talk to the director immediately. He doesn't know this. If he could trust his Stage Manager, he would know to go to said Stage Manager immediately for advice/assistance. The Stage Manager is a young woman of about 20, best friends with the makeup "designer," and is upset because her German boyfriend is leaving for Berlin next week. If he had an agent, the actor would call his agent. He does not have an agent. This guy is maybe talented, but he took his parents' advice and became a podiatrist. He's getting fat, he's got three kids, his wife indulges his "little hobby" and he is grateful that she never inquires with anyone at the theatre as to what his exact rehearsal schedule is, or why he gets home so late smelling of trendy cologne. This is not the life he pictured when he was 22. He should have gone to Boston. And to his credit, he looks at his hairline in the mirror as the moron with the nose piercing is butchering the bald caps and thinks, "I could just do it, I could shave my head and make my life much easier."
I was thinking something similar as the fictional idiot's real-life twin trimmed my nose. Not the tip, but the edges. This was a Kryolan foam latex nose, truly a remarkable piece of makeup: lightweight, these false noses fit right over your own; held in place with medical adhesive, they don't come off until you take them off (I recommend olive oil). You breathe through your own nostrils, over which the false nostrils fit nicely. There is no gross buildup of condensation that one gets in a hollow latex rubber piece, and the nose looks like flesh. On the edges of the piece, the foam latex thins out to a very light, skin-like consistency. To be honest, our "designer" had read the instructions, which stated that the edges could be trimmed if needed. This last phrase did not sink much deeper than the surface of her eyes. She cut about 1/8 of an inch off, all around the nose. This made it impossible to blend the edge of the nose easily with my skin, so that I had to spend an hour or two every night applying liquid latex to the edge of the nose and hoping I got the makeup on it in time to avoid having what appeared to be a big pink scar running around the bridge of my now gigantic nose.
It almost never worked, and I see our fictional bald-cap actor in the same boat. He gamely applies various substances and various powders or creams, but his hair shows just enough at his forehead or the nape of his neck that he realizes he has to cut ... some of it. He starts with the neck, getting a very conservative haircut and asking the barber to shave up to the base of his skull. This is an improvement, but during the first tech rehearsal, the bald cap pulls back from his hairline in the waltz and it looks like he is turning werewolf. Old ladies from the local Baptist congregation, who come to tech rehearsals to be able to assure the faithful that the show is of good moral quality, are rushed from the building in a panic. Murmurs of monstrosities are heard. The director insists that the actor shave two or three inches back from his forehead. The actor suggests that he just get his head shaved, but the director is one of those who must have every good idea be his own, and shoots the actor's suggestion down as ridiculous. The Stage Manager hands the actor a janky electric beard trimmer. It looks like it has pubes in the blade. "Better take three inches off, all the way around, it will be easier," saith the Stage Manager. Quoth the actor, "Don't you think I should just shave my head?" "And piss off Bill? Think about it," returneth the Stage Manager. There are rumors that the director hired the makeup girl for skills that have less to do with how she applied lipstick and more with how she applied.
No such rumors in the case of my botched nose, but the director did not have the control or wisdom to step in and help me. I did ask for help. She said there was one other nose, but that these noses were super expensive and the department couldn't afford to use them all. So, could I please make the first nose work for the run of the show? And I did my best. But this added about two hours to my preparation every night, so that I was just barely getting into my costume by the time places was called. This pissed the director off. She would come backstage yelling at me, and I would go as fast as I could, but I was caught between logic (use the fresh nose and be ready sooner) and following orders (use the shitty nose and always be late) and irrational demands (use the shitty nose and ALWAYS be ON TIME!). I am always amazed when a director works to make things more difficult or complex for a leading actor. For any actor, really, but particularly for a lead. There is enough stress involved in leading roles, why add bullshit to the platter?
The Bald Cap Actor has gone to a barber to try to fix his odd self-administered haircut; the barber has gamely faded the sides and back, resulting in what resembles a monk in negative. Or, more correctly, Bert and Ernie. The barber asks the actor, "Why don't you just shave it?" The actor responds, "The director doesn't want me to." He looks like some inbred backwoods pinhead. The twenty-something who was flirting with him is now totally uninterested. His wife and children cannot meet his eyes. His neighbor laughs a lot whenever he is outside. He is glad he is a podiatrist, because the frustration of this kind of thing day in and day out would be too much. He's taken to wearing a baseball cap at work.
I had applied the latex three times to the edge of the nose and each time had to peel it off because I was so stressed that I messed up with the makeup. Suddenly, a gigantic bearded man I'd seen backstage during Tech appeared at the door and said quietly, "I hear you may need some help. Let me show you something." He sat down and showed me how to make a slurry with my makeup, filling in all cracks on the sides and edges of the nose. He was a massively calm presence, and he spoke quietly about where he'd learned this and how it had helped him in the past. Turns out he had learned it from Margaret, former head of makeup and costumes. The one who had been fired. The one who, had she been there, would have made certain that my nose was amazing from day one. That moment was the first time I realized the importance of politics in theatre, and how one bad decision can affect everything to follow. I looked at the tech pirate. "What would you do in my case?" I asked. "I'd use the fresh nose. What's she going to do, fire you? There's no understudy."
Bald Cap hasn't got an understudy, either. Nor has he a tech pirate to advise him. He takes a break from theatre after playing Warbucks. This break lasts the rest of his life, though one reviewer does point out, "Bill Billing's stroke of genius in making Warbucks as misshapen cranially as he must be spiritually is to be commended. Finally, someone has recognized Warbucks as the Halliburton of 1933."
I was too cautious to use the fresh nose on my own, but the next night the makeup moron tore the first nose as she was removing it, something she insisted on every night. I tried to patch it the next day, but it wasn't working. I opened the new package, trimmed only the part that would get stuck in my moustache, and had the new nose on in record time. When Makeup Girl arrived and saw me with the better nose on, she freaked out: "You're not supposed to use it!" When she arrived with the angry director in tow, I may have said something along the lines of, "You're not the one who has to wear this thing," or, "The other nose ripped," or, "It was just taking too long." I don't remember. What I should have said, and what I'm sure I didn't, was, "If you had been doing your job as a director, none of this would happen. These noses cost $12.00. I'll give you the money. So back the fuck off and let me do my job."
Which is all to explain why I am shaving my head when I play Daddy Warbucks. I will detail my recent shearing in my next blog. Do please comment.
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