Middlestage Stage Competition Stagefest

I was invited to participate as an adjudicator in a theatre competition for the Middle Stage Fest in Sacramento on Saturday, February 11, 2012. I went to bed earlyish because I had to be up at 5 so I would be early to the Fest. Leaving the house by about 6:10, the roads were generally clear and the drive was uneventful. I did not stop for coffee on the way, preferring to arrive in a timely manner. I arrived at 7:30-ish, and a be-vested man in a backwards fedora told me that Ms. Elder was in her classroom. I was more interested in finding a toilet, so I elected to meet Ms. Elder, if ever at all, later in the morning.

My companion for the day, and the fellow who talked me into this, was Chris Guptill (Managing Director of SCT). I taught a very basic stage combat class for his lady's Pleasant Hill Middle School classes last year, and my Pied Piper effect has her convinced I should share my mesmerizing theatrical patter more widely. I accepted because he offered me gas money. See how easy I am? Such a gas whore. I should dictate foreign policy.

After the extremely disorganized check-in (I was one of several whose name had been submitted but for whom there was no information), there was a rambling, disorganized orientation for adjudicators. After that, Guptill bought me a coffee and we wandered the campus, searching for the room to which we were consigned for the bulk of the day. It was during our perambulations that I was accosted by a group of squealing tweens who had been the extremely lucky recipients of my brief but blindingly-bright tenure directing with Solano Youth Theatre. Brief because while serving as lead director of Thoroughly Modern Millie and The Wizard of Oz, I worked mostly with the Adult Cast, only fully directing a Youth Cast during Annie in Autumn 2010/Winter 2011. As usual, my habit of treating them like they will understand the basic concepts of acting led to my cult figure status among these young theatre geeks, so any time they see me somewhere, they screech my name like friendly harpies and swoop out of nowhere demanding hugs. Eew.

Allow me to digress for a moment on how to teach acting to kids. It's really simple, and can be boiled down to four easy steps:

1. Speak to them as though they are adults (family-friendly, always, but with direct respect and the expectation of excellence); to be clear: DO NOT BABYTALK OR MOLLYCODDLE THEM. Filtering theatre through babytalk makes it difficult to direct. Honestly, the habit of babytalking young actors is detrimental in the long run because it leads to an inability to communicate in a direct and open fashion with adult actors. I've worked with directors who had done so much youth theatre that they could not countenance my proactive, professional responses to their direction. Communication and performance become stymied as a result, and one finds oneself scratching at imaginary diaper rash.
2. Clearly communicate your expectations and establish and maintain the consequences of failure to meet said expectations; to be clear, consequences should come in five steps: 1. Verbal Warning; 2. Removal from Activity; 3. Note Home; 4. Meeting With Parents; 5. Expulsion (absolutely no refunds, ever, no matter what). Having the kids act these all out on the first day is fun, informative, and makes certain they all know the rules. Stick to these rules. Never make an exception, even if you've only got three minutes left and you're almost done staging the scene.
3. Laughter is the absolute best teaching tool there is. If you're not funny, sorry: you're fucked. They will always like me better.
   
4. See Steps 1 through 3.

There it is: my secret in four easy steps. Of course, if you've got a funereal visage and you treat people like shit, these steps may not work well for you. Unfortunately, one of the long-term effects of my teaching is my having to constantly discourage hugs from excessively energetic future members of the 99%. I make a point of warning them about how difficult it is to make a living in theatre, how they must learn Excel and have other skills outside of theatre, and their eyes always glaze over. But I see relief and clarity wash over the faces of the parents and the first spark of adoration in their eyes as well. Which is a plus when they're MILFy.

The last thing I left this gaggle of brace-faced theatre enthusiasts was, "Do the dishes tonight, and always remember: your parents gave up their dreams for you." I think it hit home.

Guptill and I had to ask the assistance of a somewhat pear-shaped young man in old-fashioned (non-digitized) camouflage; he showed us where L-1 is and we entered to find some tweens and a couple of Moms sitting a little awkwardly, waiting. There were apparently two different versions of the schedule. Nobody told them they were supposed to be somewhere else first.

Three other adjudicators showed up presently, all of whom were in High School. Seriously. The majority of the adjudicators for this thing were in High School. And, as most High Schools teach Drama (not Theatre), and since most Drama Teachers are actually English or Spanish Teachers by training, almost nothing they say can be relied upon. Happily, the three HS adjudicators were generally well-trained, but the two boys had to actively fight the urge to give line readings or act it out for the younger actors. For those of you who don't know, line readings and acting it out for the actor are both temptations to which the unprofessional mediocritist gives in.

Guptill and I far outranked the other three, and as I am the only person on that campus that day or perhaps this decade who has directed an independent feature with international distribution, we automatically had more quiet oomph. So I allowed the three younger judges to give their notes first. The fellow to my immediate right, Jose, is very correct. He follows rules. He wants you to follow rules as well. I'll bet that he goes and tells if anyone breaks rules. I broke several rules that day, and broke wind at least thrice. Mmm, savory. Psyllium in my yogurt is really paying off.

The note Jose gives the most often, which is echoed by the other two young'uns, is that the tween actors need to make eye contact. But since this is for the Monologue portion of the Fest, I disagree. Here's why: it's weird when, in an audition, someone is looking directly into my eyes while showing me their work. It's a very uncomfortable feeling, very naked-in-a-bad-way. I always ask actors to move their eyes about four feet above my head. Pretty much anywhere as long as it's not me.

Finally, I have to mention to the actors -- because I've arranged it so that I am the last to give notes, even though I am second-from-the-left and right in the middle of the room -- that most directors and casting directors I know do not want you to look into their eyes; that eye contact is more for your fellow actors on stage, for the imaginary partner in your monologue, for the audience if appropriate; and that some casting directors want it because they need to see what you're like looking right into the camera.

Now that I've said this, it becomes part of the mantra for the day; it's sage advice and Guptill repeats it a couple of times himself. In the morning, we do two practice sessions with two separate groups of young actors: they give their monologues, we give our notes, then they move to a different room for more of the same from other adjudicators and we await a fresh batch. In the afternoon, two different groups of actors perform for us, but we give no notes -- instead we gauge their work on a form and submit it to the Teachers' Lunchroom for tallying. At the end of the day, students will be awarded Bronze, Silver or Gold medals. Everyone gets a medal. Even Eye Contact Jenny.

Jenny must have had some traumatic experience wherein a director screamed at her about eye contact; that, or she switched her eyedrops for crazy glue. She makes eye contact like her life depends on it. This is right before lunch, and I've just finished explaining to this class the thing about where to put their eyes because the last girl's gaze was bouncing around like an abbot in an abattoir. Jenny gets up and introduces her piece with the earnest sincerity of a theatrical true believer.

"Hello. [eye contact with every judge] My name is Jenny Diver and I will be performing a monologue entitled, For My Father, from the Monologue Teenbook Book of Teen Monologues for Girls. Thank you."

Then she turns and looks right at me. Bores her eyes through mine and into my brain and out the back of my skull. And this is her monologue:

"Happy birthday to me, Daddy. I'm fifteen today. I've wanted to tell you how much I love you for the longest time. I've wanted to tell you how much I loved the bracelet you got me when I was twelve, the ring you got me when I was thirteen, even the necklace I'm wearing today which I got just a year ago. A pearl necklace. From you, Daddy."

Already, I'm frozen in the wasteland of Cringe. She's so sincere, and she's not a bad actor. Maybe it will be over soon. I say nothing.

"What will you give me today, Daddy? I know you're different from other fathers. I know your gifts to me are special. I wear them because I know you love me. And because I know that there's two gifts you could give me that would change my life forever.
[Dramatic pause indicating new thought]
I also wear them to remind me that, someday, I have to get away. I wear the bracelet to cover the scars, Daddy, from when I first tried to get away from you. I didn't know then that suicide is against Jesus. So I wear the ring because in my heart I am married to Jesus, my true Father.
[Dramatic pause]
Jesus would never rape me, Daddy.
[Another dramatic pause as her tears fill up with eyes]
Jesus would never, Daddy. But you're not Jesus. I know that now. I counted the pearls on my necklace after you left my room on the night of my last birthday, Daddy. Thirty-six pearls; that's eighteen times two. Sometimes I feel like I'm two girls inside. Three more years until I'm eighteen, and can go on my own. Will I take both of me? Two girls, leaving you forever in three years. But not today. Today I'm two girls with one of two gifts coming to her. Which one will it be, Daddy?
[Long, long pause; someone claps, but it's not over yet. She's still staring at me. I'm afraid she has a knife.]
Will you give me my freedom?
Or another ...
[screams it:] ABORTION?! [we all jump]

I can't keep the grimace of discomfort off of my face, and I can tell Guptill has been watching me. I glance at him. He's chuckling as everyone applauds. Bastard.

Later, before I leave, I overhear one of the moms talking to one of the instructors, "Well, she wasn't supposed to do an original piece in the monologue rooms; I don't know if she'll be disqualified."

The intstructor says, "As long as the adjudicators didn't figure it out, her medal stands."

I almost stop to ask. But I've got a long drive home and on a certain level I just don't want to know. I'm on 99 South when the tears hit and I'm glad it's a sunny day because fog would have taken me off the road at that last turn.

If Jenny Diver's monologue was original, I hope it helped.

I hope she keeps doing theatre.

I hope she heals.