The actor stomps away from the shoot, handsome and ridiculous in his full-length white fox fur coat and glam-rock eyeshadow. They are shooting a dream sequence, and he's being asked to do something by the second-unit director that the director promised him he would never have to do. Apparently, nobody gave the second-unit director the memo. And where the hell is the director, why is Archie shooting this scene?
The crew take on a studied nonchalance, all turning to look somewhere else as their attention stays riveted upon the actor. The old hands have a way of looking in the opposite direction and knowing more about where the actor or director has gone for their tantrum than were they watching with binoculars.
Stomp, stomp, stomp goes the actor. What an arrogant prick, thinks a minor supporting actor watching the lead. Arrogant prick in a white fur coat. Of course he throws a tantrum in a white fur coat. Everyone's afraid the coat will be damaged, so they'll definitely pay attention.
The actor is veering perilously close to some equipment too costly to replace. The 1st AD has gone off in search of the director and the 2nd AD is fluttering mothlike in an arbitrary circle between the camera and the general vicinity of the lead actor. She is 20. She graduated early from a prestigious east-coast conservatory and knows all about Sondheim. She took a job with her uncle, the producer of this Sci-Fi Film Noir Indie Epic, for the summer. She told all her friends, "New York is not so great, I want to get some real experience under my belt, some hard work." So she took the very first flight she could get from Boston to Oakland, even switching to a flight to San Jose when she saw it was boarding as she waited for the connecting flight to Oakland, so that she would be back in comfortable, temperate Northern California ASAP, pronounced ay-sap, like yay-sap or gay-sap which was a joke some of her friends from the conservatory would make that she never understood. "I just want to get to work ASAP," she confided in her best friend Marjorie Frida-Kahlo Lockwood Lamont, knowing full well that Marjorie Frida-Kahlo Lockwood Lamont would tell everyone how passionate she was about gritty work, and never realizing that all of her friends saw through her purported desire for work to the very real fear of New York and possible failure that was too too daunting for this very young overachiever with decided fundamentalist Christian leanings.
The 1st AD knows precisely where the director is. The director is over behind some bushes -- azaleas? lobelia? oleander? -- sobbing uncontrollably as he tries to tell his mother about a dream he had last night. The director is plagued by dreams about the house his brother lives in with wife and two lovely children. There is something under that house, the director dreams every night, something dark coming for the children. He has tried to keep the dreams at bay with a variety of soporifics, but none have helped. His sleeeeeep has deeeeeeeepened, he is going off the deep end and will soon need depends because he's practically shitting himself. Not literally, but emotionally, and he just can't keep it together long enough to get through one phone call. The 1st AD knows all of this because it's the 1st AD's job to know all of this. He is an exceptional 1st AD. He knows where the director is, and that is why he is going to look for him. In the opposite direction.
The costumer is very worried about that coat. Well, actually, that coat can suck a bag of veinies as far as she is concerned -- she is more concerned about the vintage mink she traded as collateral for the white fox in case of damage. The mink is worth twenty times what the white fox is worth, a fact she is desperate to keep from the manager of the costume shop at A.F. College where she rented/traded/borrowed most of these costumes. Next thing she knows, someone figures out who the mink used to belong to and it's on E-Bay and she's screwed out of a hell of a lot of retirement. Or whatever. God knows, the way things are going, she'll be lucky if she doesn't have to go back to work at a library after Christmas. She's watching the actor and the 2nd AD as the 1st AD goes in the opposite direction, good boy, he knows where the director is, too, and he's letting him get it out, whatever it is. But the costumer watches the actor and she looks around for something to throw to distract him, should he begin to tear at more than his hair. That coat. Christ, what a waste of time. They could have used fake fur. Nobody ever sees below his neck, they could have used a stole. No, that would suck, it has to be the coat. Fucking ridiculous dream sequence. All we need know is a mime with a red balloon chasing a circus dog in a swastika-speckled party hat.
The cinematographer is very upset. The shot was perfect. The light is changing. This is not something we can fix in post. The 2nd AD is hot but useless, too bad her uncle is the producer, or the cinematographer would have to ask what the fuck she was doing dithering like this. The shot was fucking perfect. Where the fuck is the director? The second-unit guy is totally freaking the lead out.
The caterer is not the second-unit director. The 2nd AD thinks he is, because she was told that the second-unit director is Spanish, which to her means Mexican. So she found the first Mexican she could find on set and brought him over because Brick Fetterly had some questions. She walked past several actual Mexicans, including the director unseen behind the oleanders, who looks Irish but is Mexican and can explain why, but this guy with the long hair in a ponytail with a clipboard and dark skin and an accent looks like a Spanxican to her. He's actually from Panama, but he doesn't bother to explain this. He asked the actor what the actor wanted for lunch and the actor kind of fumed with only his nostrils and then turned and stomped away.
The makeup girl and the actor used to fuck. This was a while back, but she totally knows what he's into. It's kinky. She liked it. He stopped calling when he got some out-of-town projects and they haven't really had a chance to talk on set. If he wants sex, she's going to pretend to be seeing someone. She needs to be professional, now. She asks in advance if it's porn these days and has finally learned to turn work and other experiences down. For the most part.
The producer is about two blocks away, in a treehouse. He is watching all of this and whispering it into a mic attached to his iPod. He is writing a book. I am the producer. My niece is totally hot and we are not related by blood. She likes the jacuzzi. She is an overachiever. I am glad my wife and daughter are out of town for two weeks. My niece is an overachiever. I rented this treehouse from the preplexed family standing below on their lovely, idyllic suburban back lawn. This is the perfect vantage point from which I can watch all proceedings and record these notes for my memoirs. I call people via mobile if I need to. I will call my niece with some ridiculous task in a few moments, I will make sure she bends down to pick something up at the right angle. That makeup girl looks familiar.
The third actor in the shot, a supporting lead, watches all from a chair in the shade. He's here for two days. The producer tried to bar him from the production based on some jokes he'd made about hyenas. The director, writer and another producer totally overrode the producer's nay-saying. It turns out that this was good, that actor is good, and there he is, not freaking out. Where did he learn that? Where did he come from? Where will he go?
Whoa! The director is at the lead's side and they are conferring. The lead looks relaxed, like putty, like melting, like happy safe time. The director has this effect on people. He looks sane and normal, not like a man who dreams of ghosts trying to poison his brother's marriage. The 1st AD is miraculously returned and makes a slight gesture with his eyes which is picked up and transmitted to the crew so that now boom mics are readied and things are done and this and that happen and now we're shooting and the caterer is heading back to his truck with everyone's lunch order.
Everything is fine until the neighbors call the police and it's Napa and Napa cops are clearly working for the Third Reich. They ask the director if they can search his car, he tells them he doesn't own a car here, which is true, his car is in Chicago, the producer drives him everywhere, they don't believe him and they demand to see proof that he is a US Citizen.
The producer, in his haste to get out of the treehouse, breaks his ankle. He regains consciousness as the decorative gnomes begin to surround him. They are singing a song, and it's the same song the director heard in his dream last night; it makes the producer cry, because he knows that if the director could remember this song, he would be okay. It goes like this:
Would you have been so lonely
That you had to get in a boat
And sail away to the moonbeam ocean,
Far up in the sky?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Oliver in Idaho, Part IV: Rehearsal Continueth
October 15, 2006 3:20pm
The second rehearsal, Tuesday 10/3/06: I go into it with hope because the night before, when I got back to the house of my hosts, they wanted to talk about theatre with me and pick my brain for thoughts on how better to run the company. They are both on the Board of Trustees and don't really know much about the structure and administration of theatre. Apparently there have been some recent political shake-ups in the upper echelons of the Idaho Falls Youth Arts Centre. I get the feeling that there was a lot of Pleasanton Playhouse-esque casting of board members' children in leads and the usual political fallout therefrom. I have yet to glean precisely what afflicted the company, and I shall report faithfully as soon as I know.
So when they asked me what I thought of the company I told them honestly that rehearsals are extremely disorganized and if you're paying an actor to come from California, you should get your money's worth and use him at every available opportunity. I also rambled for two hours about the possibilities inherent in their position as the only company in town doing musicals. These are some very level-headed people and I may have made an impression regarding the future of this company and theatrical hierarchy. But my hopes that my words would have an immediate effect on how rehearsals are run were dashed on the rocks of Idaho Falls at this second rehearsal.
I'm introduced to more people. I sit at a folding cafeteria table and study my lines. I'm pointed out to everyone who comes in, generally: "Anyone who just arrived, this over here is Edward Hightower, he's our Fagin." Applause follows. It's embarrassing. I'm trying to concentrate on my lines, because the first scenes we're working do not include Fagin. Bill Sykes arrives. My Gaydar goes off like a big decorative Chinoise gong. I'm not sure why, but I get the feeling he's a closeted gay Mormon. Perhaps it's the wispy sideburns and the YMCA Fu Manchu moustache. Admittedly, his Fu Manchu is a very very butch Fu Manchu. Very very butch. And this is Idaho. And he's in a production of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers in another town. So I figure maybe my Gaydar was thrown off by Mountain Time.
We work the Fine Life Reprise, a quartet wherein Bill, Nancy, Fagin and Dodger bellow and harrangue one another about -- surprise! -- Oliver. That's what I think the song is about. Bill wants to kill Oliver and Nancy wants to prevent that but keep Bill. Fagin wants to preserve the status quo, which means just keeping Oliver there and alive and continuing the very lucrative thievery we all do so well. We work the song. Musically. But we don't stage it. We stage the scene going into it. There's a chance we staged the scene following Oom-Pah-Pah first. I'll check that later.
Perhaps I am unfairly prejudiced from having had the deep pleasure of doing this scene at PCPA with David Studwell as Fagin, Bryn Harris as Nancy and Jonathan Hoover as Dodger. I always enjoyed that scene. I spent the scene intimidating everyone and then trying to murder Oliver, and then switching my rage to Nancy when she got in my way: the red cape waving Bully Bill away from the innocent child. I feel that it was fun and effective.
Here in Idaho Falls, the scene goes like this:
Bill: Try and get away from me, would you?
(Bill takes two quasi-threatening steps toward Oliver. Oliver does not move. Nancy walks toward Fagin.)
Nancy: I won't stand by and see it done, Bill. You've goh' 'im 'ere, whah' more would you 'ave, is that the right line?
Director: Nancy, honey, say that line to Bill, not to Fagin.
Nancy: What? Oh, yes. (To Fagin:) You've goh' 'im 'ere, whah' more would you 'ave?
Director: No, to Bill. Say the line to Bill.
Nancy (calm and collected): I won't stand by and see it done, Bill. (She crosses slowly toward him.) You've goh' 'im 'ere, whah' more would you 'ave?
(Bill takes a step toward her, then turns away.)
SM: Edward, Fagin, I think you have a line.
Fagin: Oh! Shit. I mean shoot. Sorry! Sorry, everyone. Kids. Can we take it back a bit? I was elsewhere.
We take it back a bit and it gets worse. Long pauses between every line. Nancy and Bill stare at one another from fifteen feet away. Bill never tries to get to Oliver more than once, and then only a little. Nancy is apparently exploring silence. Which is great for any actor. Just not as a bookend to every line in a scene that could potentially have the audience at the very least mildly concerned for Oliver's safety. I'm trying to imbue the scene with some sense of urgency, trying to get in between them when they're ... not ... fighting. Which makes it pretty easy to get between them. Only it's completely unjustified. I'm thinking that maybe if I get in Bill's face, he'll react. He does. For a couple seconds.
The director? Loves it.
Everything else we do that night with Bill and Nancy is pretty much the same. Nancy keeps delivering lines directly to me. Keeps looking for ways to poke me in the chest, the shoulder, the side. I begin to suspect she's gauging my muscle tone. Should I suck in my gut more than I already am? Is that possible without sharting? Does it matter? Why is she poking me?
Later in rehearsal, they're working the moment when Bill slaps Nancy after Oom-Pah-Pah. Now, those of you who know the show will say, "Edward, surely you mean after My Name. That's Bill's song. It introduces this character and makes it completely clear to the audience that Bill is a purely bad man who kills for the pleasure of it. Without that song, Bill looks like an only slightly violent white trash milksop who couldn't possibly engender the misplaced passionate love of the faithful yet abused Nancy."
And you would be completely correct, my friends. They've cut his song. He walks in after Oom-Pah-Pah and sits down and someone in the back goes, "Bill Sykes." Everyone takes a couple steps away. Bill does nothing. So now he's just a social leper. Not the right sort for the Whitechapel Country Club, but at the same time clearly not a murderous, extremely abusive misogynist.
I've asked why the song was cut. The response: it just comes out of nowhere after Oom-Pah-Pah and it's a really ugly song and just not our favorite. It completely kills the mood.
"Yes," I say. "Just like Bill Sykes."
This has yet to have had any effect.
So now Bill walks in to the bar and we have the scene about getting Oliver back and he slaps Nancy and we all run out when he tells us to, with me lingering a moment to see Bill walk up and tenderly caress Nancy's face, then leave. Because he, "...just can't say he's sorry."
Initially, the slap was a peculiar move that looked more like he was trying to push her down into fellatio. Interesting. But I didn't think that this was what the scene was about. Nor did I think it was that kind of show. When they're working this not-slap later, I hear the director say something about how Bill's wrestling moves certainly pay off. Wrestling moves? 7.9 on the Gaydar Scale, folks. Perplexing: it's clear they're trying to make it look like a real slap. But it sucks. And it's -- get this -- direct physical contact with her neck/face/left ear. A great big dangerous no-no, for the obvious reason that actors can get carried away. Adrenaline fuels energy, people get caught up in the moment and you've got possibly permanent injuries which could lead to lawsuits or at the very least pricier insurance. I get it. You get it. IFYAC doesn't get it.
I find myself drawn forward from the back of the multipurpose room. Valeen, the director, looks at me. "Edward," she says. "You seem like a stage combat type of guy. Do you have any thoughts?"
"My main concern is one of safety. May I -- ?"
"Please do."
I step up and explain how this can be tidied to increase both safety and the realism of the slap. It's your basic backhand swing, back of his hand making contact with her open palm, big loud smack noise and she whirls, clutching her face. The technical term for the moment of contact is, the knap. I show them the knap. He sort of tries it. Doesn't like it. I show him again. He sort of tries it again. I realise suddenly that he does not like at all the fact that my actual theatrical training and experience with stage combat has eclipsed his silly wrestling moves. It's clear to me that he doesn't really want to do it. He says, "It doesn't feel natural."
"I know. But it looks great."
Valeen says, "Is there something else you'd like to try, Chris?"
So he hauls off with his right hand, open palm, in a move I like to call, The Mommie Dearest. He likes that much better.
9.8 on the International Gaydar Scale.
I back off and figure there may be time later to fix this. I'll talk to Nancy. I try to talk to her as we're all leaving, but he's still there. We chat about a few things, she finds moments to poke me. I briefly consider sucking in my gut again, then decide against it. I'm playing Fagin, for fucksake, I seriously doubt anyone here is going to make any sort of romantic overtures.
Silly, silly Edward.
The second rehearsal, Tuesday 10/3/06: I go into it with hope because the night before, when I got back to the house of my hosts, they wanted to talk about theatre with me and pick my brain for thoughts on how better to run the company. They are both on the Board of Trustees and don't really know much about the structure and administration of theatre. Apparently there have been some recent political shake-ups in the upper echelons of the Idaho Falls Youth Arts Centre. I get the feeling that there was a lot of Pleasanton Playhouse-esque casting of board members' children in leads and the usual political fallout therefrom. I have yet to glean precisely what afflicted the company, and I shall report faithfully as soon as I know.
So when they asked me what I thought of the company I told them honestly that rehearsals are extremely disorganized and if you're paying an actor to come from California, you should get your money's worth and use him at every available opportunity. I also rambled for two hours about the possibilities inherent in their position as the only company in town doing musicals. These are some very level-headed people and I may have made an impression regarding the future of this company and theatrical hierarchy. But my hopes that my words would have an immediate effect on how rehearsals are run were dashed on the rocks of Idaho Falls at this second rehearsal.
I'm introduced to more people. I sit at a folding cafeteria table and study my lines. I'm pointed out to everyone who comes in, generally: "Anyone who just arrived, this over here is Edward Hightower, he's our Fagin." Applause follows. It's embarrassing. I'm trying to concentrate on my lines, because the first scenes we're working do not include Fagin. Bill Sykes arrives. My Gaydar goes off like a big decorative Chinoise gong. I'm not sure why, but I get the feeling he's a closeted gay Mormon. Perhaps it's the wispy sideburns and the YMCA Fu Manchu moustache. Admittedly, his Fu Manchu is a very very butch Fu Manchu. Very very butch. And this is Idaho. And he's in a production of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers in another town. So I figure maybe my Gaydar was thrown off by Mountain Time.
We work the Fine Life Reprise, a quartet wherein Bill, Nancy, Fagin and Dodger bellow and harrangue one another about -- surprise! -- Oliver. That's what I think the song is about. Bill wants to kill Oliver and Nancy wants to prevent that but keep Bill. Fagin wants to preserve the status quo, which means just keeping Oliver there and alive and continuing the very lucrative thievery we all do so well. We work the song. Musically. But we don't stage it. We stage the scene going into it. There's a chance we staged the scene following Oom-Pah-Pah first. I'll check that later.
Perhaps I am unfairly prejudiced from having had the deep pleasure of doing this scene at PCPA with David Studwell as Fagin, Bryn Harris as Nancy and Jonathan Hoover as Dodger. I always enjoyed that scene. I spent the scene intimidating everyone and then trying to murder Oliver, and then switching my rage to Nancy when she got in my way: the red cape waving Bully Bill away from the innocent child. I feel that it was fun and effective.
Here in Idaho Falls, the scene goes like this:
Bill: Try and get away from me, would you?
(Bill takes two quasi-threatening steps toward Oliver. Oliver does not move. Nancy walks toward Fagin.)
Nancy: I won't stand by and see it done, Bill. You've goh' 'im 'ere, whah' more would you 'ave, is that the right line?
Director: Nancy, honey, say that line to Bill, not to Fagin.
Nancy: What? Oh, yes. (To Fagin:) You've goh' 'im 'ere, whah' more would you 'ave?
Director: No, to Bill. Say the line to Bill.
Nancy (calm and collected): I won't stand by and see it done, Bill. (She crosses slowly toward him.) You've goh' 'im 'ere, whah' more would you 'ave?
(Bill takes a step toward her, then turns away.)
SM: Edward, Fagin, I think you have a line.
Fagin: Oh! Shit. I mean shoot. Sorry! Sorry, everyone. Kids. Can we take it back a bit? I was elsewhere.
We take it back a bit and it gets worse. Long pauses between every line. Nancy and Bill stare at one another from fifteen feet away. Bill never tries to get to Oliver more than once, and then only a little. Nancy is apparently exploring silence. Which is great for any actor. Just not as a bookend to every line in a scene that could potentially have the audience at the very least mildly concerned for Oliver's safety. I'm trying to imbue the scene with some sense of urgency, trying to get in between them when they're ... not ... fighting. Which makes it pretty easy to get between them. Only it's completely unjustified. I'm thinking that maybe if I get in Bill's face, he'll react. He does. For a couple seconds.
The director? Loves it.
Everything else we do that night with Bill and Nancy is pretty much the same. Nancy keeps delivering lines directly to me. Keeps looking for ways to poke me in the chest, the shoulder, the side. I begin to suspect she's gauging my muscle tone. Should I suck in my gut more than I already am? Is that possible without sharting? Does it matter? Why is she poking me?
Later in rehearsal, they're working the moment when Bill slaps Nancy after Oom-Pah-Pah. Now, those of you who know the show will say, "Edward, surely you mean after My Name. That's Bill's song. It introduces this character and makes it completely clear to the audience that Bill is a purely bad man who kills for the pleasure of it. Without that song, Bill looks like an only slightly violent white trash milksop who couldn't possibly engender the misplaced passionate love of the faithful yet abused Nancy."
And you would be completely correct, my friends. They've cut his song. He walks in after Oom-Pah-Pah and sits down and someone in the back goes, "Bill Sykes." Everyone takes a couple steps away. Bill does nothing. So now he's just a social leper. Not the right sort for the Whitechapel Country Club, but at the same time clearly not a murderous, extremely abusive misogynist.
I've asked why the song was cut. The response: it just comes out of nowhere after Oom-Pah-Pah and it's a really ugly song and just not our favorite. It completely kills the mood.
"Yes," I say. "Just like Bill Sykes."
This has yet to have had any effect.
So now Bill walks in to the bar and we have the scene about getting Oliver back and he slaps Nancy and we all run out when he tells us to, with me lingering a moment to see Bill walk up and tenderly caress Nancy's face, then leave. Because he, "...just can't say he's sorry."
Initially, the slap was a peculiar move that looked more like he was trying to push her down into fellatio. Interesting. But I didn't think that this was what the scene was about. Nor did I think it was that kind of show. When they're working this not-slap later, I hear the director say something about how Bill's wrestling moves certainly pay off. Wrestling moves? 7.9 on the Gaydar Scale, folks. Perplexing: it's clear they're trying to make it look like a real slap. But it sucks. And it's -- get this -- direct physical contact with her neck/face/left ear. A great big dangerous no-no, for the obvious reason that actors can get carried away. Adrenaline fuels energy, people get caught up in the moment and you've got possibly permanent injuries which could lead to lawsuits or at the very least pricier insurance. I get it. You get it. IFYAC doesn't get it.
I find myself drawn forward from the back of the multipurpose room. Valeen, the director, looks at me. "Edward," she says. "You seem like a stage combat type of guy. Do you have any thoughts?"
"My main concern is one of safety. May I -- ?"
"Please do."
I step up and explain how this can be tidied to increase both safety and the realism of the slap. It's your basic backhand swing, back of his hand making contact with her open palm, big loud smack noise and she whirls, clutching her face. The technical term for the moment of contact is, the knap. I show them the knap. He sort of tries it. Doesn't like it. I show him again. He sort of tries it again. I realise suddenly that he does not like at all the fact that my actual theatrical training and experience with stage combat has eclipsed his silly wrestling moves. It's clear to me that he doesn't really want to do it. He says, "It doesn't feel natural."
"I know. But it looks great."
Valeen says, "Is there something else you'd like to try, Chris?"
So he hauls off with his right hand, open palm, in a move I like to call, The Mommie Dearest. He likes that much better.
9.8 on the International Gaydar Scale.
I back off and figure there may be time later to fix this. I'll talk to Nancy. I try to talk to her as we're all leaving, but he's still there. We chat about a few things, she finds moments to poke me. I briefly consider sucking in my gut again, then decide against it. I'm playing Fagin, for fucksake, I seriously doubt anyone here is going to make any sort of romantic overtures.
Silly, silly Edward.
Oliver in Idaho, Part III: Rehearsal Beginneth
October 9, 2006
We begin, I think, with You've Got to Pick a Pocket or Two. It's a little hazy. I could go back and look at the rehearsal schedule, which includes decoding the director's somewhat baffling scene breakdown, but I don't want to take the twenty minutes to do that when I could be writing and getting funny looks from the maintenance staff here in the lobby. Besides, I left my Rosetta Stone in California. So just imagine a play broken down into 32 bite-sized scenes so that we never rehearse a scene straight through as written, but rather bounce around the play like a rusty pinball trapped between sagging Tetons.
Which might explain why nobody knows their lines. I'm the only one with a script in my hand. The kids are all unfocused and confused: none of them know their music, none of them know their lines, none of them really seem to know that we're in a play. Oliver doesn't even seem to want to be there. Nancy paraphrases everything, drops operative words, adds commentary and, "Something like that," to everything she's doing. So for example if she's crossing down left she says, "And this is where I cross over here and I say ..." Someone has coached everyone on their dialects. They're all using the same dialect. It's not a dialect I've heard terribly often. For a sample, see Corky's dialect from the end of Waiting for Guffman. His Henry Higgins / Eliza Doolittle bit.
The choreographer is showing me where I am and what I'm doing in the pickpocket number. The kids are pushing me down and stealing my stuff. One of the kids says, "You don't know I'm here."
I say, "Of course I do: this is my little pyramid scheme. I'm a master thief and pickpocket and you're my students. I've taught you everything you know." As I finish, I'm looking at the choreographer with that gleam we professionals reserve for other professionals when we all know we're on the same page. I'm smiling a little. She's looking at me. There's a placid complacency to her little smile. The dark circles under the eyes, belying the calm surface and hinting at spiritual exhaustion beneath. I know these signs.
She says, "Well, not exactly."
I can't help it. I say, "Ha! Really."
"We're thinking that these kids are getting the better of you. They're tricking Ol' Mister Fagin."
"I see."
The disorganized rehearsal was bad enough, my friends. I was willing to overlook it. Organization can be made to happen. But this was the moment, as I said 'I see,' when my guard went up completely. Shields were raised, the Polite Mask fell firmly into place and my heart sank below my stomach, down beneath my shoes into the deep soil of this high desert plain and I wanted to cry. I realized that I had driven 945 miles to work with a company not much more theatrically savvy than the one I had been teaching and directing at in Dublin, CA for most of 2004 - 2005.
I looked around. Everyone was talking. Even the director. She glanced over occasionally. I looked back at the choreographer. She said, "I mean, you can play it whatever way you want. They'll just play that they're tricking you."
I smile, polite and professional: "Of course."
We get through the number and it's a shambles. None of the kids know anything in the number except one girl and Dodger, who stop to tell other kids and me what to do at various points in the process. The choreographer does not seem to remember some of the number. She did not in fact know we were doing this tonight. She happened by when she dropped her son off. It wasn't on the schedule. I understand. I'm weighing my options. Guarding my expression. Placid. Trying to blend.
We run the scenes, starting with Oliver's arrival at Fagin's lair. Technically, this is known as the Thieves' Kitchen. It's all pretty traditional. There's a kid who's been given the line, "Password!" whenever someone is going to enter my lair. He never remembers it. There's a pause. It kills momentum. Wait, momentum? Silly Edward.
An assistant gets up to show me the blocking. "I was you," she says. She's got blocking written in a script. People sort of say their lines. I'm looking at her script, looking at the people, looking at my script. Polite and attentive. Valeen, the director, tells the assistant to sit down. I think she can see that an Edward left to his own devices in this situation will perhaps be the better Fagin than one chained to an assistant's scrawled blocking notes. I begin to love Valeen a little, in spite of the disorganization.
Oliver's resentful and noncommittal in everything he does. I say a line and he just sort of stares at me. When he doesn't react, I begin making up responses for him:
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Fagin, Widow Corney upped my meds and I'm just a little confused right now."
"Are you, my dear? Well that's nothing that a little re-casting couldn't help." And I smile at him.
He blinks, says, "Wait. What?"
Valeen says, "Nathan, honey, where's your script?"
"Over there."
"Well go get it, honey, you're holding things up."
Script in hand he's not much better. We go through the scenes, basically giving me the blocking. Could have saved time meeting with someone earlier today and copying it down.
We move on to the next morning when Oliver sees me counting my treasure. When it comes to the threatening with the sausage fork, I step right into directorial mode and show him how I'm going to grab his shirt and he should grab my wrists and hold on and do all the shaking himself. Basic stage combat.
He seems a little more awake. I have hope.
We do the scene and I grab him and he's dead weight. I stop. "You've got to do the shaking for me," I say. "Here, make it look like I'm shaking you to death." He wiggles. "Bigger," I say. He wiggles a little bigger.
Valeen says, "Nathan, come on, you've got to react."
I shake him again and he wiggles a little bigger. I take it from the moment I see him awake. I leap across the stage, grab him by the shirt and practically throw him into the air. Direct eye contact. Complete commitment from me. He's terrified. Deer-in-the-headlights. And suddenly there's something going on in the scene.
After I shout at him to wash, Valeen says, "Good. That was good. Nathan, those reactions were really nice."
His hands are in his pockets and his face is dull again. He's staring at the floor. I begin to wonder what goes on at home. He says, "Okay." Not sad. Just doesn't seem to care.
Originally, I wrote something here comparing the boy unfavorably to poo-poo. I have decided that my words were too harsh. He's a good kid. He may just be horribly miscast. He's certainly got his work cut out for him.
We begin, I think, with You've Got to Pick a Pocket or Two. It's a little hazy. I could go back and look at the rehearsal schedule, which includes decoding the director's somewhat baffling scene breakdown, but I don't want to take the twenty minutes to do that when I could be writing and getting funny looks from the maintenance staff here in the lobby. Besides, I left my Rosetta Stone in California. So just imagine a play broken down into 32 bite-sized scenes so that we never rehearse a scene straight through as written, but rather bounce around the play like a rusty pinball trapped between sagging Tetons.
Which might explain why nobody knows their lines. I'm the only one with a script in my hand. The kids are all unfocused and confused: none of them know their music, none of them know their lines, none of them really seem to know that we're in a play. Oliver doesn't even seem to want to be there. Nancy paraphrases everything, drops operative words, adds commentary and, "Something like that," to everything she's doing. So for example if she's crossing down left she says, "And this is where I cross over here and I say ..." Someone has coached everyone on their dialects. They're all using the same dialect. It's not a dialect I've heard terribly often. For a sample, see Corky's dialect from the end of Waiting for Guffman. His Henry Higgins / Eliza Doolittle bit.
The choreographer is showing me where I am and what I'm doing in the pickpocket number. The kids are pushing me down and stealing my stuff. One of the kids says, "You don't know I'm here."
I say, "Of course I do: this is my little pyramid scheme. I'm a master thief and pickpocket and you're my students. I've taught you everything you know." As I finish, I'm looking at the choreographer with that gleam we professionals reserve for other professionals when we all know we're on the same page. I'm smiling a little. She's looking at me. There's a placid complacency to her little smile. The dark circles under the eyes, belying the calm surface and hinting at spiritual exhaustion beneath. I know these signs.
She says, "Well, not exactly."
I can't help it. I say, "Ha! Really."
"We're thinking that these kids are getting the better of you. They're tricking Ol' Mister Fagin."
"I see."
The disorganized rehearsal was bad enough, my friends. I was willing to overlook it. Organization can be made to happen. But this was the moment, as I said 'I see,' when my guard went up completely. Shields were raised, the Polite Mask fell firmly into place and my heart sank below my stomach, down beneath my shoes into the deep soil of this high desert plain and I wanted to cry. I realized that I had driven 945 miles to work with a company not much more theatrically savvy than the one I had been teaching and directing at in Dublin, CA for most of 2004 - 2005.
I looked around. Everyone was talking. Even the director. She glanced over occasionally. I looked back at the choreographer. She said, "I mean, you can play it whatever way you want. They'll just play that they're tricking you."
I smile, polite and professional: "Of course."
We get through the number and it's a shambles. None of the kids know anything in the number except one girl and Dodger, who stop to tell other kids and me what to do at various points in the process. The choreographer does not seem to remember some of the number. She did not in fact know we were doing this tonight. She happened by when she dropped her son off. It wasn't on the schedule. I understand. I'm weighing my options. Guarding my expression. Placid. Trying to blend.
We run the scenes, starting with Oliver's arrival at Fagin's lair. Technically, this is known as the Thieves' Kitchen. It's all pretty traditional. There's a kid who's been given the line, "Password!" whenever someone is going to enter my lair. He never remembers it. There's a pause. It kills momentum. Wait, momentum? Silly Edward.
An assistant gets up to show me the blocking. "I was you," she says. She's got blocking written in a script. People sort of say their lines. I'm looking at her script, looking at the people, looking at my script. Polite and attentive. Valeen, the director, tells the assistant to sit down. I think she can see that an Edward left to his own devices in this situation will perhaps be the better Fagin than one chained to an assistant's scrawled blocking notes. I begin to love Valeen a little, in spite of the disorganization.
Oliver's resentful and noncommittal in everything he does. I say a line and he just sort of stares at me. When he doesn't react, I begin making up responses for him:
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Fagin, Widow Corney upped my meds and I'm just a little confused right now."
"Are you, my dear? Well that's nothing that a little re-casting couldn't help." And I smile at him.
He blinks, says, "Wait. What?"
Valeen says, "Nathan, honey, where's your script?"
"Over there."
"Well go get it, honey, you're holding things up."
Script in hand he's not much better. We go through the scenes, basically giving me the blocking. Could have saved time meeting with someone earlier today and copying it down.
We move on to the next morning when Oliver sees me counting my treasure. When it comes to the threatening with the sausage fork, I step right into directorial mode and show him how I'm going to grab his shirt and he should grab my wrists and hold on and do all the shaking himself. Basic stage combat.
He seems a little more awake. I have hope.
We do the scene and I grab him and he's dead weight. I stop. "You've got to do the shaking for me," I say. "Here, make it look like I'm shaking you to death." He wiggles. "Bigger," I say. He wiggles a little bigger.
Valeen says, "Nathan, come on, you've got to react."
I shake him again and he wiggles a little bigger. I take it from the moment I see him awake. I leap across the stage, grab him by the shirt and practically throw him into the air. Direct eye contact. Complete commitment from me. He's terrified. Deer-in-the-headlights. And suddenly there's something going on in the scene.
After I shout at him to wash, Valeen says, "Good. That was good. Nathan, those reactions were really nice."
His hands are in his pockets and his face is dull again. He's staring at the floor. I begin to wonder what goes on at home. He says, "Okay." Not sad. Just doesn't seem to care.
Originally, I wrote something here comparing the boy unfavorably to poo-poo. I have decided that my words were too harsh. He's a good kid. He may just be horribly miscast. He's certainly got his work cut out for him.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Play the Ink
What do you do as an actor when you begin to think about your character's past, their origins, their family, their morning, their evening -- basically everything that happens before and after we see them on stage or on screen? If you have an imagination, if you have an inquisitive and active mind and if you are playing the part, isn't it ultimately up to you as the actor to devise a complete picture of whatever content you choose?
What do you do as a director when you think about a character's past, origins, family, everything that happens before and after we see them on screen or on stage? As the director, every last detail is in your control. Shouldn't you map every single thing out for the actor and tell them how to play it? Shouldn't you make them do the role the way you see it? Shouldn't you direct and guide them into the performance that you see as best fitting the role, the play, the production?
If the answer to the majority of these questions is "Yes!" -- as many actors or directors would tell you -- then we are at an immediate impasse: the answer cannot be yes to the actor's questions if the answer to the director's questions is also yes, because the director, in theory, ultimately decides. But if there is a disagreement and the director forces the actor to bend to directorial will, the actor may always have a shard of splintry grudge in her heart over being forced to play the role one way, when she feels deeply that it ought to go down a different path.
Similarly, a director knows when an actor is ignoring their direction. Well, a good director knows; a director who deals in direct (pun!) communication, clear choices and intelligent staging knows when an actor is pretending to forget because there has definitely been clear, calm discussion at some point during rehearsal about what, precisely, is going on in this play. So when the actor "forgets" repeatedly to use the double-take or to cross down left before the witty riposte, the director knows that the actor doesn't like what they were told to do. Hopefully, it is a situation in which the director can talk to the actor and they can work it out. If it is not, the director is better off giving the actor the benefit of the doubt and moving on to the next project with cloudless hindsight: actors' egos are strange, fragile things more slippery and potentially destructive than the Hayward fault.
Rehearsal is the place to work these details out. And the actor and director must approach the work with an equally open mind. Truly wonderful things can happen as a result of open collaboration, and it is exciting to see what magnificent works arise from bright minds applied to potent work in fertile artistic ground.
But.
How do we know which approach to take, and when? What is to stop me, as Oliver Warbucks in Annie, from choosing to play my role as an ardent Nazi sympathizer and soulless war profiteer? My name, after all, is Warbucks. It is clear that I made my money in World War I, I am bound to have multiple contacts in Germany, it's in my best interest that the United States be at war with someone, the President of Germany appointed Adolf Hitler as Chancellor of Germany on January 30 of the year in which the play takes place (1933), so this is all quite possible.
The specific math: I am 37, so I play Warbucks as 37. If it's 1933, then 37 years ago was 1896. So at age 23, it was 1919, the perfect timing for my having made my first million by age 23, as stated in the script. [Pure inference: Being such a business- and work-oriented fellow, I am probably a Capricorn. Many Capricorns -- or people with Capricorn Ascendants -- tend to feel unwanted, so getting into a business that everyone in the world wants (weaponry) is going to be very satisfying to me.] None of this prevents me from choosing to make Warbucks a Nazi sympathizer. There is the fact that I invite Judge Brandeis to my house on Christmas Eve to officially adopt Annie, but I could justify that by saying I'm rubbing a Christian holiday in the face of a prominent Jew. There's nothing disproving this in the script, and imagination can justify anything.
What if a director disagrees with this? How do they go about dissuading me from this viewpoint? What if the director thinks that I am instead the inheritor of a vast fortune from a dead uncle whose attorney had to search Hell's Kitchen for me in order to execute the Last Will and Testament? Again, there's nothing in the script to say that this is not the case, and imagination can justify anything.
Aren't both points of view equally valid?
Possibly.
Is there some kind of yardstick, either universal or specific, that one can use as actor or director to figure out the true path of any character?
Yes.
It's called the script.
Specifically, the ink. The script can spark all sorts of ideas, and any number of approaches can arise therefrom. However, in Playing Shakespeare, Janet Suzman advises us to, "Play the ink." This means play what's there, play what's written and what can be directly supported by other ink in the script.
In other words, what Oliver Warbucks had for breakfast this morning does not matter unless the scene is about what he had for breakfast this morning. And the scene should only be about this morning's breakfast if that somehow advances the plot. If there's no breakfast mentioned, it's not playable.
An actor who spends time playing unwritten deep upset at past events is wasting everyone's time and her own most of all: why spend a play focused on one tiny detail of a character's past when the character's current focus is the now and the immediate or long-term future? Yes, the past is part of the tapestry. But it's only playable if it's written. And while Warbucks never says he is NOT a Nazi sympathizer, he also never says that he is. And if the character never says it, and if there is nothing in the ink of the script that clearly, directly states it, then it is not true and cannot be played.
We play wants.
We use tactics to get what we want.
We play these tactics with life-or-death stakes.
Whether or not we get what we want defines the degree of our emotional reaction to the situation; in other words, Emotion Is The Sweat Of Action. Play like your life depends on it -- literally, you will die if you do not get what you want -- and when you win or lose you will feel what you should in that moment. It's natural, it's organic, it's economical.
An important caveat: where you were just before you walked in and where you were going when you entered the room are, of course incredibly important. They are part of your arc, part of your path. In a well-written play, this is clear. But these are things to know, not to play. Only action is playable. Just like in hide-and-go-seek, we run for base as though we will die if we are tagged. To run for base as though thinking about the scary clowns of youth or the rhododendron behind which we were just hiding is precisely the path to losing the game.
What do you do as a director when you think about a character's past, origins, family, everything that happens before and after we see them on screen or on stage? As the director, every last detail is in your control. Shouldn't you map every single thing out for the actor and tell them how to play it? Shouldn't you make them do the role the way you see it? Shouldn't you direct and guide them into the performance that you see as best fitting the role, the play, the production?
If the answer to the majority of these questions is "Yes!" -- as many actors or directors would tell you -- then we are at an immediate impasse: the answer cannot be yes to the actor's questions if the answer to the director's questions is also yes, because the director, in theory, ultimately decides. But if there is a disagreement and the director forces the actor to bend to directorial will, the actor may always have a shard of splintry grudge in her heart over being forced to play the role one way, when she feels deeply that it ought to go down a different path.
Similarly, a director knows when an actor is ignoring their direction. Well, a good director knows; a director who deals in direct (pun!) communication, clear choices and intelligent staging knows when an actor is pretending to forget because there has definitely been clear, calm discussion at some point during rehearsal about what, precisely, is going on in this play. So when the actor "forgets" repeatedly to use the double-take or to cross down left before the witty riposte, the director knows that the actor doesn't like what they were told to do. Hopefully, it is a situation in which the director can talk to the actor and they can work it out. If it is not, the director is better off giving the actor the benefit of the doubt and moving on to the next project with cloudless hindsight: actors' egos are strange, fragile things more slippery and potentially destructive than the Hayward fault.
Rehearsal is the place to work these details out. And the actor and director must approach the work with an equally open mind. Truly wonderful things can happen as a result of open collaboration, and it is exciting to see what magnificent works arise from bright minds applied to potent work in fertile artistic ground.
But.
How do we know which approach to take, and when? What is to stop me, as Oliver Warbucks in Annie, from choosing to play my role as an ardent Nazi sympathizer and soulless war profiteer? My name, after all, is Warbucks. It is clear that I made my money in World War I, I am bound to have multiple contacts in Germany, it's in my best interest that the United States be at war with someone, the President of Germany appointed Adolf Hitler as Chancellor of Germany on January 30 of the year in which the play takes place (1933), so this is all quite possible.
The specific math: I am 37, so I play Warbucks as 37. If it's 1933, then 37 years ago was 1896. So at age 23, it was 1919, the perfect timing for my having made my first million by age 23, as stated in the script. [Pure inference: Being such a business- and work-oriented fellow, I am probably a Capricorn. Many Capricorns -- or people with Capricorn Ascendants -- tend to feel unwanted, so getting into a business that everyone in the world wants (weaponry) is going to be very satisfying to me.] None of this prevents me from choosing to make Warbucks a Nazi sympathizer. There is the fact that I invite Judge Brandeis to my house on Christmas Eve to officially adopt Annie, but I could justify that by saying I'm rubbing a Christian holiday in the face of a prominent Jew. There's nothing disproving this in the script, and imagination can justify anything.
What if a director disagrees with this? How do they go about dissuading me from this viewpoint? What if the director thinks that I am instead the inheritor of a vast fortune from a dead uncle whose attorney had to search Hell's Kitchen for me in order to execute the Last Will and Testament? Again, there's nothing in the script to say that this is not the case, and imagination can justify anything.
Aren't both points of view equally valid?
Possibly.
Is there some kind of yardstick, either universal or specific, that one can use as actor or director to figure out the true path of any character?
Yes.
It's called the script.
Specifically, the ink. The script can spark all sorts of ideas, and any number of approaches can arise therefrom. However, in Playing Shakespeare, Janet Suzman advises us to, "Play the ink." This means play what's there, play what's written and what can be directly supported by other ink in the script.
In other words, what Oliver Warbucks had for breakfast this morning does not matter unless the scene is about what he had for breakfast this morning. And the scene should only be about this morning's breakfast if that somehow advances the plot. If there's no breakfast mentioned, it's not playable.
An actor who spends time playing unwritten deep upset at past events is wasting everyone's time and her own most of all: why spend a play focused on one tiny detail of a character's past when the character's current focus is the now and the immediate or long-term future? Yes, the past is part of the tapestry. But it's only playable if it's written. And while Warbucks never says he is NOT a Nazi sympathizer, he also never says that he is. And if the character never says it, and if there is nothing in the ink of the script that clearly, directly states it, then it is not true and cannot be played.
We play wants.
We use tactics to get what we want.
We play these tactics with life-or-death stakes.
Whether or not we get what we want defines the degree of our emotional reaction to the situation; in other words, Emotion Is The Sweat Of Action. Play like your life depends on it -- literally, you will die if you do not get what you want -- and when you win or lose you will feel what you should in that moment. It's natural, it's organic, it's economical.
An important caveat: where you were just before you walked in and where you were going when you entered the room are, of course incredibly important. They are part of your arc, part of your path. In a well-written play, this is clear. But these are things to know, not to play. Only action is playable. Just like in hide-and-go-seek, we run for base as though we will die if we are tagged. To run for base as though thinking about the scary clowns of youth or the rhododendron behind which we were just hiding is precisely the path to losing the game.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Week One: Part Two, OLIVER! in Idaho
Oct 9, 2006
As of 6:15 on Monday, 2 October, I haven't had any responses to my e-mails, not even a note of, "Gosh, Edward, so sorry we didn't get back to you." (In fact, since rehearsal has begun nobody has mentioned those e-mails at all.) More perplexing is that rehearsal is ostensibly beginning in 45 minutes and I have no idea where we're rehearsing.
I'd spent the day exploring Idaho Falls a little more, looking in at the local Chamber of Commerce and learning that there's an entire mountain full of Opals here in Idaho. The lady behind the counter was taken aback when I asked if she know of any good coffeehouses. She stumblepaused and said, " ... Coffeehouses? Well, yes, I'm sure ... here, let's see ..." Producing a local eateries pamphlet, she showed me the list of potential coffee places and reads the the names, pointing syllable by syllable. "Vil-la Cof-fee-house ... Jack Mor-mon's Steam-y Brews-N'-Smokes ... Hot Wa-ter Strained Through Gran-ny Pan-ties ..." I took the pamphlet and went in search of Villa Coffeehouse.
After a day spent drinking coffee and studying my lines I was ready to jump in to rehearsals. I like to arrive at least a half hour early, if not more. And by 6:17 I had accepted the fact that they were not going to contact me with any information about rehearsal. I was the pretty-pretty-princess, expecting special treatment and such. So I called the SM and said, "Hi there, Ginger, this is Edward Hightower."
"Oh. Are you in town?"
"Yes."
"... Great! So what can I help you with?"
"Well, I'd love to come to rehearsal tonight."
"Do you need a ride? Because I'm still at work and I have to go to the store before I go to rehearsal, but I could have someone come pick you up maybe. Actually, I'm just leaving work now. Do you need a ride?"
"No, I'd just like to know where rehearsal is."
"Oh! Do you have a driver, are you taking a taxi?"
"No, I have a car."
"You drove here?"
"Yes."
"Wow."
"I like the desert."
"I'll bet."
"So rehearsal is ..."
"Oh! It's at Jefferson Montessori in Ammon."
This was the moment when I thought my senses or cell service had departed me. "I'm sorry, where?"
"Jefferson Montessori. Where are you?"
"I'm in the parking lot of the Red Lion Hotel."
"Where is that?"
The Red Lion Hotel, at about six storeys, is the tallest secular building in Idaho Falls. It's right next to the river. Pretty visible. I wanted to ask if she lived around here, but things were strange enough. "It's near the river, downtown, off Broadway."
"Okay ... um ... I'm not good with directions. You're going to take Broadway to Yellowstone ... do you know where that is?"
"Yes."
"Okay, you're going to take Yellowstone North, so you'll be turning left. I think. Left, right, yeah, it's left. So you're going to pass Les Schwab and a barbecue place on the left and then you're going under an overpass and you take the first right and that's First Street. No, I'm sorry, the second right is First Street. And you're going to take First all the way down, couple miles, you're gonna cross a little bridge but right before that you'll know you're going the right direction when you pass an Arctic Circle on your left and a gas station on your right. The school's across from a Baptist church, it's on the right and there's another school next to it that has a billboard."
"I'll pass an Arctic Circle?"
"Yes."
"Aren't those all melting?"
" ... What?"
"Nothing. What's the name of the school again?"
"Jefferson Montessori."
"Jefferson?"
"Yes."
"Okay, well, I'll see you there."
"Okay, well, I have to go to the store and get some stuff, so I'll be there soon. And just call me if you get lost and I'll rope you in."
"Too late, Ginger."
"What? Why?"
"Nothing, I'll see you there."
So I follow her directions and there's no Jefferson Montessori. Everything else is exactly as she reported. But the name of the school is Snake River Montessori. I pull into the lot and I'm sitting there and it's raining. I call her just as a PT Cruiser is pulling into the lot. I think, 'I'll bet that's her.'
"Hey Ginger, it's Edward. Just wanted to check the name of the school ..."
"Jefferson Montessori. Where are you?"
"I'm at Snake River Montessori."
"Oh is that you in the little white car?"
I wave, she waves.
"Yes it is."
"Hi! Come on in! I'll just get the door open."
I pull the car around and park closer to the building, as it's now pouring rain. Ginger gets out of her car and heads toward the building. No umbrella. I'm putting my stuff into my backpack and another car pulls up. A jolly lady with white hair gets out. She sees my car and waves, walks over. I open the door.
"Hi! Are you Edward? I'm Valeen!"
"Hi there. Yes I am. Pleased to meet you."
"Welcome to Idaho Falls!" She gestures at the leaden skies and the torrential downpour. No umbrella for Valeen. "Come on inside and we'll have a chat."
"I'll just get my stuff."
"Okay! See you in there!"
Once I'm inside, Valeen invites me to have a seat. She says, "Just so you know what's going on, here: there's been some uproar because we're changing the way we do things. Part of that is having you here. Also, our Bill and Nancy aren't from Idaho Falls, but you're our big-ticket item for the production. A lot of people aren't happy about this but not so much the Fagin role because not so many people here thought they could play that part. But that's what's going on here: a lot of change and some anxiety over it, but we're going forward and we'll make the best of it."
I murmur something about change and resistance and change and art and she smilingly agrees. Then she says, "One other thing: our Oliver. He's got the look, he's got the voice -- when he chooses to sing -- but he's just not an actor."
I'm beginning to think that's a tradition with this show. The kid who played Oliver at PCPA had this goofy, complacent smile the whole time. Aside from the time he cried during a music rehearsal when Jonathan Swoboda raised his voice, I never saw that Oliver change his expression. Until I talked to him during Tech and suggested he think about what he would do if a scary man broke into his house, tied a rope to him and dragged him across the rooftops, threatening murder and worse. After that, he did some things. And he began to do more when he saw his understudy (a girl) astound us with her performance during the understudy rehearsal.
I relate this story briefly to Valeen. She says, "Oh good. You go ahead and do anything you can to get our Oliver to act. That would be wonderful."
I consider prodding him with a javelin and wonder if there's a used sporting goods store in town.
Rehearsal starts at 7:00. By 7:05 there are maybe four people in the room. Valeen introduces me to everyone. By 7:20 the room is full of screaming kids and talking adults. We have yet to begin rehearsing. I am still being introduced. By 7:45 I begin to want to die or cry or drink or all three.
Then we start to rehearse.
As of 6:15 on Monday, 2 October, I haven't had any responses to my e-mails, not even a note of, "Gosh, Edward, so sorry we didn't get back to you." (In fact, since rehearsal has begun nobody has mentioned those e-mails at all.) More perplexing is that rehearsal is ostensibly beginning in 45 minutes and I have no idea where we're rehearsing.
I'd spent the day exploring Idaho Falls a little more, looking in at the local Chamber of Commerce and learning that there's an entire mountain full of Opals here in Idaho. The lady behind the counter was taken aback when I asked if she know of any good coffeehouses. She stumblepaused and said, " ... Coffeehouses? Well, yes, I'm sure ... here, let's see ..." Producing a local eateries pamphlet, she showed me the list of potential coffee places and reads the the names, pointing syllable by syllable. "Vil-la Cof-fee-house ... Jack Mor-mon's Steam-y Brews-N'-Smokes ... Hot Wa-ter Strained Through Gran-ny Pan-ties ..." I took the pamphlet and went in search of Villa Coffeehouse.
After a day spent drinking coffee and studying my lines I was ready to jump in to rehearsals. I like to arrive at least a half hour early, if not more. And by 6:17 I had accepted the fact that they were not going to contact me with any information about rehearsal. I was the pretty-pretty-princess, expecting special treatment and such. So I called the SM and said, "Hi there, Ginger, this is Edward Hightower."
"Oh. Are you in town?"
"Yes."
"... Great! So what can I help you with?"
"Well, I'd love to come to rehearsal tonight."
"Do you need a ride? Because I'm still at work and I have to go to the store before I go to rehearsal, but I could have someone come pick you up maybe. Actually, I'm just leaving work now. Do you need a ride?"
"No, I'd just like to know where rehearsal is."
"Oh! Do you have a driver, are you taking a taxi?"
"No, I have a car."
"You drove here?"
"Yes."
"Wow."
"I like the desert."
"I'll bet."
"So rehearsal is ..."
"Oh! It's at Jefferson Montessori in Ammon."
This was the moment when I thought my senses or cell service had departed me. "I'm sorry, where?"
"Jefferson Montessori. Where are you?"
"I'm in the parking lot of the Red Lion Hotel."
"Where is that?"
The Red Lion Hotel, at about six storeys, is the tallest secular building in Idaho Falls. It's right next to the river. Pretty visible. I wanted to ask if she lived around here, but things were strange enough. "It's near the river, downtown, off Broadway."
"Okay ... um ... I'm not good with directions. You're going to take Broadway to Yellowstone ... do you know where that is?"
"Yes."
"Okay, you're going to take Yellowstone North, so you'll be turning left. I think. Left, right, yeah, it's left. So you're going to pass Les Schwab and a barbecue place on the left and then you're going under an overpass and you take the first right and that's First Street. No, I'm sorry, the second right is First Street. And you're going to take First all the way down, couple miles, you're gonna cross a little bridge but right before that you'll know you're going the right direction when you pass an Arctic Circle on your left and a gas station on your right. The school's across from a Baptist church, it's on the right and there's another school next to it that has a billboard."
"I'll pass an Arctic Circle?"
"Yes."
"Aren't those all melting?"
" ... What?"
"Nothing. What's the name of the school again?"
"Jefferson Montessori."
"Jefferson?"
"Yes."
"Okay, well, I'll see you there."
"Okay, well, I have to go to the store and get some stuff, so I'll be there soon. And just call me if you get lost and I'll rope you in."
"Too late, Ginger."
"What? Why?"
"Nothing, I'll see you there."
So I follow her directions and there's no Jefferson Montessori. Everything else is exactly as she reported. But the name of the school is Snake River Montessori. I pull into the lot and I'm sitting there and it's raining. I call her just as a PT Cruiser is pulling into the lot. I think, 'I'll bet that's her.'
"Hey Ginger, it's Edward. Just wanted to check the name of the school ..."
"Jefferson Montessori. Where are you?"
"I'm at Snake River Montessori."
"Oh is that you in the little white car?"
I wave, she waves.
"Yes it is."
"Hi! Come on in! I'll just get the door open."
I pull the car around and park closer to the building, as it's now pouring rain. Ginger gets out of her car and heads toward the building. No umbrella. I'm putting my stuff into my backpack and another car pulls up. A jolly lady with white hair gets out. She sees my car and waves, walks over. I open the door.
"Hi! Are you Edward? I'm Valeen!"
"Hi there. Yes I am. Pleased to meet you."
"Welcome to Idaho Falls!" She gestures at the leaden skies and the torrential downpour. No umbrella for Valeen. "Come on inside and we'll have a chat."
"I'll just get my stuff."
"Okay! See you in there!"
Once I'm inside, Valeen invites me to have a seat. She says, "Just so you know what's going on, here: there's been some uproar because we're changing the way we do things. Part of that is having you here. Also, our Bill and Nancy aren't from Idaho Falls, but you're our big-ticket item for the production. A lot of people aren't happy about this but not so much the Fagin role because not so many people here thought they could play that part. But that's what's going on here: a lot of change and some anxiety over it, but we're going forward and we'll make the best of it."
I murmur something about change and resistance and change and art and she smilingly agrees. Then she says, "One other thing: our Oliver. He's got the look, he's got the voice -- when he chooses to sing -- but he's just not an actor."
I'm beginning to think that's a tradition with this show. The kid who played Oliver at PCPA had this goofy, complacent smile the whole time. Aside from the time he cried during a music rehearsal when Jonathan Swoboda raised his voice, I never saw that Oliver change his expression. Until I talked to him during Tech and suggested he think about what he would do if a scary man broke into his house, tied a rope to him and dragged him across the rooftops, threatening murder and worse. After that, he did some things. And he began to do more when he saw his understudy (a girl) astound us with her performance during the understudy rehearsal.
I relate this story briefly to Valeen. She says, "Oh good. You go ahead and do anything you can to get our Oliver to act. That would be wonderful."
I consider prodding him with a javelin and wonder if there's a used sporting goods store in town.
Rehearsal starts at 7:00. By 7:05 there are maybe four people in the room. Valeen introduces me to everyone. By 7:20 the room is full of screaming kids and talking adults. We have yet to begin rehearsing. I am still being introduced. By 7:45 I begin to want to die or cry or drink or all three.
Then we start to rehearse.
Week One: OLIVER! in Idaho, Rinky-Dink Research
Oct 8, 2006
I am surrounded by Mormons. I am playing Fagin in a production of Oliver! in Idaho Falls, Idaho, for a theatre company who are paying me more than they are paying the director. We are rehearsing in the multi-purpose room of a Montessori School. The Stage Manager chats with people during rehearsals, the director has to shout to get the orphans/pickpockets to be quiet, other adults in the room are allowed to converse during rehearsal -- at full voice -- and the dialects are truly startling.
I have wandered knowingly into Guffmania. It's research, and I'm getting paid for it, and I'm writing about it here every week, but it's like taking a spiritual and artistic cheese grater to my soul. Particularly after the delights of PCPA. True, working at PCPA left me just able to cover my rent in Livermore and, by the time I returned home after A Little Night Music, financially destitute. Also true: every company has its inherent foibles. But PCPA is a great place to work. It's organized. And Chrissy Collins, Goddess of Stage Management ... I weep for lack of Chrissy.
While I say I've wandered knowingly into Guffmania, I should specify that I did not realize precisely how bad it was going to be until I heard the word, 'Montessori'. I thought my cell phone was playing tricks. But no, it was the right word. I wondered for a moment if I could afford to just drive back to Livermore there and then. But I'd already met two board members and they are very nice people. Still, I had yet to see a contract or a check. Maybe I could talk Veronica into a little return gas money and I could just drive the 15 hours straight, hopped up on coffee and the fight/flight response.
How did I get this job? Jonathan Visser, who played Mr. Erlanson in A Little Night Music, was originally going to play this part. He got a better offer in Oregon and asked me if I was interested. I didn't really have any other offers and had been more concerned about my housing situation in Santa Maria than I had future employment. That's another story. I did hear that the Great American Melodrama was interested in me, but I didn't hear any more after their artistic director came to see ALNM, and I learned later that he had stayed after to chat with people during the photo call. So maybe my work sucks. Maybe I was supposed to court him. I don't know. But the housing here in Idaho Falls is definitely better (I'm in a hotel!), and the pay is better than PCPA, and I'd never driven to Idaho before. So that all added up to something new and different. And here I am rehearsing Monday through Wednesday evenings, with four hours Saturday morning (starting at 8:00am! WHAT THE FUCK?!) and the rest of the time I have nothing to do.
So I left on Saturday, 9/30. Spent the night in Wells, NV. Arrived in Idaho Falls at around 6:12pm on Sunday, October 1. Friday, 9/29, I sent a message to the Producer (Visser's very nice Aunt Marcia), asking where I should go when I got to town. Maybe I sent it on Thursday, I'll check that later. Point is, no response. So I worry about it and call on Saturday as I'm driving East on 580 to catch 5 North in Tracy, thence to 80 in Sacramento. Someone -- I think perhaps her son -- answers the phone. I ask for Marcia. He says, "She's busy." I tell him my name and that I'm one of the Guest Artists in Oliver!, and that I would love it if she could call me back. He says okay, so I continue merrily on my way up into the Sierras and then down into the desert and thank God the sun set so I didn't have to see Winnemucca by daylight. I figure I'll get a phone call sometime that night or the next day.
Complete silence. I even dawdle a bit in Wells, taking a long breakfast in case they've decided to hire a local Idahoan and save some money. But no message is forthcoming so I get on the road in good faith; at some point between Wells, NV and Twin Falls, ID, the battery on my phone dies. I forgot to charge it the night before.
When I arrive in Idaho Falls, I am struck by two things: 1) this is a nice little town/city, with a cool old Downtown area, and 2) I have absolutely no idea where to go. Desperately needing a bathroom, I stop at the Red Lion Hotel. I ask the clerk if he knows of a coffee shop that might be open. I'm figuring coffee shop, free internet, communication, good stuff. He says there's a Starbucks at Fred Meyer on Yellowstone.
I head to Fred Meyer, which is like Albertson's meets Target and the Wolfman.
It's a Starbucks kiosk. Not even a spot to plug my phone in. So I stand near a pay phone and fake a conversation while my phone charges at the outlet beneath the phone. It charges a little. I sip my coffee. I'm impatient. I take my phone and walk outside. Pumpkins in big cardboard boxes, a vast parking lot, a truly lovely sunset.
I head back to the Red Lion. I ask the guy if he knows of anywhere I can get free internet access. I anticipate an e-mail with all sorts of good chunky info. He points behind me: there's a 1992 Hewlett Packard on a little stand in the lobby.
"It's dialup," he says. "Slow."
"Better than nothing," I say, and sit down to a very familiar computer: this is precisely the same model I bought back when I was 19. I cost around $1,492.00! Can you believe that? This one is maybe a little faster than mine was, lacking MYST and Sim Towers.
Nothing. Neither the director nor SM have responded to my e-mails. So I write another one to the effect of, "I'm here, where should I go?" I plug my phone into the powerstrip and sit on a nearby couch to wait. An hour later, no response but my phone has enough of a charge to be useful.
I call Veronica. She says, "Honey, who the fuck are you working for that they bring you to Idaho and don't have anyplace for you to go?"
I say, "I think they're new to this."
I call Visser's Aunt Marcia. She sounds delighted and a little alarmed to hear from me. (Admittedly, in one of my e-mails of the previous week, I had asked if I should arrive Sunday or Monday. Getting no response, I stuck to our original arrangement: Sunday.) Marcia tells me she's had company all day and will call me right back with a place for me to stay. I call Veronica. Veronica offers to pay for a hotel for the night. I counsel her against this on the logic that it's better to save money.
The next time my phone rings, it's not Marcia, but a very nice woman named Annette, who does props for the shows. She gives me directions to her house. I drive out there. I meet her family.
They're Mormons. There's a lovely print on the wall of Jesus surrounded by a multi-culti gaggle of kids, with angelic presences whose names I could only guess at presiding over it all behind a misty scrim. If that's not a Mormonesque picture, I'm not an unrepentant Pagan lothario (reformed).
I'm wearing my festive Turkish hat and I have a big gold earring in my left ear. I talk a little too loudly and too much, making too many jokes. I'm nervous. They're very nice, they seem a little shellshocked. They didn't know I'd be staying there. The first they'd heard was a phone call ten minutes before I arrived. We're all smiling big friendly smiles. I concentrate very hard on not swearing. I begin to sweat.
Annette shows me the room I'll be staying in. It's their oldest son's. "He's in Brazil," she says. Is that a euphamism or is he on his mission? Maybe both. Maybe his mission is to wait in a secret room and kill earring-clad pagans in their sleep.
The room is spotless. There is absolutely no mess, anywhere. Not even in the closet. He's an award-winning musician, sportsman and a decorated Webelo, Cub and Boy Scout. There are posters on the wall, LDS ads about being nice to people and hugging grandma. He collects these the way Hillary collects Absolut ads.
It hits me as I'm changing into my pajamas: this boy is precisely the kind of boy Veronica liked to seduce when she was in High School. For the first time on this trip, I'm glad Veronica's still in Livermore. My girlfriend seducing local Mormon missionaries is the last thing I need.
I am surrounded by Mormons. I am playing Fagin in a production of Oliver! in Idaho Falls, Idaho, for a theatre company who are paying me more than they are paying the director. We are rehearsing in the multi-purpose room of a Montessori School. The Stage Manager chats with people during rehearsals, the director has to shout to get the orphans/pickpockets to be quiet, other adults in the room are allowed to converse during rehearsal -- at full voice -- and the dialects are truly startling.
I have wandered knowingly into Guffmania. It's research, and I'm getting paid for it, and I'm writing about it here every week, but it's like taking a spiritual and artistic cheese grater to my soul. Particularly after the delights of PCPA. True, working at PCPA left me just able to cover my rent in Livermore and, by the time I returned home after A Little Night Music, financially destitute. Also true: every company has its inherent foibles. But PCPA is a great place to work. It's organized. And Chrissy Collins, Goddess of Stage Management ... I weep for lack of Chrissy.
While I say I've wandered knowingly into Guffmania, I should specify that I did not realize precisely how bad it was going to be until I heard the word, 'Montessori'. I thought my cell phone was playing tricks. But no, it was the right word. I wondered for a moment if I could afford to just drive back to Livermore there and then. But I'd already met two board members and they are very nice people. Still, I had yet to see a contract or a check. Maybe I could talk Veronica into a little return gas money and I could just drive the 15 hours straight, hopped up on coffee and the fight/flight response.
How did I get this job? Jonathan Visser, who played Mr. Erlanson in A Little Night Music, was originally going to play this part. He got a better offer in Oregon and asked me if I was interested. I didn't really have any other offers and had been more concerned about my housing situation in Santa Maria than I had future employment. That's another story. I did hear that the Great American Melodrama was interested in me, but I didn't hear any more after their artistic director came to see ALNM, and I learned later that he had stayed after to chat with people during the photo call. So maybe my work sucks. Maybe I was supposed to court him. I don't know. But the housing here in Idaho Falls is definitely better (I'm in a hotel!), and the pay is better than PCPA, and I'd never driven to Idaho before. So that all added up to something new and different. And here I am rehearsing Monday through Wednesday evenings, with four hours Saturday morning (starting at 8:00am! WHAT THE FUCK?!) and the rest of the time I have nothing to do.
So I left on Saturday, 9/30. Spent the night in Wells, NV. Arrived in Idaho Falls at around 6:12pm on Sunday, October 1. Friday, 9/29, I sent a message to the Producer (Visser's very nice Aunt Marcia), asking where I should go when I got to town. Maybe I sent it on Thursday, I'll check that later. Point is, no response. So I worry about it and call on Saturday as I'm driving East on 580 to catch 5 North in Tracy, thence to 80 in Sacramento. Someone -- I think perhaps her son -- answers the phone. I ask for Marcia. He says, "She's busy." I tell him my name and that I'm one of the Guest Artists in Oliver!, and that I would love it if she could call me back. He says okay, so I continue merrily on my way up into the Sierras and then down into the desert and thank God the sun set so I didn't have to see Winnemucca by daylight. I figure I'll get a phone call sometime that night or the next day.
Complete silence. I even dawdle a bit in Wells, taking a long breakfast in case they've decided to hire a local Idahoan and save some money. But no message is forthcoming so I get on the road in good faith; at some point between Wells, NV and Twin Falls, ID, the battery on my phone dies. I forgot to charge it the night before.
When I arrive in Idaho Falls, I am struck by two things: 1) this is a nice little town/city, with a cool old Downtown area, and 2) I have absolutely no idea where to go. Desperately needing a bathroom, I stop at the Red Lion Hotel. I ask the clerk if he knows of a coffee shop that might be open. I'm figuring coffee shop, free internet, communication, good stuff. He says there's a Starbucks at Fred Meyer on Yellowstone.
I head to Fred Meyer, which is like Albertson's meets Target and the Wolfman.
It's a Starbucks kiosk. Not even a spot to plug my phone in. So I stand near a pay phone and fake a conversation while my phone charges at the outlet beneath the phone. It charges a little. I sip my coffee. I'm impatient. I take my phone and walk outside. Pumpkins in big cardboard boxes, a vast parking lot, a truly lovely sunset.
I head back to the Red Lion. I ask the guy if he knows of anywhere I can get free internet access. I anticipate an e-mail with all sorts of good chunky info. He points behind me: there's a 1992 Hewlett Packard on a little stand in the lobby.
"It's dialup," he says. "Slow."
"Better than nothing," I say, and sit down to a very familiar computer: this is precisely the same model I bought back when I was 19. I cost around $1,492.00! Can you believe that? This one is maybe a little faster than mine was, lacking MYST and Sim Towers.
Nothing. Neither the director nor SM have responded to my e-mails. So I write another one to the effect of, "I'm here, where should I go?" I plug my phone into the powerstrip and sit on a nearby couch to wait. An hour later, no response but my phone has enough of a charge to be useful.
I call Veronica. She says, "Honey, who the fuck are you working for that they bring you to Idaho and don't have anyplace for you to go?"
I say, "I think they're new to this."
I call Visser's Aunt Marcia. She sounds delighted and a little alarmed to hear from me. (Admittedly, in one of my e-mails of the previous week, I had asked if I should arrive Sunday or Monday. Getting no response, I stuck to our original arrangement: Sunday.) Marcia tells me she's had company all day and will call me right back with a place for me to stay. I call Veronica. Veronica offers to pay for a hotel for the night. I counsel her against this on the logic that it's better to save money.
The next time my phone rings, it's not Marcia, but a very nice woman named Annette, who does props for the shows. She gives me directions to her house. I drive out there. I meet her family.
They're Mormons. There's a lovely print on the wall of Jesus surrounded by a multi-culti gaggle of kids, with angelic presences whose names I could only guess at presiding over it all behind a misty scrim. If that's not a Mormonesque picture, I'm not an unrepentant Pagan lothario (reformed).
I'm wearing my festive Turkish hat and I have a big gold earring in my left ear. I talk a little too loudly and too much, making too many jokes. I'm nervous. They're very nice, they seem a little shellshocked. They didn't know I'd be staying there. The first they'd heard was a phone call ten minutes before I arrived. We're all smiling big friendly smiles. I concentrate very hard on not swearing. I begin to sweat.
Annette shows me the room I'll be staying in. It's their oldest son's. "He's in Brazil," she says. Is that a euphamism or is he on his mission? Maybe both. Maybe his mission is to wait in a secret room and kill earring-clad pagans in their sleep.
The room is spotless. There is absolutely no mess, anywhere. Not even in the closet. He's an award-winning musician, sportsman and a decorated Webelo, Cub and Boy Scout. There are posters on the wall, LDS ads about being nice to people and hugging grandma. He collects these the way Hillary collects Absolut ads.
It hits me as I'm changing into my pajamas: this boy is precisely the kind of boy Veronica liked to seduce when she was in High School. For the first time on this trip, I'm glad Veronica's still in Livermore. My girlfriend seducing local Mormon missionaries is the last thing I need.
My Chat Room Hook-up
Aug 17, 2007
Brandee: nite Jay
Jay: feel free to add...
Edward: Anyone here 925?
Jay: nite brandee
********** at 10:32 PM kelly left the room
jeremy: later jay
********** at 10:33 PM Marqui†a de Sade left the room
Live yours,not MINE!: como estan esta noche?
Edward: Wanto to join a cult?
Jay: later jer
********** at 10:33 PM Jay left the room
Jeff: hey everyone
********** at 10:33 PM oscar left the room
Edward: Hey everyone.
********** at 10:33 PM Live yours,not MINE! left the room
jeremy: waz up jeff
Brandee: nada
~Jill~: O.K. all.......Gotta run.....Gotta get that beauty sleep.....G'Nite Brandee....stay
gorgeous!!
********** at 10:33 PM jimmy left the room
Edward: donde estas el pollo sucio?
jeremy: waz up edward
jeremy: gnite jill
Ian: Goodnight Jill
Brandee: isn't pollo chicken
Edward: Waz up, Mrs. Santa Claus?
Mark: yes brandee
Brandee: nite Jill
Mark: pollo is chix
Jeff: how is everybody
~Jill~: G'Nite Jeremy...G'Nite Ian and good luck with everything!!
Brandee: I'm going to bed too
Edward: muy caliente, muchacho!
Ian: thanks
********** at 10:34 PM ~Jill~ left the room
Brandee: nite all
newshapenetwork.com: hey, i think i am going to bow out gracefully now.........my
forehead is doing the typing for me here...........
jeremy: gnite brandee
Brandee:
newshapenetwork.com: nite!
Edward: yes we're all getting old.
********** at 10:34 PM Ian left the room
Brandee: well
Brandee: nite
Edward: old and flabby
Mark: might brandee....you too
********** at 10:34 PM MISSMATTY2007 joined the room
Brandee: niyr nred
********** at 10:35 PM MISSMATTY2007 left the room
Edward: tired easily
jeremy: not me
Mark: night*
********** at 10:35 PM *****Elliott joined the room
********** at 10:35 PM jimmy joined the room
Brandee: nite news that is
Edward: angrily flatulent in Target on a sunday mornin'
jeremy: i'm not getting flabbyedward
********** at 10:35 PM Brandee left the room
********** at 10:35 PM Jeff left the room
Edward: I'm not getting flabbyedward either!
jimmy: hey room
Edward: he's gross
Edward: and flabby
newshapenetwork.com: nite brandee! nice talking to you
Edward: not like limberkimmy
********** at 10:35 PM finny left the room
Edward: she's the most fun
********** at 10:36 PM Mark left the room
********** at 10:36 PM Jerry joined the room
jeremy: yea i forgot to space it there edward
********** at 10:36 PM Jerry left the room
Edward: good night, everyone!
jeremy: is everyone leaving
********** at 10:37 PM newshapenetwork.com left the room
Edward: I'm like a pixie with stubble
********** at 10:37 PM Jenn joined the room
Brandee: nite Jay
Jay: feel free to add...
Edward: Anyone here 925?
Jay: nite brandee
********** at 10:32 PM kelly left the room
jeremy: later jay
********** at 10:33 PM Marqui†a de Sade left the room
Live yours,not MINE!: como estan esta noche?
Edward: Wanto to join a cult?
Jay: later jer
********** at 10:33 PM Jay left the room
Jeff: hey everyone
********** at 10:33 PM oscar left the room
Edward: Hey everyone.
********** at 10:33 PM Live yours,not MINE! left the room
jeremy: waz up jeff
Brandee: nada
~Jill~: O.K. all.......Gotta run.....Gotta get that beauty sleep.....G'Nite Brandee....stay
gorgeous!!
********** at 10:33 PM jimmy left the room
Edward: donde estas el pollo sucio?
jeremy: waz up edward
jeremy: gnite jill
Ian: Goodnight Jill
Brandee: isn't pollo chicken
Edward: Waz up, Mrs. Santa Claus?
Mark: yes brandee
Brandee: nite Jill
Mark: pollo is chix
Jeff: how is everybody
~Jill~: G'Nite Jeremy...G'Nite Ian and good luck with everything!!
Brandee: I'm going to bed too
Edward: muy caliente, muchacho!
Ian: thanks
********** at 10:34 PM ~Jill~ left the room
Brandee: nite all
newshapenetwork.com: hey, i think i am going to bow out gracefully now.........my
forehead is doing the typing for me here...........
jeremy: gnite brandee
Brandee:
newshapenetwork.com: nite!
Edward: yes we're all getting old.
********** at 10:34 PM Ian left the room
Brandee: well
Brandee: nite
Edward: old and flabby
Mark: might brandee....you too
********** at 10:34 PM MISSMATTY2007 joined the room
Brandee: niyr nred
********** at 10:35 PM MISSMATTY2007 left the room
Edward: tired easily
jeremy: not me
Mark: night*
********** at 10:35 PM *****Elliott joined the room
********** at 10:35 PM jimmy joined the room
Brandee: nite news that is
Edward: angrily flatulent in Target on a sunday mornin'
jeremy: i'm not getting flabbyedward
********** at 10:35 PM Brandee left the room
********** at 10:35 PM Jeff left the room
Edward: I'm not getting flabbyedward either!
jimmy: hey room
Edward: he's gross
Edward: and flabby
newshapenetwork.com: nite brandee! nice talking to you
Edward: not like limberkimmy
********** at 10:35 PM finny left the room
Edward: she's the most fun
********** at 10:36 PM Mark left the room
********** at 10:36 PM Jerry joined the room
jeremy: yea i forgot to space it there edward
********** at 10:36 PM Jerry left the room
Edward: good night, everyone!
jeremy: is everyone leaving
********** at 10:37 PM newshapenetwork.com left the room
Edward: I'm like a pixie with stubble
********** at 10:37 PM Jenn joined the room
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)