A Yeoman's Job

"A day's work is a day's work, neither more nor less, and the man who does it needs a day's sustenance, a night's repose and due leisure, whether he be painter or ploughman. "

-George Bernard Shaw


It was the beginning of what would be more than a few day's work. Misalliance, the longest, and most text-intensive play of the season, was heading into technical rehearsals. We had spent all of Sunday wrestling with this play, most of us struggling just to get a handle on the lines.

If it seems like I'm bemoaning the amount of memorizing an awful lot in this blog, let me just put into perspective the enormous verbosity of Mr. George Bernard Shaw. Before becoming a playwright, he worked for a number of years as a journalist, churning out over one million words from 1885-1894, all of which he later considered 'outdated and unintelligible'. Not many of us can blaze out a million words, discard them all and then start writing world-renowned plays.

And in Shaw's dialogue, his incredible volume of language is also evident. Most pages of dramatic dialogue take approximately two minutes to perform. These are also the passages that are often easier for actors to memorize, because you are working with someone, and generally have less text than in a monologue or soliloquy. In Shaw however, each 'line' of dialogue is usually a paragraph. Making every page of Shavian dialogue three or four times longer than normal. And then there are the speeches (at least one per page) that are herculean in their breadth and scope. So that the only way to bring one of Shaw's play in at under three hours is to tear through the text and hope the audience catches up.

So that is what we were tackling on Sunday, and trying to wrap our heads around, with the opening date of Friday fast before us. Our minds scrambled, we were all excited about having Monday off, and as per Mr. Shaw's quote indulged in a night's repose and some due leisure.

A Holiday in Portland

While some of the company members laid low and used the day off to recover and prepare for the coming week's travails, Clare, Julie, Annie and I decided to sneak off to Portland for a little change of pace.

Portland, an hour from Monmouth is the biggest city in Maine and has been a cultural hub since its founding in the seventeenth century. It is a delightful New England town, with red brick architecture all along the waterfront of the Old Port district, coffee shops and restaurants and all manner of funky city-folk about. After five weeks in tiny, rural Monmouth, it was unbelievably refreshing to feel the pulse and vibe of a new city and bask in its energy.

As we walked through the historic downtown, we passed through Longfellow square, with a statue of the famous poet, and his birth home a bit further on. Down in the Old Port we popped in and out of shops and explored all their was to see. An abundance of antiques and gift shops, bookstores and gorgeous architecture, it was a splendid walk. We were led by our incomparable colleague Dustin Tucker, who lives in Portland and works during the year at Portland Stage.

A section of the mural in the lobby

One of the highlights of our day was a spontaneous tour of Portland Stage. We arrived at the theater (now closed for the summer) and luckily ran across the Literary Manager, who knew Dustin and let us in to see the stage, dressing rooms and rehearsal hall. It is a really lovely space and looks like a great place to work. By what we gathered from his colleagues there and as evidenced on the show posters in the lobby, Dustin is making quite a name for himself in Portland. Kudos!

But by far the best part of our day was the feast we had on the waterfront. At Dusty's recommendation we sought out J's Oyster Bar, a divey establishment right on the water, to procure an authentic Maine lobster. Though Clare (not much of a seafood eater) played it safe with the baked haddock, the rest of us got the lobster special, which turned out to be quite special indeed:

This was my first time eating lobster that was not already shelled and artfully displayed on my plate. It arrived with all manner of bowls and implements, straddling a corn cob and lounging on a bed of clams. There were picks and shell-crackers, forks knives and handy-wipes. And through Annie's careful guidance (her great uncle Bob is a legendary lobster-hypnotizer and eater) we hacked and sucked and picked and pried and chewed and savored and butter-ized and played with our lobsters.

So it was that after a lovely day in the city, we traveled back to Monmouth and prepared for the week to come.

But while we were away, other shenanigans were taking place in sleepy Monmouth. And not all of our company escaped unscathed. Here with the story in full is my distinguished colleague Maarouf. Take it away!

ACTOR VS TECHNOLOGY
by: Master Maarouf Naboulsi, Esq.

I would have never thought that a place as quiet and quaint as Monmouth, ME would bring me a near death experience. I had just finished my morning Shakespeare camp for kids. I have no idea why at one point in time I thought it would be a good idea to wake up at eight in the morning to teach elementary students about acting Shakespeare (on top of our already ridiculous schedule), but I did it. Keep in mind the workshops started on Monday, (usually my day off), and the only day that we don’t have the lovely Donna & Sue preparing our meals for us. Waking up this early, I of course skipped breakfast, (my body just wasn't accustomed to the schedule yet). When we got back to Monmouth around noon I was ravenous. I had my heart set on some huevos rancheros with eggs over-easy prepared on that beautiful old-school grill that hasn't been washed in god knows how long, (this gives the eggs that American diner taste) served over a warm tortilla and topped with cheese and salsa. I was so excited about this. I started gathering all my ingredients while blasting The National's new album on my iPod: Eggs check. tortillas, check. Cheese, check. Salsa, check. My mis-en-place is ready to go! To my delight, my roommate Alex is already in the kitchen getting ready to cook it seems. That’s totally cool. This is a huge grill, so we can share. I go up to the grill and notice it's cool to the touch. He must've just turned it on; I'll help him light it I thought. STUPID ASSUMPTION. Suffice it to say Alex hadn't just turned the grill on, and I would come to find out it had been on a while. Why I would ask? Because he was 'warming it up'. I assume he wasn't familiar with this piece of equipment. It is essentially a GAS stove. The grill part on the top is deceiving; you have to light it from underneath in order for the grill to get hot. Let's go back to what I thought I knew; Alex needs help lighting the grill. He was in the room with me; he would stop me if I were doing something I shouldn't be. ANOTHER STUPID ASSUMPTION. I go in with the lighter, hand right near the gas entrance, stooped over looking in so I could see where to light. The next spit second was one of the scariest in my entire life. Have you seen a wall of fire before? I think the thought of a wall of fire sounds really cool. Like that one Disney world attraction based on that terrible 90’s movie Backdraft. Only maybe not when it's blasting you in the face and upper torso. I thought this was it for me. Goodbye Monmouth. You're going to have to find some other ambiguously ethnic man to be in your plays cause this one is either dead or seriously injured. I instantly freak out and bolt away from the source of the brief explosion, batting my body and face, super freaked out like what I was experiencing at that moment was the afterlife. Alex had to shake me 'hey man snap out of it!' 'Am I okay?!' 'Your fine.' 'Am I burned!?’ 'You're fine!' I was alive; thank my lucky lucky lucky stars. There were a few casualties however.... my brand new headphones…my favorite plaid shirt…as well as a few minor setbacks cosmetically. Those being singed eyebrows, singed hair, and completely burned off eyelashes. I sat with icepacks on my face and hand all day treating my burns. What a lovely way to spend my day off. Lesson learned Monmouth. Don’t make haphazard assumptions…respect technology, in this case, huge industrial gas stoves. Oh and another lesson learned, according to Google eyelashes grow back in 6-8 weeks! Best, Maarouf

Man vs. Machine indeed. Glad you're still with us Maarouf. :)

Tuesday was back to the grind, our 10-out-of-12 tech rehearsal for Misalliance. And while the show is by no means tech-heavy, there were a few snags along the way. Namely the timing involved in the simulated plane crash at the end of act one. In the script, a biplane is supposed to circle the pavilion where the characters have been talking and crash offstage in the greenhouse. To achieve this, the lights and sound have to synchronize with the actors so that the effect will work. There were some very convincing plane noises, as well as a simulated shadow passing across the stage from the lighting dept. Unfortunately it took us the better part of an hour to get the timing right. So as we were running this in rehearsal the actors would all react broadly to where they thought the plane sounds would come from, only to have them come out of a different speaker behind them. Thus the cast would then turn in the direction of the sound with a hubbub of: "Oh I thought it was over there?" "That was strange" and "What a strange flying machine" . . . only to have the plane's shadow land a moment later than the sound. So they would react to a sound that came from the wrong direction, dodge a shadow that went from left to right instead of right to left, and generally turn in circles for a while until we finally got all three elements, lights/sound/actors on the same page. Its astounding sometimes how things that are deceptively simple to the audience take the most time to coordinate.
Elsewhere during tech were scene partners furiously practicing with one another to get the lines and the sequence and the cues right. When we finally got to the end of Tuesday, we had not had a chance to run all the way through the play yet. Needless to say we were none of us sleeping soundly that night.

Wednesday came, and with it a run through, which did little to satisfy our anxiety. While we did make it all the way through the show, so many lines had to be fed to the actors on stage that we all began to wonder if we would ever get a handle on this material.

Thursday's run through was, if anything, marginally better. Dave, the director (who had kept admirably high spirits throughout the process) as well as those behind the tech table laughed heartily at all the punch-lines, and we started to feel energized by their reactions. Even though we knew it was forced (those folks had seen the play many times at that point) its funny how a little reverb from the otherwise empty house will pick up the energy of the run. And while we did still have to call for line, and it was by no means smooth, our final dress rehearsal did let us see that there might, in fact, be light at the end of the tunnel. Now it was just a question of how to get there.

Friday, our premiere, had arrived. Instead of a rehearsal the day of, it is a Theater at Monmouth tradition to have an 'Italian Run Through'; i.e. a speed-through (cause Italians talk fast, get it?) in order to keep the play fresh in our heads and get energized for the night's opening performance. Usually, this takes about half the time of a play, averaging out somewhere around forty-five minutes. With Misalliance however, we were there for almost two hours. Again, mountains and mountains of text. But it did really help to keep all those words in our heads and get us focused for the evening's performance.

The time had come: it was 7:00 on Friday night. The patrons were gathering outside, our colleagues from the theater who were not involved in the show, about two-thirds of the company, were anticipating the opening and excited to be in the audience. The cast of Misalliance was in the dressing room, and tensions were high. None of us knew how this was going to go over. Dave had been telling us to trust the material, but no matter how much we trusted Mr. Shaw, we knew that the sheer scope of the play made it a difficult task to sustain over the course of two and a half hours (the best run time we had had thus far was 2:37)--not to mention the fact that we had never had a real audience to see if anybody else actually thought this play was interesting or funny at all.
7:30. Dave made the curtain speech, and Donte & Mike, the first two actors to appear in the play, took the stage and launched into it. The rest of the cast sat silently in the dressing room, staring at the monitors and listening, willing the play to succeed. About five lines in, we started to hear laughter from the audience. By the five-minute mark, there had already been three holds for laughter. Everyone backstage started to relax.

By intermission, we were all pumped. The audience was thoroughly enjoying the show, and laughing at punch-lines that we had thus far not even realized were there, or emphasized at all. In fact, Shaw's writing is so jam-packed with setups and payoffs, that in trying to get to the end of a paragraph there are often a few zingers that sneak by the audience (or the actor for that matter) and are only caught after the fact. We were thrilled that it was going so well, but silently everyone was focused on the last half of the play, filled with confrontations and a long push of verbal sparring right up to the last second of the play.

On stage in the second act there was no time to think about how the audience was receiving it, as we were doing everything we could just to get the lines out and stay connected to the conflicts in the story.. It was like an enormous chain of dominoes that took half the night to set up, but in the end provided a tremendously satisfying display of calamity and causality.
Afterward, everyone in the cast was relieved, exhausted and ecstatic that we had made it through the show. By all reports it was a big success and the audience was blown away by the sheer amount of information and ideas that came at them in such a short amount of time. We played the piece for the rest of the weekend, and by Sunday were finally starting to settle into it. It plays again this weekend, after a week of Pericles rehearsals, and I"m sure that coming back to Misalliance after living in another play for a week will be the true test of our repertory chops . . .

But that is a story for next week! Till then, we continue to press on, with our:

Superabundant Vitality!

BBell


PS: Check out the review of Misalliance here.

Dying To Succeed

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

-Mark Twain

Discover! Yes Mr. Twain! Precisely. This week's adventures culminate with a play about discoveries & mistaken identities; disguises, cross-dressing and faked funerals! Kings, coquettes and sassy French serving boys . . . a diverse host of international artists struggling in Paris and intent on striking it big if it kills them--intent on killing off one of their own to strike it big. Or seeming to . . .

Is He Dead? Well, Dear Reader, you'll just have to wait and see. But first I must regale you with more tales of the epic festivities on our days off!

Party at the Parkhursts
or

A Beautiful Day in the Bay of Dreams

Last Monday the schedule said simply "Party at the Parkhurst's, 2:30---". We all slept in, dutifully recovering from the high of our first weekend of performing (and for most of the company, the first two days of tech rehearsal for Is He Dead) and crept out of bed in the post meridian. By 3:00 or so, most of us had wandered to the vehicles and, maps in hand, wended our way to the home of the Parkhursts for a day of fun in the sun.

None of us were prepared for the beauty that was in store. We parked down a short gravel drive and walked about sixty yards down from the garage to the main house itself. Its tucked away in an old growth wood at the mouth of an inlet on one of Maine's many natural lakes. Behind the house rises an equally forested embankment which is crested by an old train track at the end of which is a trestle offering a commanding view of the lake in both directions.

But the house itself was the real treasure. The Parkhursts had built it up from a 'camp' (the Mainer word for a modest country cabin, one of which almost everyone in Maine seems to own) over the course of twenty years into a brilliantly designed and gorgeously situated home, blending seamlessly into the natural landscape. The first floor sported windows on three sides of the living room and kitchen, both of which were decorated with a delightful mixture of old timey Americana and thoroughly modern highlights. Antique maps from around the world adorn the walls and through each window one spies the natural beauty of the landscape with the lake receding behind.

As we went up to the second and third floors, the blend of excellent design and integration with the natural surroundings continued. The master bedroom had a lovely T-shaped window at the foot of the bed, overlooking the lake at mid-tree level. There were small balconies on the second and third level with an alternate view of the forest, and an open, airy third level that changed the atmosphere yet again. The house is opened throughout with skylights and thoughtfully placed rooms and amenities, ensuring that wherever one looked, there was a mixture of arboreal splendour and cultivated refinement.

Most impressive of all was how welcoming and comfortable the house felt. There was nothing at all alienating or sterile about it, rather every room gave one the impression that they had been there before, or that you could curl up and put your feet on the couch while drifting off to napland and gazing at the trees.

As if the house was not magnificent enough, there was a stone deck with stairs cut into the side that tumbled down to the bay, an extension off to the left with another deck sporting a hot tub, and on top of all this, a five-hole miniature golf course out back with a Wizard of Oz theme. In short, the place was a haven, dedicated to the good life. The food and drink abounded (grilled shrimp and margaritas being two of many highlights), and when we all thought it could not get any better, dessert came: miniature cheesecake bites. C'est beau, la vie.

But it was not a day dedicated solely to Epicureanism. There were kayaks, canoes, and a motor boat, and yes, a thirty foot train trestle which one could jump off of into the lake. Which brings us to our next (truncated) installment of:

ACTOR VS. NATURE
The Trestle: Concerning the Exploits of M. Naboulsi, M. Reading, J. Waterhouse, H. Davis, A. Sutton and the celebrated Will Rhys.
Ghostwritten by Mr. B. Douglas Bell, Esq.



A short walk from the party was the center of the action: the train trestle. Looming over the lake, stark and industrial against the verdant landscape, populated by a teeming horde of half-naked teenies from the local Winthrop High School, it was the metaphysical heart of the lake that day. Bets were made, courtships were laid, manhoods were affirmed. When the first wave of theatre folk made their way over, there were but a few of the older teenage boys daring to jump the thirty-odd feet off the trestle into the lake below. Cannonballs and belly flops were out of the question at this height: it was simply a matter of whether or not one was courageous enough to jump. With typical teenage tyranny the boys harassed one another, teasing and taunting, daring one another to take the plunge. It was then that the great Will Rhys, director of Is He Dead, a spritely sage of indeterminate age but certainly in his second youth, shamed them all. While the skittish cubs tried vainly to impress their teenie princesses, Master Rhys trumped them all by executing a perfect swan dive from the trestle, soaring out over the lake and plunging into the deep below only to appear seconds later nimbly climbing the rocks back to the top. Everyone who witnessed it was dumbfounded and amazed. The teenie boys were somewhat subdued afterwards, as Will bid them adieu and headed triumphantly back to the party. Following in his footsteps, some of the other company members tried their luck at the plunge, with mixed results. A certain M. Naboulsi hit the water and promptly dislocated both of his shoulders. But never fear, despite a ghastly site on impact with noodle arms in tow, he dog-paddled over to the rocks and set them both aright. He neglected to tell us beforehand that he has 'trick' shoulders, and that the dislocating happens quite frequently. Still, his jump was hard to watch and it made quite an impact (pun intended). After a few more of the company members took to the air, they were followed at last by Mr. J. Waterhouse, technical director of the Theater at Monmouth. He had arrived at the trestle without a swimsuit, in his civilian clothes, but no matter. He would not be outdone. Three seconds later he and two other clothed-accomplices were in the water having leapt through the air, and clothes be damned! It was a delightfully whimsical end to a dramatic afternoon. And thus the saga of the trestle came to a close, as the Monmouthians left the teenies to scamper about their metal abode, in awe of the theatrics that had just transpired.


Needless to say our week started off strong. Since I was not involved in the tech process for Is He Dead? (its the one show I'm not in), I have asked my distinguished colleague Miss Julie Fogh to pen a few words about the week leading up to opening. Take it away Julie:

“Against the assault of laughter nothing can stand.“


-Mark Twain


Following close on the heels of the burlesque merriment of "Comedy of Errors" is our second show, "Is He Dead" a play that was originally written by a deeply depressed Mark Twain during his later expat years. This play, like Twain himself, was not a success during his time, and may well have been forgotten had not a Berkeley scholar with the singular name Shelley Fisher Fishkin fished it out of a drawer of Twains’ papers during her research. The flawed play was handed to playwright David Ives for some remodeling, and then (via Broadway) into the hands our motley crue of Monmouth actors and director Will Rhys.



Many years ago, an improv teacher taught the lesson "stay in the shit" meaning that no matter what happens on stage, an actor cannot break character or the reality of the moment. Valuable lesson, but really hard to live by with this cast of comic genius. Several times in rehearsal I have had to wipe tears of laughter away and get back to work. It is pure joy to watch Dustin Tucker conducting a tea party in a dainty pink dress and curly wig or Dennis Price, our resident rosy faced Southerner, channeling a German character somewhere between a giant, John Boy and Shprockets, for example. 



Like all our other shows, the pace of rehearsal was as madcap as the action within, and often times lacing up our corsets at the beginning of the show had a feel of strapping in to prepare for a wild and crazy ride.



This is an incredibly complex and physical farce, and each actor plays at least two characters, some up to 5. Will, our fearless leader, and Jeff, our resident stage master, I mean manager, corralled us through our short rehearsal time. Tech week, fueled by sweat and the bucket of candy bars in the back of the hall brought costumes, set, action and the world together in a way that is cohesive, and still hilarious.

“Is He Dead” by the numbers:

Acts: 2
Run Time: 122 minutes.
Intermissions: 1
Actors: 9

Costume Changes: 24

Mustaches: 4
Gender changes: 2
Fart Sound Cues: 2 (there may be more, but they are, lets say, “unofficial”.

Layers of costume I put on: 11 (1 pair bloomers, one undercoat, one petticoat one petit petticoat, one under over skirt, one over skirt, a corset, a bodice, three buns, gloves, and a bonnet. and at one point in the show, a brocade over robe and a mustache. And no, there is no polite way to answer the question “how do they go to the bathroom with all that stuff on?)


And that’s it. “Is He Dead”? Come find out.

Well done Julie! And for those of you who will not be able to see the show, I can tell you: its an absolute riot! I was happy to be in the audience on opening night, and delighted to watch my fellow actors' brilliance all evening. From Tor's multitude of characters to Dusty dancing around in a dress, topped off with a little bit of Mark Cartier as the melodramatic villain in black--it was a hilarious night of theater. And a real privilege to watch my colleagues in action.
There's still plenty to come! We've got three more shows to open, starting with George Bernard Shaw's 'Misalliance' . . . so much more to discover!

"Let us live so that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry."
-Twain

Here's to sorry undertakers,

BBell

The Season Begins

"You are welcome, masters ; welcome, all. I am glad
to see thee well. Welcome, good friends. . .
Masters, you are all welcome. We'll e'en
to't like French falconers, fly at any thing we see:
we'll have a speech straight: come, give us a taste
of your quality; come, a passionate speech.
Good my lord, will you see the players well
bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for
they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the
time: after your death you were better have a bad
epitaph than their ill report while you live."

-Hamlet, Act 2 Scene II


With these words Maggie, our youngest company member opened the 41st season of the Theater at Monmouth. Its a long-standing tradition here for the youngest to give the season's invocation, and the eldest to close the season after the last performance. But that's still a ways off . . . and a lot had happened last week leading up to Maggie's eloquent recitation and the premiere of Comedy of Errors.

The week began with the 4th of July! After a long weekend of technical rehearsals, we all caravaned out to see the fireworks in the nearby town of Winthrop. Though we were somewhat smug/hesitant about this little township's ability to put on a worthy fireworks display, we were all pleasantly surprised when it lasted for over half an hour and was quite magnificent. I guess we city-slickers do not have a monopoly on pyrotechnics.

Afterward we headed back to Betsy's house for a pool party. There were candles and a really cool device that floated on the surface of the pool and made little light designs on the bottom. We all relaxed and listened to music and enjoyed the cool Maine evening.

That Monday (our weekly day off) was graced with a company party at Dave and Donna Shaw's house. D&D are board members of the theater, and just all around really great people. They had posted maps to their place and though the party was to start at 2:30, most of us mosy-ed in around 3:00 or so, as we were making the most of our weekly sleep in (and recovering from the night before).

And when we arrived . . . what a sight. The Shaw's house is perched on a hilltop, overlooking their own private beach that sprawls abundantly for dozens of acres in both directions. They had a kingly spread of h'ors douvers and beverages arrayed upon our arrival, and between the motor boat, the jet skis, the kayaks and swimming, we had all the water entertainment any of us could ask for. We grazed and sipped and slipped and slided all afternoon, and what a gorgeous afternoon it was!

About evening, when all of us were settling down a bit and starting to wonder if we were going to receive dinner as well, we were met with the smell of the grill firing up. Not long after there was a veritable cornucopia of grilled meat (brats, burgers, dogs) and an army of salads (potato salad, egg salad, celery potato salad, noodle salad, mustard potato salad, etc.) and on and on.

We all feasted and feasted and then had more. By eight o'clock we were all stuffed and sun-kissed and exhausted from an incredible day of summer frolicking. Thanks again Dave & Donna!Tuesday it was back to work--with a vengeance. The northeast was experiencing a heat wave, and that combined with the sun exhaustion everyone was coping with, and a decided lack of fans in Toad Hall made for a fitful night of sleep for just about everybody. At the tech rehearsal Tuesday morning, a company of zombies took the stage to try and funny it up. After nine and a half hours of 'Comedy', we were all more than happy to say goodnight to Tuesday and hope for a better start the next day.

Wednesday proved better and we were starting to get into our stride with the show. Our Comedy of Errors is a high-energy, incredibly fast paced play and chock full of gags. As if that was not enough, my own part as Balthazar (normally a small role, with one speech in the middle) was transformed into the live sound effects guy. So I'm on stage the entire show, with a marvelous cache of gadgets and gizmos with which to accent the comedic moments on stage: cymbals, horns, a slide whistle, a bell, a ratchet, a triangle and a duck call. Its a lot of fun and makes also for a lot of cues.
But the middle of tech week I was trying to go through the show without my scripts (since we had an audience coming to the preview the next night), but I was still freaking out a bit because I had upwards of fifty cues to memorize for all the sound effects. (CRASH!)
But once I started just watching the show and letting it come about more naturally, things started to fall into place. By the time we got to the first preview I only missed four or five cues. (SQUEAK!) Which, all in all, I figured was not that bad.

The show was shoring up, and we were very ready to put it in front of an audience. Our almost sold-out preview gave us just that chance, and the audience was extremely responsive. (CHING! CHING!) For us on stage it was a riot to hear all that feedback and have to hold for laughs every scene. The show had really come alive, and by the time opening night arrived, we were poised and ready. (BLEET!)

And that brings us back to the top of this entry, where Maggie (who's been accepted to Yale and will be heading that way in the fall. Go girl!) read the season-opening invocation and tapped the stage three times with the staff to officially get the season underway. The house was full, and the show was spot-on. (BOING!)

Afterwards there was an elegant reception put on by the theater board, with a host of delicacies (seeing a trend here?) laid out on a banquet table in front of the theater. (TWEEEEEE-EEET!) Patrons and artists mingled and enjoyed the lovely Maine weather (again with the trend) and reveled in our successful opening night.

It was really incredible to look back and think that we had had only four days of rehearsal for Comedy before heading into technical rehearsals. Never in my life have I ever put up a show that fast, especially one as huge and with so many disparate elements as this one. (RATTLE RATTLE RATTLE!) Between the quick changes, the myriad entrances, the intermission acts (juggling, an acoustic version of Under the Boardwalk, and a whip demonstration), the play's thirteen beatings, and the fifty-some-odd live sound effects, not to mention the shadow puppet play in the first scene--its really incredible that any of that, much less all of it came together in such a compressed amount of time. Its really a testament to Curt's direction and to the theater's model. All hail summer stock. (BUH-DUM-CHING!)

This week holds the opening of our next show: Is He Dead? by Mark Twain.

Till Then,
(CRICKETY-CRICKETY-CRICKETY-CRACK!)












(DING!)
Balthazar

*Also check out the glowing review Comedy received in the Lewiston Sun-Journal here.

Love Bomb

"Oh, merry goes the time when the heart is young,
There is naught too hard a climb when the heart is young
A spirit of delight
Scatters roses in her flight
And there's magic in the night--when the heart is young."

-Charles Swain

Detail of the mural in the theater entitled: "Comedy Staying the Hand of Tragedy". (Note the bauble in Comedy's hand)

Yes! When the heart is young. Luckily there are plenty of young hearts to be found in the summer company at Monmouth this year. And for the first two weeks, while becoming acclimated to the new surroundings, the stirrings of butterflies and fluttering of cupid's wings were mostly silent. But after a long week of rehearsing, and the promise of an evening of beer pong, the seeds had been planted . . .

. . . and those seeds bore fruit not three hours after sowing. The majority of the company had retired to their various domiciles after dinner to freshen up and procure libations, and then reassembled at the Grange (our dining hall) to begin the evening, sipping wine and telling stories. The group became larger and larger, until someone finally suggested we trek up the hill to the scene shop to see if the aforementioned game of beer pong had started yet.

So it was, with great merriment, that we headed to the shop with drinks in tow. And upon our arrival found the rest of the company in full festivity: cases of beer, mountains of potato chips, and a giant table in the center of the shop, where the epic game of Beer Pong was being played.

(for the sake of everyone's honor, the players in this romantic farce will henceforth remain nameless. Love is, after all, thankfully blind.)

This game, which usually amounts to no more diversion than that of a quarter hour, had somehow lengthened to the upper reaches of absurdity, and was going-on forty-five minutes in length. The crowd around the table was either deeply invested or profoundly disinterested in the game, both parties using it as an excuse to indulge in more rounds of fortified wheat/fruit juice.

At last the contentious game had drawn its inevitable conclusion, with winners, losers and both sides more than a little in their cups. It was at this point that some of us noticed a certain attrition in the revelers . . . the scene shop was only half full.

"Quickly to the picnic table!" Thought I, as I made my way out of the shop into the tense night air. There was a storm brewing, and the night would not long stay dry. As the party (or what was left of it) moved out to the table, I thought I saw two figures steal into the theater a hundred yards across the street. Could it be? Or was it just a trick of the night, playing games on my unglassed eyes?


As I struggled to discern who might have entered the theater, a light rain began to fall and I heard a rustling from the bushes behind and to the right of our vantage point, and saw a couple absconding into the night behind the building. Before I could decipher their identities . . . BAM! Like a thunderbolt two drunken revelers burst out of the scene shop doors, racing across the street full tilt and over the parking lot towards the theater. Neck and neck, they were making for the theater doors (where the first couple had disappeared) and just before reaching it, one of the runners slipped on the slick asphalt and face-planted in the ground.

(SCREECH! the record comes to a halt)

Everyone at the picnic table held their breath, until a hand was raised from the asphalt, a cry of: "I'm good!" went up and the couple stole (albeit at a more relaxed pace) hand in hand into the theater, as another couple slid out of the theater and into the woods beyond. Before we could make out who that was, another young company member came skipping out of yet another door of the theater (Moliere anyone?) wearing a mile-wide-smile and sat with us at the table. We asked her what she had been up to, she only grinned wider and then tore back towards the theater, where she disappeared again, as yet ANOTHER couple came out of the doors, finally to rest on the picnic table with us.

And at this, the storm finally broke. Rain cascaded around us as we made our way back inside, amazed at the panoply of pairs that had paraded from the portal before us.

Thus the great Love Bomb of Midsummer was dropped on the Theater at Monmouth.

I guess all that rehearsing and memorizing had worked everybody up to a boiling point. The steam was certainly let out. It made for a very raucous night, and a very quiet Monday, with most of the company sleeping it off.

And now, on to our next installment of:

ACTOR VS. NATURE


The Story of the Cheeky Chipmunk
by: Master B. Douglas Bell, Esq.
"Wednesday afternoon I was coming back in from rehearsal to relax a bit before dinner. I retired to my bedroom and was idly surfing the web, letting the 1's and 0's ease me into a lull of delicious post-work-day glazed-eyeness.

I had been at my computer but moments when I detected movement in my room behind and above me. I turned and caught a flash of brown fur and a bushy tail zipping into the exposed pipes above my night stand. I noticed there was a section of the pipe-covering missing and a conspicuous hole into the ceiling that I had not noticed before. I crept over to the pipe covering and gave it a solid kick, and ZOOM! A squirrel shot out of the top of the pipes and into the hole in the ceiling. Another dutiful kick to the wall and I heard him scurrying across the ceiling and away. My accommodations suddenly seemed a lot more rustic than I had at first accounted them.

Well, at least it was a squirrel, I thought, and not a rat. Squirrels are playful and cute, as opposed to disease-ridden and terrifying. So there's that. I figured I would just plug the hole in the ceiling, and then he would not be able to get back in. Problem solved, both of us would be none the worse.

It was then that I turned around, and noticed some bits of foil on the rug next to my bed. They seemed to lead in a trail around the foot of my bed, to the other side of the night stand. The pieces of foil increased in size, until I could plainly read: "Lindt &----" on one of them . . . and recognized the foil as belonging to the Lindt & Sprüngli speciality chocolate bar my loving parents had sent me for my birthday not three days since. Behind the night stand I found its' remains: the foil ravaged and naught but two dime-sized pieces of squirrel-chewn chocolate and an odd hazelnut left of what was once my birthday confection.

" O SQUIRREL! THOU VILLAIN! THOU SHALT PAY FOR THIS INDIGNITY!!!!!!"

I screamed in the night. I immediately took my problem to one Dennis Price: Company Manager, Pied Piper of Monmouth and Bane of Rodents Everywhere. Together we hatched a a high, swift, terrible plan: a cunningly laid rat trap (for that's what the squirrel had become, a rat! A RAT I SAY!!!), beschmeared with peanut butter, left below the pipe-covering with which to slay the beast.

The next day, after having left my door closed, lights off, trap waiting all morning, I returned before lunch, and through a crack in the door espied the squirrel (O Monstrous Creature!!) perched atop the pipe covering, sniffing the air. He had caught the scent of the peanut butter! The trap was laid, and after ten minutes of watching the beast taste the air, I slowly retreated, confident that by suppertime we would have evidence of our plan's success.

But upon my return that evening, what did I find? The room was silent, the squirrel was nowhere to be found and the trap . . . had been cleared of peanut butter!!!!! There was a small smudge left on the trigger, but the trap had not been sprung! O Dissembling Vermin! O Spite of Fortune! The Beast had beat us at our own game. And yet, there was still some peanut butter left on the trap. Shaking my fist in rage at the hole in my ceiling, I retreated again from the room, and closed the door tight.

That evening we rehearsed for the Black Fly Follies, the company's annual variety show which was to go up Saturday night. The rehearsal went well and it promised to be a great show. My heart lightened, I returned to that melancholy vale where I reside, resolute to accept the shame and mockery that this miserable mammal was visiting on me, and to pass yet another night in my squirrel-infested-quarters. I switched on the light and threw open the door . . . . and in the naked fluorescence before me I beheld the trap overturned and a bushy brown tail jutting out from underneath. Tentatively I poked the trap, eliciting no response. At this I knew, the squirrel was no more. Having triumphantly conquered fate the first time, he was unable to resist the peanut butter's siren call. And it had been his undoing.

Thus with a heavy heart, I enshrouded my old foe in plastic and deposited him in the garbage outside. The next day Dennis Price used spray foam to cover the hole in the pipes in my room. I am now resting more easily having survived my own bout with nature. It is not always pretty, but like the heron, we must rise above; and soldier on."



Ahh yes: the wonders of the natural world. Saturday night it was back to the wonders of the theatrical world, as we put up the Black Fly Follies to great success. Many company members were able to showcase different talents that they would otherwise not have a chance to share. There were Liz's songs on guitar, Donte's spoken word poetry, and a very memorable Old Spice parody by the incomparable Mark Cartier. I told a story about my time in Berlin, and Annie's character 'Emily Baines' (an intensely awkward British girl, who could rival any character on SNL) was a riot. There were duets sung and Beethoven played and in addition to the comic moments, a very poignant spoken-word piece by James about his father (the text of some of his poetry can be read here.)

It was a great night, and a great opportunity for us to perform for each other, and get a low-key night in front of an audience in the theater before we open our first show, next week. To that end, I'm off to rehearsal!

Commending you to your own content,

BBell

Down & Dirty

"Real courage is something that you have to keep living on with.

Real courage is risking something that might force you to rethink your thoughts and suffer change.

Real courage is risking your cliches."

-Tom Robbins

The "Bauble", the mock symbol of office carried by a court jester, and the original symbol of the Theater at Monmouth.

As glorious and novel as the first week in Monmouth was, the second brought the reality of our condensed rehearsal time into sharp focus. By that Monday, all five shows had had at least one rehearsal, and we were all starting to feel the 'stacking'--the cumulative mental upkeep of trying to get four shows in your head at once. One really starts to notice this when you come out of an eight hour rehearsal for one show, have an hour off to eat, and then head into an evening rehearsal of a different show, only to get up the next morning and rehearse a third. That evening, lines must be learned for the next morning's rehearsal of yet another play. Its easy to see how this could start to get overwhelming.

It seems as if every actor has a different way of coping with the stress and physical taxation of this process. The runners among us are getting out all that anxiety with 3-5 mile stints around the many lakes and gorgeous countryside. But needless to say, they are in the minority. After dinner it is not at all uncommon to see a number of actors back in the rehearsal hall, a bottle of wine next to the script in front of them, talking to themselves as they pace out line after line in their head. Some folks record their lines and listen to them on repeat via headphones, while walking by the lake. The truly meticulous write every line on an index card, with the cue on the back side; the idea being: learn, shuffle, repeat.

I personally subscribe to the method of reading, re-reading and then memorizing in chunks. I also read the script before I sleep and first thing when I get up. Otherwise, it has a lot to do with repetition and memorizing manageable chunks, then putting the chunks together. Last Wednesday was a long haul for me personally. I was called to rehearsal for Pericles all morning, and then spent the afternoon getting off book for it. After dinner I worked on Misalliance (I'm playing Joey Percival, the romantic lead; its my largest speaking role) for two hours, before switching to memorize the four page monologue that I open The Canterville Ghost with. By 10 pm that evening I was still working on it and asked Maarouf, one of my fellow actors, to run lines with me. After two minutes of me having to call 'line' after almost every sentence, Maarouf said:

"Dude, you've gotta stop. You're fried."

It was too true. I let it alone and hit the hay. I could not remember being that stuffed full of information since Mrs. LaFont's Infamous British Literature Quote Test back in high school. All that being said, I hardly have the heaviest load. A number of the equity actors have double or triple the amount of text to memorize, much of it in verse. Needless to say we have not seen much of them outside of rehearsal, as they spend every bit of their free time cramming their heads full of Shakespeare and Shaw.

It all makes for a very charged atmosphere. But thankfully, the theater is used to this mad rush at the top of the process, and they are very good about matching folks up with the apprentices and interns to help them run lines. It seems like wherever you go, be it the rehearsal hall, the dining hall, the theater or the various residences, there are pairs of actors running and re-running lines. And by George, we're starting to win the battle! Slowly but surely.

Despite the huge amount of text (which was all anyone could really think about for the first few days) the emphasis really is put on the work, and making the best theater we possibly can. This was evidenced in the first day of rehearsal for Comedy of Errors, directed by Curt Tofteland. Curt's direction is very ensemble-driven, and we began rehearsals by playing games to get to know each other and sync with each others' timing. He was the artistic director of Kentucky Shakespeare for 20 years so he thoroughly knows his business, and has very rigorous standards, which we have all been doing our best to step up to. On the first day of rehearsal, Curt spoke about the kind of work we were aiming for, saying that we must avoid mediocre work. He described mediocrity as equivalent to that food in the fridge that's not good enough to eat, but not bad enough to throw away. Too true.



In addition to having been the artistic director of Kentucky Shakes for longer than Star Trek was in syndication, Curt has also been working inside the prison system, using Shakespeare to rehabilitate inmates. He's been at it for fifteen years, and had really amazing things to say about helping felons reclaim their humanity through encountering dramatic literature. The program is called Shakespeare Behind Bars, and there is even a documentary about it, which you can check out here:

One of the many joys of working up in this part of the world though, is that its not ALL about the theater ALL the time. No no, we are steeped in nature here; the lakes aplenty, furry critters abounding and multitude of mosquito bites bear witness to that. The natural scenery is really breathtaking, and its easy to see why so many folks retire up here or choose to make Maine their home. The title of this blog, Arcadia, is a rhetorical nod to the natural landscape, and the idyllic setting we find ourselves in.

But . . . its not always a peaceful pastoral either. So with this entry I am beginning a section called:

ACTOR VS. NATURE

And for our first installment, I defer to my distinguished colleague Master James Smith III, Esq.
Take it away James:


The Story of the Heron & the Chipmunk

"It was a cold, cold day in Monmouth, Maine. Memorization was on the agenda. I typically rehearse lines out on the dock, but on a frigid day such as this, I retired to the den area of my cabin on the lake. Words from George Bernard Shaw’s Misalliance were my task to learn. I was pounding the text, beating line after line into my brain as best I could. Suddenly, something caught my eye outside the window. Three large glass panes lined the wall overlooking the lake. On the edge of the water, perched on a large rock, was the silhouette of a bird. I had never seen such a big bird. It was stork-like. Long and thin. I found out later that this was a Heron. It did not appear to move. Was this a yard fixture I hadn’t seen before or is it a living, breathing animal? I watched closer. An entire minute had passed before I registered movement in the creature. It’s alive! I thought. This is officially the coolest animal I have ever seen in the wild. Once I had made this acknowledgment, I locked it in my brain that I would keep an eye on it, so that I could see a bird of this size and majesty take flight. I mean c’mon the wingspan had to be HUGE! I returned to the task at hand, rehearsing George Bernard Shaw, but something was different-- my mind was distracted by the creature that watched over the lake beside me. More than fifteen minutes had passed. No movement. In the heat of a heavy monologue my eyes drifted to the rock where once a mighty Heron stood stoically staring across the water. It was gone. I missed the take off, I thought. But wait a moment, the bird had left its perch, but it was still grounded. Roughly two yards away the bird crept off and it appeared to be looking for something. A bug, I thought. I watched closer. It made it’s way around a fire pit. On the front side of the pit there sat a chipmunk, playfully running around. Alas, it would run around no more. The Heron, with its neck elongated and beak open wide, struck once at the Chipmunk. But it missed. Before there was time to register that, the Heron made one more attempt and the Chipmunk was in its mouth. I was in complete shock. The Heron proceeded to take the Chipmunk to the lake. Drown it. And then eat it. And thus concludes my tale."

Ay, me; the promised land indeed. At times pastoral, at times brutally Darwinian. So it goes. And so it goes with us, as we head into week three and prepare to put up our first show, Comedy of Errors. Survival of the fittest.

Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger,

BBell