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