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LTCT
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by Chris Schaedig (Lucentio) auditions tech rehearsal opening night reflection Reflection. It's over now, and life can return to normal for the Shrew's cast and crew. The last bow has been taken, the set has been dismantled and tucked away, the costumes offered a much-needed cleaning, the curtain has been drawn one final time, and our voices can no longer be heard echoing through the auditorium. Melodramatic? Yes, but every group of actors feels a certain pang of sadness when a show concludes. It may be years, if ever, before we are reunited with the people we have come to love and admire, or it may never happen again. That can be a hard truth to accept when one has spent untold days and nights in the company of these new comrades, only to have them vanish before one's very eyes. But I get ahead of myself. How were the final shows, you ask? Everyone wants to make their last few shows things of perfection, which, of course, rarely happens; but we came darned close in our last performances. On Saturday, closing night, we played to the sort of crowd rarely seen in LTCT shows, one where each and every seat (even the ones with obstructed views) was claimed. I've heard rumors to the effect that director Betsy Willis sold a couple of seats in the light booth and offered a couple of backstage passes to some lucky patrons, but I have no way to corroborate that. At any rate, our final shows proved how much we had learned about the difficult text, how best to deliver it so the audience would have a prayer of comprehending it, and how much we enjoyed each other's company. New jokes, reactions, facial expressions, and vocal inflections continued to bubble to the surface with each passing night, and most of them were very good (one notable exception would be the name of a certain Las Vegas nightclub crooner, which, as the result of a Saturday Night Live sketch, found itself said aloud no less than eight times during Friday's performance-- special trivia prize if you can tell me who said "Goulet!" the loudest). Luckily for us, no one in the audience noticed, and Betsy allowed all of us to live to see another day. We determined as a cast to cease all pranks and jokes for the last night of the show, but the men of the Viper Room (the swank lounge otherwise known as the mens' dressing room, if you recall) had one last card to play. For days, we… I mean, they… had seemingly dropped the bilious rivalry with the ladies' dressing room in favor of maturity and cast harmony. Then, with the help of a certain blonde stage manager who will remain nameless to protect her anonymity (thanks, though, Jen), the leading lights of the Viper Room took a couple of hours to paper the rival dressing room from floor to ceiling in derisive messages. Though I'm certain he's far too serious an actor to have participated in such sophomoric stunts, Gary Albert (Petruchio) was on hand to provide documentation. Hopefully, pictures of the scene will find their way onto the website. As far as pranks go, it was a coup and the Hiroshima of the conflict known as the Dressing Room War. Try as they might, the ladies could only gasp in horrified admiration and admit defeat. Our… I mean, their… intent with this prank was to get all the silliness and pent-up energy out of our systems so we could focus on the last show as seriously as possible. Had we known of the prank that awaited all of us, we might have approached things differently, but more on that in a moment. For the first and last time, everyone nailed their lines, everyone was "on", everyone coaxed willing laughs from the huge crowd. It's always a great feeling to perform any show to the utmost of your abilities, but it's even more rewarding when that show is by Shakespeare and has suffered so many tiny setbacks along the way. It was over before we knew it, and we assembled, all smiles, for our final curtain call. As the second to last line of us (Josh Hill, Chris Koury, Alex Grandstaff, Scott Madden and myself) made our final bow, the entire front row of the theater pulled squirt guns (an important prop from the play, if you haven't seen it-and shame on you if you didn't) and began sniping us with water from every direction. Gary and Becca Sand-Dugas (Kate) very nearly skipped their final bow, so frightened was Gary of getting his favorite suit wet. But the show went on as it always does, and they stood with the rest of us and got soaked while the audience cheered. Turns out that Betsy and producer Lee Graham (always gotta watch the quiet ones, don't you?) were behind the whole set-up, and it certainly rivaled the dressing room escapade for sheer ingenuity and success. You're crazy if you think we didn't take revenge on those esteemed ladies, though. The prank was a fun and unexpected end to what has been a wonderfully rewarding show for most of us. What will I remember from my all-too-brief sojourn to northern Michigan and the LTCT stage? So much, on-stage and off, not all of which is suitable for a family-friendly website. I'll remember Gary slaying the audience with the sight of his smiley-face boxers, Becca raging like a tigress and becoming the perfect Kate (See? Didn't say a thing about how violent she is!), laughing and improvising blocking with Chris Koury every single night, watching Alex squirm when I had to kiss her and watching her squirm even more when Scott had to touch her. I'll remember the Magnificent Seven, dangerous pool tables, stolen sweatshirts, tales of past hockey glory, friends of the four- and eight-beer persuasion, "it's raining men", karaoke nights and late-night counseling sessions (private jokes all, I know, but you'll have to audition for a show if you want some of your own). I'll remember re-connecting with friends I hadn't seen in a long time and making new friends that I won't soon forget. To all of you who shared the stage (and often, a table at the Mitchell St. Pub) with me, I offer my most sincere thanks. You made this show a wonderful and memorable time for me, and I hope you can all say the same. So now we part and return to our regularly scheduled lives. Once again, we become the guy next door, the deli clerk, the dance teacher, the college professor. But we will always be Petruchio and Lucentio and Grumio, too, and those memories are ours to treasure for as long as we care to hold them dear. While heaping praise on our eager heads after our final performance, Betsy put it this way: "You have given the people of this area a show that they'll be talking about for years". Maybe that's overstating the case, though I hope not. You'd like to think that your months of effort would be remembered fondly by a few people for a while. But I know this much is true: no matter how long the audience remembers the Taming of the Shrew, we will remember it for much, much longer. And I, for one, will be grateful to have been a part of it. Chris Schaedig-June 2004 Opening Night. At long last, opening night. No matter the number of productions they've been a part of, actors (yes, even amateur actors in a community play) can't help but feel the same stomach-tightening nerves that materialize before the start of every show. It's not an unpleasant sensation for most-- it's just the feeling that all the work of the past two months is now focused into two and a half hours of performance in front of a crowd of strangers. If things are as they should be (and the Shrew Crew has made great strides in the last week or so of rehearsal), the nerves are accompanied by a certainty that you and your cast mates know what you're doing, are prepared for anything, and are ready to put on a great show. The actor who doesn't feel prepared or confident or excited is generally the one praying for divine intervention right before curtain or feeling like he's going to forcefully deposit his chicken chow mein into the nearest commode. So the nerves are good, when properly offset by confidence and excitement. They can even help keep actors focused-- if you're just the slightest bit scared before you go on, you're far less likely to drop your concentration and flub a line. The show opened on Thursday the sixth, but we had the opportunity to stage a student performance on the Tuesday before. The student performance is a double-edged sword; it's beneficial in that it's more a dress rehearsal than a "real" show, so it's a good way to ease into the run of the show. On the other hand, staging Shakespeare for a horde of high schoolers who are giving up a free weeknight to hang out at the theater can often prove daunting. I think the prevailing wisdom is that teens can't get Shakespeare or won't sit still long enough to understand it or are just too busy terrorizing the streets Jets-and-Sharks style to care about the bard, but it's simply not true. While we certainly didn't reach each person in the student crowds (and couldn't we truly say that about every crowd, regardless of age?), they proved to be some of our most appreciative, responsive and perceptive audiences. We were lucky to have them, and it proved to be a stellar kickoff to the run of the show. So stellar, in fact, that most of us fell a little flat when the show finally opened for real on Thursday. We may have come in a bit listless or lackadaisical, and the audience was both small and not terribly responsive (this is not to suggest that Thursday's crowd didn't enjoy the show, because everyone I talked to at least pretended to go gaga over it. It just means that they were enjoying it quietly to themselves.) The myriad errors that are part of every performance loomed large for us, though there was nothing serious enough for most audience members to even notice. Our general attitude after opening night was, "Okay, not bad. Not good, necessarily, but not bad." As it turns out, though, the reviewer who was on hand from the Petoskey News-Review was far less harsh in her judgment than we were. Friday's review was one of the most glowing I'd ever read for an LTCT show, and it lightened our collective mood considerably. Even in a small town where friends and family members are going to comprise a considerable proportion of the audience each night, good press never hurts. Director Betsy Willis was particularly pleased that the reviewer caught our spin on the story-- that Kate is never truly tamed or changed, but only puts on a different, subservient face for the world at large while forming a truly loving relationship with Petruchio. There are some speeches in the play that are hard to swallow from a twenty-first century viewpoint; and that spin was integral to Betsy's vision of the show, so it's fantastic that someone in a position to share information with a lot of readers picked up on it. While many of us were lauded for our efforts in the review, I wanted to take the opportunity to recognize two gentlemen in particular who somehow escaped the journalist's eye. Scott Madden (Hortensio) and Jerry Christin (Gremio) are enormously pleasant to work with and are both funnier than a Black Panthers membership drive in Harbor Springs. Scott routinely culls some of the biggest laughs from the crowd, and Jerry has some great lines that are often missed because of the audience's unfamiliarity with Shakespeare. Obviously, no review can discuss every cast member, and we're beyond grateful for the kind words (particularly Josh "Grumio" Hill, who's taken to carrying at least seven copies of the review around in his pocket and asking every Tom, Dick and Harry if they've read it yet), but I would be remiss if I failed to note the contributions of Scott and Jerry. We appreciate you, fellas-- now buy me a drink. Friday and Saturday brought new highs in our energy and performance, mostly brought on by the great review, large and enthusiastic crowds, and a threat from director Betsy Willis that she would maim each and every one of us if we didn't pick it up a bit. We'd become comfortable enough with lines and blocking by now that many of us tried new things on stage during the shows-- nothing drastic or too distracting, but new facial expressions or reactions that were designed to get a better reaction from the crowd. Some worked, some didn't, but the point was that we were having fun and keeping it fresh. The promise of LTCT's traditional Friday afterglow party, a chance to meet and greet the audience while sipping champagne and dining on tasty tidbits, kept more than one of us going strong and squeezing every last chuckle out of the audience. Afterglow is a rare opportunity to pass the time with strangers who have just seen you perform (and are, hopefully, happy with what they saw) while patting each other on the back for a job well done. It is a measure of our solid work ethic and attention to detail that we always make very sure no drop of champagne has been wasted and no crumb of food is left behind. We believe very passionately in finishing what we start. Once afterglow was finished, tradition dictated that we continue to boost the local economy by descending en masse upon the Mitchell Street Pub. Modesty and friendship prevent me from telling too many lurid tales about Friday's post-show entertainment, but suffice it to say that a certain director whose name rhymes with Shmetsy Shmillis perpetrated the heinous theft of a certain sweatshirt that was near and dear to the heart of a certain writer who... well, okay, me. I eventually retrieved the garment after numerous legal threats and great financial cost to myself (after Betsy's--er, Shmetsy's-- theft, the unfortunate sweatshirt found its way into the hands of a vile terrorist cell known only as the Boobie Bombers, who charged me an arm and a leg for its safe return). If you get the idea that this is a very entertaining show to be involved with, you're right. If you get the idea that we sometimes get a little out of control-- well, maybe you're right about that, too. Though it has little to do with the product on stage, the personal interaction between cast mates continues to be one of my favorite things about the show. In just a short time, we've seen strong friendships have been forged, a bitter rivalry has emerged between the ladies' dressing room and the men's lounge, aka the Viper Room (speaking completely objectively, the Viper Room beats the stuffing out of... whatever it is the women are calling their hovel these days), Chris (Tranio) and Corinne Koury have emerged as the best party hosts/ counselors for miles around, and Chuck Donnelly (Tailor), a man who will be the first to tell you that his confidence has not always been what it could be, has even netted himself a great new gal. Through it all, we've had fun while we've put what is now a very good product on stage. We've had more fun than is legal in many Middle Eastern countries, but we've also accomplished exactly what we set out to do: stage a production that we can all be truly proud of. If we have a little fun along the way, that's not such a bad thing, either. And believe me, this show is fun. There is an honest chemistry between most of us on stage that always amplifies a performance, and the script is pretty decent, too. But don't take my word for it-- come see our last weekend of shows and take a look at the little bit of art that we've had such a wonderful time constructing. You won't regret it, and you might even have almost as much fun as we do. Chris Schaedig - May 2004 Tech Rehearsal. Every production, from a ten-minute kindergarten skit to the most highly regarded Broadway show, has it share of problems. It's the nature of the beast for unforeseen difficulties to rear their ugly heads and make everyone involved with the project question whether the show will really ever get off the ground. If they haven't been dealt with in a satisfactory manner already, the final chance to dispel these difficulties once and for all comes during the dreaded Tech Rehearsal. In theory, Tech is simply a rehearsal designed to make sure everything is running smoothly with the lighting, sound, costume, set and prop departments. In practice, it is a patience-shredding death march that lasts longer than most marriages and has been known to reduce even the strongest individual to mewling sobs of, "I just want to go home! I don't want to be an actor anymore!" As this is very nearly the last opportunity to stop and redo problem areas, each scene is examined with the finest of fine-toothed combs. If something isn't working logistically or doesn't meet the director's approval, it'll be beaten into submission before anyone leaves. But how did we get to this point? When last we left the intrepid Shrew Crew, final casting had recently been announced and light rehearsals had just begun. We were a collection of strangers trying to get to know each other while simultaneously learning blocks of Shakespearean script and attempting to remember where we're supposed to be on stage, where we're supposed to go when we leave it, and where we're coming from when we come back on. In addition, we all had to achieve the necessary comfort level to pretend that these people we had met just weeks before were our longtime friends, passionate love interests, or blood relations. No mean task, I assure you. Constant repetition is obviously the best method for learning lines and blocking, but can it fabricate the necessary on-stage chemistry? Personally, I think not...and so we come to extracurricular activities. By nature, most people involved with theatre, even at the amateur level, have some sort of raging extrovert lurking at the core of their personality. That extrovert is brought to the surface and nurtured by the rehearsal process, and it's only natural that it refuses to sink back into the depths as soon as practice concludes. Indeed, forcing an extrovert to go home immediately after practice could quite possibly lead to serious mental damage (I have no psychological data to back up that statement, but I have been assured of its veracity by several amateur therapists). So, unwilling or unable to bury our inner extroverts right away, we go out together--all in the name of on-stage chemistry, of course. There is a certain core group in this production that goes out to, umm, work on their chemistry after virtually every rehearsal, but I will protect their innocence (or lack thereof) by avoiding a full rundown of our, I mean their, names. Oftentimes, though, this core is added to and enriched by such diverse personalities as physical therapist to the stars Dean Tahtinen, who knows at least three jokes for every day of the year (I didn't say any of them were good, but he knows 'em), assistant director and NCMC prof Suzanne Shumway, who very naively believes dancing on a pole means stepping on Lech Walesa's toes during a polka, and LTCT vet and karaoke songstress Sabra Hayden, who has labored with exceptional diligence for the last two weeks to become a member of said core group. Since we're talking about my castmates, I should take this opportunity to clear up what may have been a misconception stemming from my last diary piece: Rebecca Sand-Dugas is most certainly, assuredly, and emphatically not an unreasonably violent person who's liable to strike anyone who offends her. I mean, it's not like she'll hit anyone, just people she's in the play with. And I've been told (by her) that we all deserve whatever blows happen to rain down upon our heads at her dainty hands. Hopefully, this will clear things up, because my family is growing increasingly concerned with the bruises. This amateur theatre stuff is a dangerous business, gentle reader, particularly when you're in a cast with someone as "non-violent" as our ever-talented Kate. So the weeks of rehearsal and extracurricular chemistry-building exercises have flown by. We've graduated from standing around on a bare stage clinging to our scripts with the grip of a drowning man to moving confidently around a finished set while spouting soliloquies that daunted us only days before. We've abandoned the scripts that have been our constant companions for weeks (seriously--you take the script to work, to bed, to dinner, to the bathroom, to the bar--we show our scripts a very good time) and are hopefully ready to sail on without them. Shakespeare is especially brutal in this regard; if you forget a line in a regular play, you can usually stumble on and get the gist of the line without sounding too moronic. If you forget a line in this play and try to ad lib, it'll sound something like, "Uh... forsooth, I have readeth this booketh...and thou...uh...dang." Rest assured, old Will never wrote anything like that. Now is the time when the butterflies start to nest in our stomachs. Is everything what it should be, onstage and off? Will people laugh when we want them to, feel passion when we want them to, or even understand what the devil we're saying? That's what Tech is about. It's our last systems check before launch--if things aren't right now, they may never be. It should not be inferred
from the above statements that this show is in any sort of trouble--far from
it. No production is perfect heading into Tech, and this is always a
nervous time for everyone concerned. When you come to see the play
(opening next Thursday, by the way) all you'll see is a finished product that is
well done, funny, original, and entertaining. You won't see the weeks of
work that went into perfecting even the most seemingly insignificant stage
gesture or vocal inflection. You won't see the hours and hours spent
learning lines, arranging costumes, or building sets. And you sure as
shooting won't see the late evenings of off-stage chemistry lessons in the local
watering holes. What you will see is the final result of all that effort
coming together to entertain a community. Don't worry about how hard we've
worked--we did, after all, volunteer for this duty, and we wouldn't have it any
other way. Don't even worry about the upcoming Armageddon that is Tech
Rehearsal (well, okay, worry about that a little bit for my sake). When
all is said and done, there's only one thing that you, the audience, have to do:
sit back and enjoy. Chris
Schaedig - April 2004 Auditions. Perhaps because there's a significant chance that one could receive a healthy dose of rejection right off the bat, I know people for whom the process has become the stuff of nightmares. It takes intestinal fortitude just to show up, read unfamiliar lines in front of strangers who may be gunning for the same role as you, make some attempt to "act" while you stumble woodenly over the words, and hope that you catch the director's eye. Adding to the unpredictable nature of the audition process, no one but said director is really sure what she's looking for-it could be as simple as putting the best actors in the largest roles, but it generally has more to do with an indefinable on-stage chemistry, a spark, the way two actors connect physically, or issues of age. All questions of talent aside, your grandmother is never going to be asked to play Juliet, nor is the seventh grader next door going to be required to learn Hamlet's soliloquies. If a director is worth her salt, she will have a concrete vision for the sort of actors she's looking for (without stooping to teacher's pet-style bootlicking, I can say that I honestly believe our director, LTCT vet Betsy Willis, had a very clear picture in her mind). Being told that you don't fit into the director's vision is something that all actors hear sooner or later, and it's the most difficult part of the process for actor and director alike. This is the normal modus operandi for any community theater show, and it's enough to frighten some people away. But this show is different. This show is (cue scary music and lightning effects)… Shakespeare. That's right-not only must we undergo the harrowing audition process, we have to read our lines in a language that qualifies as a foreign tongue to the vast majority of Americans. Though Shakespeare is honestly not as difficult as many believe, it still takes an extra dollop of courage to jump up on stage and rattle off a scene in Elizabethan english with four or five references to Greek mythology… all while making it sound natural and interesting, of course. One of the principal tasks of the Shakespearean actor is to convey a sense of his lines to the audience, and it's a rare actor who can wade through the unfamiliar words and sentence structures to make sense out of the often bewildering sixteenth century prose. Luckily for us-- and for our audience-- we have those actors. When the dust from two nights of auditions had cleared (and if you think you don't "get" Shakespeare, come to auditions some time-hearing the same scene nine dozen times will really facilitate your comprehension), Betsy had magically transformed our diverse and disparate group of wannabe actors into a cast. For those unfamiliar with the play, the most important roles are Kate, the titular shrew in need of a good taming, and Petruchio, the mercenary suitor who's more than willing to tackle the job. Some would insist that all shows are ensemble works and that each character is as important as the next, but honestly, the people selling that line are either actors with eensy weensy roles or directors trying to convince someone to take a role they don't want. No, in spite of some humorous subplots and some other engaging characters, Kate and Petruchio are what move this show. Our Petruchio is Gary Albert, a former mover and shaker in the Chicago theater community who's so effortlessly comfortable with Shakespeare that he speaks in iambic pentameter around the clock. Seriously-you should hear him order lunch at a drive-through or renew his license at the DMV-it's an awe-inspiring experience. He possesses the commanding stage presence and swaggering bravado that is so utterly necessary for the role, and the fact that he's an accomplished director as well (anyone out there catch the wildly successful Lend Me a Tenor?) means that we have a ready-made assistant director whenever Betsy decides to take her private jet to Barbados or the south of France for the weekend. He's a class act and as close to a true professional as unpaid amateurs get, and I'm not just saying that because he threatened to beat me up if I wrote mean things about him. Happy, Gary? Kate is embodied by Becca Sand-Dugas, dance instructor to the stars and ultra-talented siren of stage and screen (check her out in the recently released indie flick Invasion! to see a truly probing portrayal of an alien psyche). She wowed theatergoers recently in Lend Me a Tenor and is an integral part of the deliciously bawdy Second Sunday improv group, which, by the way, is a must-see for anyone over seventeen who doesn't blush at a few ribald jests. Okay, more than a few. Her role as Kate calls for a sense of righteous rage that often culminates in physical violence, and certain episodes have led me to believe that she's eminently capable of handling that facet of the character. The first of those episodes (and I only include it here for the sake of clarifying my earlier comment) occurred, fittingly, on the very first night of auditions. Yours truly was lobbying hard for the part of Petruchio, as was nearly every man there who was at all familiar with the play, and I felt that the scene we were all reading could use a little more fire. When it was my turn to read with Becca, it was in my mind to ask her to act a little angrier. Before I could even do that, she savagely whispered, "Alright, chump, I'm gonna knock the living you-know-what out of you on this line, okay?". Suddenly very afraid for the well being of my face, which is not the prettiest one on the block but has substantial sentimental value to me, I wordlessly prepared for the beating. The scene went very well, but the spot she had indicated loomed closer and closer as we read. I avoided cringing like a whipped dog and waited for the promised blow to fall upon my innocent head. When it came, it brought gasps of consternation from the audience and raised a five-fingered welt on my cheek that lasted for close to three weeks. Ladies and gentlemen, that's the sort of fire her role calls for. And if you think that was something, just wait 'till she gets a hold of Gary on stage. In the interest of full disclosure, I should add that there are a couple different versions of this episode floating around, some differing greatly from the one I've just set down. You may be sure, dear reader that this is the one true, unvarnished, definitive story, no matter what Becca may say. And, you may ask, what about the rest of the cast? Anyone interesting there? Having known most of these people for a scant few days, I can still assure you that they are every bit as entertaining and quirky as Gary and Becca (okay, Gary, not as entertaining as you. Now settle down). Local heartthrob/ rock star/ former junior league hockey star Chris Koury is on board as Tranio, best friend and willing accomplice to my character, Lucentio, who's one of many suitors to Kate's "good" sister, Bianca. Stories about Chris are legion already, and discretion and the family-friendly nature of this column prohibit their repetition. The other suitors for the hand of fair Bianca are Gremio (stage newcomer Jerry Christin, who flexes his comedic muscles with the Second Sunday troupe and, if rumor is to be believed, possesses the most magical fingers this side of Thailand) and Hortensio (Scott Madden, another cog in the Second Sunday machine and the hardest workin' Army recruiter in the state). Sixteen year-old ingenue Alex Grandstaff breathes life into Bianca, "Daddy's perfect girl". Alex is more talented than she has any earthly right to be at her age, though she's so young that I often find it necessary to wash the dirty old man stink off myself after one of our romantic scenes. LTCT workhorse Frank Nemecek is on hand as the devious pedant, and he'll probably also be called upon to build the set, paint the theater, clean out the pipes of the Crooked Tree art center, and sweep the sidewalk before each performance. Chuck Donnelly takes a hilarious turn as the self-assured tailor-he's smart, good-looking, caring, cultured and yes, ladies, he's single. Josh "Chicken Soup" Hill is the prime candidate for stealing scenes as the put-upon Grumio, Petruchio's long-suffering servant. Perhaps the greatest thing about a show like this in a community like Petoskey is that you, the audience, have the chance to see your friends and neighbors don costumes and makeup and entertain you in completely original fashion. This could lead to all sorts of fun discoveries, like the fact that the guy who just fixed your computer can really act, or the person who teaches your children has a better sense of humor than you would have guessed, or that some of the gentlemen in the play look simply smashing in eye shadow and lipstick. Seeing people you know and pass on the street every day working hard to make you smile, laugh, cry or think is a wonderful and time-tested way to draw a small community closer together, and if it exposes someone new to theater in general or Shakespeare in particular, so much the better. How is the show going to be? Hey, we just had auditions-it's too early to tell. Wait, sorry. Betsy just ordered me to tell you that it's going to be the best show ever seen on a northern Michigan stage, and that everyone should plan to attend at least three times. Personally, I think that's laying it on a bit thick, but then again, it's her vision. - Chris Schaedig - March 2004 |
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