Note: The following short story by John Nicholas Schweitzer is fiction. The particular events described did not actually occur during the Savoyards production of Patience, but the relationships described are based loosely on dynamics that occur in any theare troupe, and are drawn from events in the rich history of several of our local theater companies.
Stage Managers Know Best
6:35. All cast members present and accounted for … except Jenn. Am I surprised? Not by the fuzz on your chinny chin chin. I begin to roll my eyes, but before they circumnavigate the rehearsal space we’re in, Kerry the Everefficient has palmed her cell phone and poniarded the speeddial key she’s already assigned to Jenn. She holds it to the side of her head long enough for it to ring twice and be answered, and without saying a word jerks it away as if it had spit in her ear.
“He’ll be here in ten minutes,” she announces.
“Is he sober?” I ask.
“Sober? Possibly. Awake? No.”
“All right, Darlings, we’ll start warmups.”
I don’t know how familiar you are with the demanding and delicate art of directing a musical, but it isn’t easy under the best of circumstances, and of course the best of circumstances is one of those mythological beasts like the unicorn or the basilisk, the sphinx or the kraken, the phoenix or the turtle – no, that isn’t right. Let’s see, where was I? Oh, I was explaining that one never has the best of circumstances when directing a musical, or directing any show for that matter, or for that matter perhaps, directing anything in life. Cast members like Jenn contribute inordinately to that. He isn’t here for stretching and warmup exercises at the final tech rehearsal, when we’re on our real stage in costumes and makeup. Have you ever contemplated actions that could lead to a twenty-year sentence in the House of Corrections? I do regularly.
At 6:50 George Jennings Walker-Hutson arrives, minimally kempt and a little out of breath but repentant and, as always, charming. I have worked with him before, with a mixture of pleasure and pique – far too much of the latter – and I have learned that he prefers to be called Jenn.
“A thousand pardons, mon petite chou,” he says with a deep flourishing bow.
“Thank you for the compliment,” I say.
“Chou?”
“Petite.”
“Ah, but ….”
“Never mind. You missed half of our warmups.”
“I knew you’d chastise me, so as I jogged over, I got the juices flowing, you know. I did twenty jumping jacks and forty arm windmills, I ran through all of my lines for scene two, and I began vocalizing. Aren’t you proud of me?”
“I’d like to be, but you do make it difficult. Now join the others.”
“Oui, mon capitain!” He snaps to attention, clicking his heels as well as anyone can who is wearing flipflops, and then turns and does the same to Kerry. “Thank you for the wakeup call, Lieutenant. Why don’t we just move that up about ten minutes tomorrow.”
“Thirty.”
“Thirty, yes.”
“So you be here on time in costume, or at least fully and properly dressed.”
“I’m not …? Well, I suppose …. I guess you noticed I’m wearing the same clothes I had on yesterday. At least I wasn’t sleeping in them.”
Feeling that we don’t need to know any more about what Jenn was or wasn’t sleeping in, I suggest ever so politely but firmly that he follow my earlier direction and join the others, to finish our stretching exercises before turning the cast over to the music director for vocal warmups. It’s a dress rehearsal and everyone else is conspicuously in costume with makeup, but rather than take the time now, I tell him to get into costume as soon as warm-ups are done. He takes a place next to Catherine, the female lead, and instantly blends into the line. Dressed in her Act I costume, including her Wellington boots, she tries to show some disapproval of his lack of consideration for others, but she is as unable as I and rest of the cast are to resist his genuine contrition. He is as apologetic as the cat that stole the milk, or was it spilt?
As I walk past Kerry, I see her revising her cast call notes to add the wakeup call to Jenn. Everefficient, that’s my opinion of her. Of course, any Stage Manager worth her salt is worth her weight in gold. I’ve worked with many different SMs during my theatre career both as actor and director, and I’ve come to appreciate how widely their talents vary, in both breadth and depth. The best of them are seraphim, the worst – well, let me just say that I believe in a heaven and a hell, and that Virgil overlooked the circle in Hell reserved for lazy incompetent egotistical SMs.
If you’ve ever been associated with theatre, you know that a show is the offspring of its director, if that’s the word I want. Unless something beyond all expectation happens -- such as the Madison Theatre Guild show whose director disappeared during tech week – the director deserves the credit or the blame for the show. However, the moment the curtain goes up on opening night, the SM takes control and -- barring a total breakdown such as has been known to happen on closing night -- it’s in the S.M.’s hands for the rest of the run. This is my first show with Kerry but, based on what I’ve seen so far, I look forward to working with her again, for her talents are truly Mississippian.
She has only one trait that disturbs me. Maybe “disturbs” isn’t the right word; it’s more a matter of good-natured concern. Although I appreciate others’ opinions and points of view, and although I cherish directness as I cherish a morning bun from the Ovens of Brittany -- or a trim actor’s bun -- Kerry has a -- How can I say this? – she has an unsettling way of taking it upon herself to comment on the director’s vision. Being quite confident and comfortable in my position, I can afford to be tolerant of such a tendency, but I worry that she might have difficulty working with someone who is less sure of herself or less comfortable exercising the authority required of a director.
To extend the metaphor so felicitously tossed off by Jenn, the SM is the lieutenant, responsible for the moment-to-moment decisions once the campaign is under way. The director is the captain or, better yet, the general, responsible for orchestrating and coordinating the overall movements of the army’s resources, like Grant at Gettysburg. Lieutenants are not expected to have the vision, the boldness, the audacity, the je ne sais qras, of the director.
We are producing the best-known of the lesser-known Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, Patience. We have a marvelous cast, a killer set, glorious lighting, great musicians, and vibrant costumes. Everything is going smoothly and we’re in mid-season form, but as I said, Kerry did have the temerity to express an opinion that differed from mine as she and I were going over the costume list. It was a matter of Catherine's Act Two costume. In Act One, Patience has to appear as the village milkmaid, so I dressed her in a very plain utilitarian smock. The contrast with the other ladies, elegantly dressed and “aesthetic”, was obvious. In Act Two, when Patience can be less austere, I chose a gorgeous pastel dress with flounces. I had asked Kerry in a pro forma way, merely expecting her approbation, “Don’t you think Patience’s Wellies are a nice touch?” to which she dutifully replied “Yes, they are,” but then … she added “In fact, her Act One costume is perfect.” After an elephantine pregnant pause during which she volunteered nothing else, I finally made the mistake of letting my curiosity get the better of my professional judgment and I asked “And Act Two?” That was when she expressed an opinion that struck me as decidedly more directorial than stage managerial. To my amazement and annoyance, Kerry said she thought the Act Two costume was out of character. Even though she professed to agree wholeheartedly with me that Patience should be seen to loosen up in the second act by wearing a less severe costume, she said she thought the transformation should be more subtle. Kerry even claimed that the lead herself felt the same way, though it should be noted that Catherine never said anything to me directly. The next day, Kerry even – Get this! – took the liberty of going to the costume shop herself – herself, mind you – to bring back a dress that was considerably plainer. It was a cerulean blue, and although a bit more feminine than the Act One smock, it was only a very small step in the direction of fashion. I took one look at it and declared it unacceptable, too plain! I had the costumer put it away on the rack to be returned to the shop.
That lapse in good judgment and good taste aside, Kerry has been a model SM. She is always on time -- meaning early -- while I confessedly am always just a tad later than I predict. She is totally organized with lists and charts cross-referencing actors and scenes and light and sound cues and costume and prop notes and blocking diagrams. She is pleasant but firm with the cast, while I am ... well, I have been described as flighty, inconsistent, at times even incoherent, whereas she somehow manages to have everyone regimented when I arrive, usually a few minutes – just a few, mind you – late. She also always remembers to pick up a cup of iced cappuccino for me along with her own tall black Kenyan from Starbucks.
We are now into our rehearsal and I notice Jenn again. Have I mentioned that Jenn – despite being a brilliant actor and an ethereal tenor, or perhaps because he is and knows it – is maddeningly irresponsible? When he’s on stage rehearsing, I always feel as if I’m holding a handful of not-fully-congealed Jello in my hands. It seems to be under control, but at any moment it may slither hither and thither or simply melt away. I’m watching him now onstage in his dragoon uniform – primary colors of red and yellow, an essential plot element – but without his cap. He’s the only member of the regiment onstage without it. Tonight is the final tech rehearsal before dress, and it would of course be helpful for him to be totally in step with the rest of his unit. I won’t stop the rehearsal, as it is now in the hands of the music director, but I ponder the coming train wreck when they all are to remove their hats and place them over their hearts, leaving him bareheaded and emptyhanded. The climax of the piece arrives: “the enemy of one, the enemy of all is.” Instead of putting his hand to his head to remove his hat – which means that he is out of sync with the other dragoons for a second -- he makes an extravagant arm movement, a sort of figure eight -- he obviously gave it some thought once he found himself bareheaded on stage – and he takes his prop handkerchief out of his pocket and places it over his heart along with the rest. And now that they are all bareheaded, he looks like just one of the line again, with a white hanky instead of a black kepi. He is, after all, one of the officers and it doesn’t really hurt for him to stand out a bit. It works better than I anticipated, so although I assuredly wouldn’t want him to incorporate it into the show, I decide to let him off with a sneer and a pointed beau mote as the regiment exits: “schade sobre die Chapeau.”
That seeming crisis past, the show goes on and, feeling just a bit more relaxed, I have a fleeting desire for a little nip in addition to the tot I always surreptitiously add to my cappucino, but I put the thought aside for later. Instead, now that Jenn will be offstage for a couple of numbers, I concentrate on relaxing further. I try to remember the guided imagery used by the group leader at my last Moon Retreat Circle to inspire meditation, but I can’t; those things always just go in one ear and out the other, usually caressing my cerebellum and putting me to sleep as they pass through. So I simply loosen my joints and let my muscles detensify. Especially around my mouth. I work my jaw all around and begin to really enjoy the feeling. I close my eyes, wrinkle my nose, and scrunch my mouth in all directions. Try it yourself right now; you’ll see how sensuous and relaxing it can be.
When I open my eyes and focus them, Kerry is standing in front of me. I wonder how long she’s been there and what she’s thinking. She undoubtedly thinks me a goof: Jan the twitter-pated. Oh well, I’ve been called worse. Have you ever been singled out and told --? Well, never mind that just now. Some other time. Kerry’s face is expressionless and she is just looking at me, apparently waiting for me to return to the current time in this universe.
“Yes?” I ask olympianly.
“I’m sorry, but I have some bad news. There’s been an accident.”
“Oh! Is anyone hurt?”
“No, not like that. It’s just one of the costumes. It seems to have got caught on something backstage and ripped seriously, all down the seam on one side. Roberta says there’s no way she can repair it in time for the second act, though she said she could take it home and work on it tonight. We have another we can use and I already authorized the replacement, but I just wanted to alert you that it will look different on stage.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Fine, then.”
Kerry strides off. Despite the momentary rise in blood pressure when she said “accident”, I am pleased that the Everefficient has everything under control, so I go back to crinkling my nose, which feels so much more relaxing with eyes closed.
Act Two. Patience enters in the cerulean blue dress sans flounces.
“Stop!!!” Everyone does, indeed, stop in their tracks, feet raised, bows in mid-stroke. The trumpets trail off like injured bagpipes. “What is this!” I demand of Kerry.
“I told you. The other dress needs repair.”
“But I didn’t authorize this.”
“You did. You said, ‘Fine’.”
“But I didn’t mean this.” Being thoroughly fumed, but facing a dearth of alternatives and realizing the futility of further argument, I say “All right, go on, but it’s only for tonight.” About five minutes later, after the fumes dissipate slightly, I saunter over to Kerry, who is standing at the light board, to point out a practical concern: “the lighting won’t be right.”
“Oh, I already rebalanced the lights,” says Robin the LD.
I ponder that for a moment before asking “When did you do that.”
“Over intermission.”
“You were talking to Jamie over intermission.”
“It only took a minute.”
That’s not like Robin. Rebalancing even a single light has never taken less than fifteen minutes before. I’ve seen that over and over again this tech week. I become suspicious.
As I watch, I see a new Act Two Patience. I can’t actually identify anything she’s doing differently, but she seems to flow better and I see a different character. I see her “in a different light”, as one might say. The lighting change is subtle but effective. Did I say “change”? Changes, rather. I can tell it isn’t just one rebalanced light, it’s a shift all through the act whenever Patience is on stage. This wasn’t the work of one minute or ten. I look over to Robin, and when I manage to catch er eye -- I’ll explain that pronoun in a moment -- I detect just the penumbra of a smile, or even a smirk, before e turns back to the stage. They think they’ve put one over on me. Hah! But as I watch, I see – and I reluctantly begin to admit – that the dress is good. It suits her character better; she looks better in it and seems to find her character better in it; it contrasts better with what the other women are wearing; it even complements the men’s primary colors better.
Oh, about those pronouns, “er” and “e”: I prefer gender neutral casting and language whenever possible, so much so that by force of habit I use the pronouns “e”, “er” and “em” whenever possible to refer to a person whose gender doesn’t matter. And at the moment, Robin’s insubordination is as plain as the mustache on er face, but er gender is irrelevant.
When rehearsal is over and Kerry comes out to give cast notes, I say to her, “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t pretend. You’ve been planning this for a week, haven’t you.”
“Well ...”
“I bet you even got together with Catherine and Robin and worked out the lighting, didn’t you.”
“Well ...”
I wait long enough to establish that no other response is forthcoming. Kerry’s style is obviously not confrontational. She’s better than that. I relent: “You may think I’m a bozo at times, but I’m not dumb. I’m smart enough to know when I’ve been bested; I can accept someone else’s idea when it works better than mine -- at least after I’ve been hit in the face with it -- and I do recognize good art when I see it. So damn the torpedoes and c'est la guerre. The dress can stay. Tell Roberta not to work on repairing the other tonight.”
“Thank you,” she susurrates as she turns back to the cast for notes.
“Let’s start with you, Mister Walker-Hutson,” she says. “We agreed you’ll be here on time tomorrow in full costume. That includes your cap in Act One.”
“Soitenly!” he says, waggling his fingers over his head.
“Or have you already told her that,” I mutter, but Kerry goes on speaking to the cast as if she didn’t hear me.
-----
2008 – 2010, John Nicholas Schweitzer
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