And so it began …

For earlier diary entries, go to the Spd D8n page.

Thursday night – opening night.

I sat in and watched the first performance, an understudy tackling my short but enthusiastic cameo.

Backstage mostly consists of waiting for your cue

This was the first time I’d heard the complete play since early rehearsal, but now with fully fleshed character reactions and mannerisms, lighting, sound, and … well, … everything.

My nerves were bubbling – for the cast, for Therese’s first show as director, and for my script. All revealed to public scrutiny at last.

Fortunately, they did a great job.

For once I was able to turn off the critical editor voice in my head and just enjoy the performances.

Besides monitoring the audience reaction like a hawk, of course.

It’s satisfying (and greatly relieving) to hear laughter at key jokes and punchlines, but also interesting to see which ones don’t get expected responses.

And waiting ….

Sometimes a seemingly innocuous line gets an unexpected laugh, or a personal favourite gag might fly silently past without troubling the scorers. There’s even the occasional “Aww” at certain character moments.

Best of all though: no snoring.

The reactions vary across the nights, every audience is different.

We listen out from the green room, gauging what sort of crowd we have. There’s always the nervous wait for the first proper laugh, with the potential for a long laborious evening if it isn’t forthcoming.

This is where a loud laugher in the audience is gold.

At heart, people are shy, needing a certain critical mass before feeling safely anonymous in the crowd to vocalise a reaction.

Unless a guffawing person comes along, who acts like a catalyst to make it okay for everyone to get noisy.

And waiting … hic. … Hang on, who am I mean to be again?

Polite chuckling barely carries backstage, causing casts of comedies much performance angst and evaluation of life choices.

But get a loud laugher along, cacking themselves at the first hint of a joke, then everyone quickly sighs in relief and gets on with the job as usual, with no emergency contingencies of donning funny noses, accents or other desperate new re-interpretations.

So, next time you’re at the theatre and someone is laughing like a drain, give them a thankful pat on the back. Especially if it’s an odd wheezy laugh as they may actually be having an asthma attack.

These people are freeing you from the shackles of self-consciousness, emancipating you from inhibition, enhancing your enjoyment.

Those people who sit laughing uproariously to themselves on late night trains? They’re a slightly different demographic. Approach with caution.

#GreenRoomLife: Scripts, stimulants, lacquer, lozenges, a mirror, a pianna’, and the door to a (hopefully) adoring public

And so, the nervous first night energy has turned into a more relaxed process, almost routine.

The green room is host to some quite random topics and tangents. There is an easy-going team camaraderie going on in the cast and crew, which is always one of the most enjoyable things in doing a show.

Ideas for improvements, trims, and additions happen as I watch the monitor, listening to reactions, weighing up line modifications. I look forward to collating the director’s and actors’ opinions and notes of what worked and what didn’t, so I can get cracking on a post-show rewrite.

A positive first night review does wonders for morale. As does positive feedback from audience members after the show and on the FacialBook.

Social media cross-liking continues apace.

A few days off, now back to do it all again.

3 more nights to fill, so we can’t get complacent. Two weeks has been about right for the run. It has whizzed by, but won’t outstay its welcome.

And if all else fails, send out the hula hoop girl

Next Time: Pass the rubber gloves, time for … The Wash Up

The rehearsal schedule has emerged, and suddenly it’s all on.

Realisation that the show goes up in a month’s time – holy crap!

For earlier diary entries, go to the Spd D8n page.

• Props are being collated, desks constructed, in preparation for theatre bump-in. Spd D8n is deliberately sparse – no set, just furniture and props. This keeps logistics simpler for all concerned, especially should the show go on the road or re-stage at fringe festivals.
• “Scripts down by next Monday” – oh, how the actors laugh at such foolish idealism. These laughs will slowly ebb away into sobs as the memorisation task sinks in. Poor sods.
  

  Ewww. And someone should probably give the stage a good sweep, too.

• Photo shoot this weekend. This means thoughts of character costumes, hair styles, demeanour. This is an early roadtest at portraying the characters.
• In the background, stage crew are being coaxed – friends are contacted, availabilities checked, favours called in. Sphincters remain taut until the all-important Stage Manager is locked in.
• Across the mixing desk, minds that are to ours as ours are to the beasts, view our world with technical eyes, and slowly and surely build their lighting rigs to illuminate us.
• Sound effects are collated for cues.  A plethora of odd noises, burps, farts, and doorbells emanate from the director’s laptop at unexpected moments. Well, she says she’s testing sounds effects, anyway.

A writer rests between witticisms

Busy times.

Except for the writer, who can sit back and watch it all happen. At least until the publicity cranks up.

Besides occasional rehearsal of my – ahem – cameo.

First up, though: the group read-through.

I sit in on this, trying to remain as innocuous as possible as the cast take turns to explain their respective characters. The danger of the writer being present is that actors might feel less free about expressing their interpretation for fear it’s “wrong”. Fortunately, there are only occasional glances for confirmation my way. I can only shrug anyway, my head deep in other projects now so it’s all vague fog for me.

An acting visual metaphor the other day

The character explanation exercise is an interesting perspective for the writer. Other people are suddenly fleshing out your characters, getting into their shoes, and taking ownership. The actor goes forensic on any little snippet that might reveal some facet to be gripped and extrapolated. Some of these have been deliberately laid, and you almost say “Bingo!” when they’re picked up on. Some are news to me, but hey, lets see where it goes.

Then the line run begins.

I grab my notepad for no great reason. The script is locked in now, with people memorising it as written – no matter how much I would kill for one more edit.

I draw some squiggles instead, and try not to feel too queasy.

Or maybe … Jungian?

It’s been read a number of times now, so the freshness is gone, the reactions muted with familiarity.

So obviously I just assume the script is dreadful and I’m an over-writing hack. Why did I come along again?

More squiggles, though more Freudian in nature now.

However, this is where the actors start bringing in their stuff. Phrasings, facial reactions, quirks. Some zinging delivery of jokes. Sneak previews of the performances to come.

For me, less squiggling, more listening.

I still want to chop and change lines, though, but then I always will.

Feck, I missed my cue.

And so the line run goes, choccy biscuits providing sustenance.

Still early stages but very promising.

Lots of lines to learn, and hopefully the workshopping between director and actors will achieve the streamlining my itching red pen is aching to do to the script.

Anyway, the various tasks and operations seem to be in full flight now. So this is where I bid them adieu till I’m actually needed.

Next time: Tartin’ the Wares – Marketing and Publicity

The read-through – that moment when all the voices in the playwright’s head are suddenly made real.

Well, the voices regarding the play anyway.

For earlier diary entries, go to the Spd D8n page.

Either a beautiful noise or a gawd-awful cacophony is about to ensue …

The writing process is largely solitary. Just as well, because for me it involves pulling faces while enacting character dialogue and reactions, and an inordinate amount of fidgeting.

Some of Spd D8n was written at my weekly writing group sessions at my local, with moral support – and beer – close at hand to push onwards. Face-pulling is minimised so as not to scare off newcomers.

Submitting for review is the first exposure, but there you have time to ready yourself for critique.

“Time for the read-through” – quite a bit like “Let’s go to the vet to get spayed.”

The read-through is the proper rabbit-in-the-spotlights moment.

A whole bunch of new people holding a tangible copy of your script. Touching it, flicking through it, reading, nodding, frowning, commenting. Judging.

I’ll just sit over way there in that far corner, if you don’t mind.  Behind the fern, emerging only for the occasional cracker biscuit.

All those preconceptions in your head are null and void. The script is unsheathed and unprotected, about to be interpreted in a wholly different way.

No choice but to be Zen and detach, welcome the new perspectives, accept change. And don’t hit people with fern branches.

Luckily, Therese the director decided to combine the read-through with the audition process, thus the actors were quite nervous also. Eager to impress. That can only help.

Actors often prepare with a series of vocal warm-ups

A word from the writer before we begin?

Oh. Umm…

“Be gentle”?

“Please like it”?

Profuse apologies for the unintelligible unfunny nonsense they’re subjecting themselves to for the next two hours?

I opted for the “I’ll probably do some rewrites based on tonight” and a vaguely passive aggressive insinuation that I’d be snide about them in this blog. Otherwise, I’ll be behind this fern if you need me.

So it began …

Stephen King in On Writing recommends putting a work away for a few months, so as to come at it with fresh eyes of a reader. I’d not looked at the script whatsoever since handing it in for review – more through laziness than strategy though.

I was pretty confident about Act One, having previously read it aloud and timed it. Reassuringly, the actors read it largely the way intended. Most importantly, laughs from the get go. Phew!

The Goat of Self-Doubt terrorises another writer

Act Two was almost like listening to someone else’s play. I could barely remember it.  I’d pretty much handed this in as soon as it felt finished. Not quite “first draft”, but very raw.

Hence, some fixing is needed – trims, tidying, enhance some jokes, and maybe cut a small scene which didn’t add much and marked the beginning of the “this is all starting to go on a bit” feeling.

But on the whole, it sounded pretty good, helped by a strong set of actors reading very well and immediately inhabiting the characters. Therese has some tough casting decisions ahead!

Things that flit through the Writer’s head during read-through:

• Is the opening scene the best to kick off with? Does it set the tone, style, and conventions of what’s to come?
• Is the order of the scenes correct and balanced? Do the characters get equal time across the play? Is there a variety of scene style to keep the audience on their toes?
• Will it appear rude if I walk out mid-scene to get another beer?
• Fair cop, the characters sometimes repeated themselves, restating their motivations or thoughts. These were points where I recall getting stuck and trying to find ways to progress. Trim time!
• Does the tricky “fireworks” scene towards the end work, or is even intelligible?
• Has anyone noticed how much camembert I’m swiping each visit to the nibblies table?
• The actors body language. Is it all banging on too long? Are they sliding down their chairs waiting for the end? Are they feeling as guilty as I am about the camembert? Seriously, there was a whole wheel of it at the beginning.

A visual metaphor the other day

All in all, though, a success. We survived, and the play feels like it has potential.

Now, the casting decisions are ruminated, and it nears time for me to walk away somewhat and leave the director and cast to it. At the very least, avoid the tedious horror of blocking night.

Next time: All locked in – the first rehearsal