Years ago, I was given the remarkable opportunity to work with the Grande Dame of Spanish Fork Children's Theater--Anna Murdock. I volunteered as a parent helper while Spanish Fork Youth Theater put on "Narnia". For several seasons, I was able to actually work for Anna, for pay, as one of her drama teachers. My son was in each of her shows, and during one summer show, even my husband was hired to teach 80 kids how to act.
Anna retired, so my gig as a teacher was over. But we've remained friends, and she has watched over my son's progress in shows as if she were his own grandma. She gave him his first part (a Dwarf in Narnia) and has encouraged Caden's persistence and talent in drama. I owe a lot to Anna.
Her daughter Cami wrote a fun murder mystery a few years ago and I directed one scene of it--the Mansion scene, set in England, in which a bunch of silly society ladies twitter and gossip and giggle (and then the murder is eventually solved. There's more to it than this, of course.) I directed the Mansion scene with teenagers as the gossips. And now I am one! I'm Lady Chattaway.
We had our first read through tonight in Anna's wonderland backyard. Some of the cast I know, some I don't. I admit, some of the people in the show are folks I, ahem, have had issues with. This should be really interesting.
Which brings me to the topic that keeps swirling around in my blogs--the politics of theater. There is apparently no smaller world than the arena of local community theater. Because Anna has been doing this for 40+ years, she knows everyone. And because she is the nicest, kindest, most guileless person in the world, she sees everyone for how she wants to see them. She sees me this way, too. As a perfect person.
I admit--I'm freaked out. Okay, I am. I'm humbled that Anna thinks so well of me. But I admit it freely, I have burned bridge, at least really torched them badly. Those bridges are now appearing in this show with the ushering in of certain cast members who I've--um--been unhappy with and said so. Or, in the case of one woman, I reviewed the show she was in and I was honest about it. (And that is the subject of a whole other blog sometime soon). I will need to somehow pull these bridges from the ashes and reconstruct them.
Lesson for the day--be as nice as you can to everyone in your small theater world, even those people who you think aren't good teachers in a youth drama program. Someday you may be in a show with them.
Here's me, signing off. But to all of you, keep playing!
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Little Women callbacks
I received an email that: Yes! I've been asked to come back and read and sing and dance. Since I had dressed conservatively (aka Little Women-ish) for the first audition, I thought, now what does one wear for a dance audition? Though I considered something frumpy, I just settled on shorts, a t-shirt and my favorite high tops. I knew it was probably more 'marketable' if I wore my dance shoes, but since I still wasn't over the horror at wearing those torture shoes all through Hairspray's doing the Pony, the Twist, and the Monkey, my feet cried out for mercy and I listened to them.
So I get to the callback, and knew one person--my friend Dana who'd played Motormouth Maybelle in Hairspray. We embraced. You have to do this in callbacks. If not, you look like a lone loser who doesn't know anyone else. There are politics everywhere--a Who's Who in the theater world.
Before Dana arrived, I hung back, watching the interaction. Some of the people I'd seen at the original audition were there, though one particular young woman I'd spoken to wasn't, and I was surprised. She had looked so Louisa May Alcott to me, with curly hair in a neat bun, a sweet cameo face, and the willingness to reluctantly say, yes, she'd recently played the lead in some musical whose title I forget now. She seemed perfect! This shows what I know about casting a musical about a bunch of stuffy girls in a rather stuffy story. (Does it seem like I wasn't enthused about this play?)
Some of the huge callback cast looked so professional, with their once again 'chic' leg warmers (a ridiculous fashion accessory the first time they became popular--hey--let's make what is usually the prettiest part of a woman's leg look like an elephant's!) and dance shoes. Apparently the feet of these women hadn't cried to them for high tops the way my feet had.
As is the custom here in Utah, and I imagine elsewhere as well, there were far more women than men. This could have been because there are more women than men required in the cast, but generally speaking, finding good, talented men who can act, sing, and dance and are willing to admit it is tough around here. Utah is a little conservative. No--it's very conservative. This rears its ugly head in the idea that if you're in drama you're gay, and gay is BAD. (And that's all I'll say on THAT subject in this blog entry. Exhale, folks.)
The people in the callback room, the same dance studio as before (which is down a somewhat winding, precarious staircase and across a carpeted foyer) were all milling around--the females twittering nervously, doing the obligatory embracing, and talking much louder than seemed necessary. "Look at me! I'm popular, willing to project, and am so remarkably confident!" they seemed to be communicating to the production staff who were looking on and maybe even noting this behavior. Who knows?
As I said, I hung back for the most part. People watching is fun, and I felt the delighted, almost loving smile on my lips, observing the continuing undercurrent of viciousness amongst the contestants. For this was most definitely a contest.
The choreographer swept in, a smile on his face and with more graceful, confident, and reassuring movement than I've seen in a long time. I instantly adored him. I could only imagine he'd be awesome to go see a play with, or maybe have over for dinner. He was just that kind of guy. Pretty cute in a tall, dancer sort of way too. And I don't mean this in a hubba hubba kind of way. He was young, I am not. He is married. So am I. He just seemed to scream: I am not scary. I am a likeable guy. So, I liked him.
He separated us into several groups and showed us a series of ballroom type steps. We all got a chance to prance across the dance floor as one big, mushy, cramped up, apologetic group. "Sorry--I didn't mean to hit you." "Oof, we're all so smashed together." And no, I wasn't the only one saying this.
Since the guys' group was smaller, he had them dance first and they did okay. Some glided, some galumphed. We who watched clapped. We women felt no threat here. They weren't vying for our parts, after all.
Then it came time for chick group #1. I wasn't in it, so sat back and let them do their thing. One girl stood in ballet's third position (I think), her feet in a little slanted 'T", and standing so straight I thought she might crack. So the first gal group danced, again, some gliding, some galumphing. The variety of this herd was something--far more young women, but several who were older than I, some in top physical shape, some, um, not.
My turn came and our group dipped and swirled. The choreographer had told us before we started that since we had to switch from turning right to left, this might goof us up. I blurted, "So THAT'S the reason why!" He laughed and said, "You're a spunky one." So I was spunky and wondered if this would make up for the fact that my career as a ballroom dancer is non-existent.
For some reason, I was in the back of the pack one way, which, when we turned around made me the leader. I felt sorry for the ladies following me. Oh, I did all right. But since I didn't do perfect, as I approached the end of that lap, I just spun (sort of) a couple of ballet moves that weren't part of that little dance snippet and twirled around when no-one else did. What. The. Heck.
That bit of the callback done, some of the near 50 people were asked to leave. We were assured numerous times that this didn't mean they weren't being considered, that they had done a great job and didn't need any more proof that they were awesome. I wondered if anyone believed that. I did not.
The rest of us were told what parts we were being considered for. Mine was some Scottish innkeeper who didn't have any solo singing to speak of. First indication I didn't want to do the show. Second was that I wanted to play Marmy though I hadn't expressed that on my audition sheet. I took the side to study, whipped up a Scottish accent (which for me is hard unless I can hear it first and then copy it) and found a couple of keen, talented young men to practice with who were doing the same scene as I was.
The more I practiced, the more I knew this wasn't for me. I hadn't been that familiar with the script, but now that I saw it, I knew that while the show was probably really neat, it wasn't funny. I wanted funny. I also, pridefully, thought that the show 'needed' me, but as I heard other women studying and reading the same lines I was, I realized, hey, these women are great. This show will go on without the likes of me.
So I took my slapdash Scottish accent, my happy high-tops-wearing feet, and left.
So I get to the callback, and knew one person--my friend Dana who'd played Motormouth Maybelle in Hairspray. We embraced. You have to do this in callbacks. If not, you look like a lone loser who doesn't know anyone else. There are politics everywhere--a Who's Who in the theater world.
Before Dana arrived, I hung back, watching the interaction. Some of the people I'd seen at the original audition were there, though one particular young woman I'd spoken to wasn't, and I was surprised. She had looked so Louisa May Alcott to me, with curly hair in a neat bun, a sweet cameo face, and the willingness to reluctantly say, yes, she'd recently played the lead in some musical whose title I forget now. She seemed perfect! This shows what I know about casting a musical about a bunch of stuffy girls in a rather stuffy story. (Does it seem like I wasn't enthused about this play?)
Some of the huge callback cast looked so professional, with their once again 'chic' leg warmers (a ridiculous fashion accessory the first time they became popular--hey--let's make what is usually the prettiest part of a woman's leg look like an elephant's!) and dance shoes. Apparently the feet of these women hadn't cried to them for high tops the way my feet had.
As is the custom here in Utah, and I imagine elsewhere as well, there were far more women than men. This could have been because there are more women than men required in the cast, but generally speaking, finding good, talented men who can act, sing, and dance and are willing to admit it is tough around here. Utah is a little conservative. No--it's very conservative. This rears its ugly head in the idea that if you're in drama you're gay, and gay is BAD. (And that's all I'll say on THAT subject in this blog entry. Exhale, folks.)
The people in the callback room, the same dance studio as before (which is down a somewhat winding, precarious staircase and across a carpeted foyer) were all milling around--the females twittering nervously, doing the obligatory embracing, and talking much louder than seemed necessary. "Look at me! I'm popular, willing to project, and am so remarkably confident!" they seemed to be communicating to the production staff who were looking on and maybe even noting this behavior. Who knows?
As I said, I hung back for the most part. People watching is fun, and I felt the delighted, almost loving smile on my lips, observing the continuing undercurrent of viciousness amongst the contestants. For this was most definitely a contest.
The choreographer swept in, a smile on his face and with more graceful, confident, and reassuring movement than I've seen in a long time. I instantly adored him. I could only imagine he'd be awesome to go see a play with, or maybe have over for dinner. He was just that kind of guy. Pretty cute in a tall, dancer sort of way too. And I don't mean this in a hubba hubba kind of way. He was young, I am not. He is married. So am I. He just seemed to scream: I am not scary. I am a likeable guy. So, I liked him.
He separated us into several groups and showed us a series of ballroom type steps. We all got a chance to prance across the dance floor as one big, mushy, cramped up, apologetic group. "Sorry--I didn't mean to hit you." "Oof, we're all so smashed together." And no, I wasn't the only one saying this.
Since the guys' group was smaller, he had them dance first and they did okay. Some glided, some galumphed. We who watched clapped. We women felt no threat here. They weren't vying for our parts, after all.
Then it came time for chick group #1. I wasn't in it, so sat back and let them do their thing. One girl stood in ballet's third position (I think), her feet in a little slanted 'T", and standing so straight I thought she might crack. So the first gal group danced, again, some gliding, some galumphing. The variety of this herd was something--far more young women, but several who were older than I, some in top physical shape, some, um, not.
My turn came and our group dipped and swirled. The choreographer had told us before we started that since we had to switch from turning right to left, this might goof us up. I blurted, "So THAT'S the reason why!" He laughed and said, "You're a spunky one." So I was spunky and wondered if this would make up for the fact that my career as a ballroom dancer is non-existent.
For some reason, I was in the back of the pack one way, which, when we turned around made me the leader. I felt sorry for the ladies following me. Oh, I did all right. But since I didn't do perfect, as I approached the end of that lap, I just spun (sort of) a couple of ballet moves that weren't part of that little dance snippet and twirled around when no-one else did. What. The. Heck.
That bit of the callback done, some of the near 50 people were asked to leave. We were assured numerous times that this didn't mean they weren't being considered, that they had done a great job and didn't need any more proof that they were awesome. I wondered if anyone believed that. I did not.
The rest of us were told what parts we were being considered for. Mine was some Scottish innkeeper who didn't have any solo singing to speak of. First indication I didn't want to do the show. Second was that I wanted to play Marmy though I hadn't expressed that on my audition sheet. I took the side to study, whipped up a Scottish accent (which for me is hard unless I can hear it first and then copy it) and found a couple of keen, talented young men to practice with who were doing the same scene as I was.
The more I practiced, the more I knew this wasn't for me. I hadn't been that familiar with the script, but now that I saw it, I knew that while the show was probably really neat, it wasn't funny. I wanted funny. I also, pridefully, thought that the show 'needed' me, but as I heard other women studying and reading the same lines I was, I realized, hey, these women are great. This show will go on without the likes of me.
So I took my slapdash Scottish accent, my happy high-tops-wearing feet, and left.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Little Women Audition
I was having a hard time letting go of the magical time I had in Hairspray, so I thought I'd just go to another audition and be able to do it all over again. (This in and of itself was really stupid, I was soon to find out.)
I went to audition for "Little Women" at Orem's Scera Theater. Orem is about a 30-minute drive away on a ridiculously bizarre slash of freeway that seems to be perpetually torn up with construction. Hence, mistake #2 in this plan.
The Scera is a beautiful facility--a cozy indoor stage, two fine movie screens, an art gallery. It's posh. All around the first floor are couches and yummy chairs--it looks like the fancy lobby of a fancy hotel. For the "Little Women" audition, sitting on each of these couches and chairs were teenage girls--tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny. Most of them had impossibly long, shiny hair, slightly curled under at the ends. It was like I'd entered into an audition for a Pantene commercial.
Many of these possible Megs, Beths, and Amys seemed to know one another. With much squealing and hugging, these ladies sat close together on the comfy couches, arms entwined and eyes like daggers. Oh yes, these girls were all the best of mates, but once I heard them speak, it was clear what was really going on.
"Oh, what was YOUR last part? I had the lead in blah blah blah." "Oh, you were only in the ensemble? Well," (small knowing shake of the head) "I bet you did a great job."
And on and on. It was like watching a nest of vipers wearing shiny wigs fight over the last piece of roadkill.
I went into the audition, which is always a little daunting. I handed the accompianist my sheet music ("I Don't Know How to Love Him" from Jesus Christ Superstar), and stood in the middle of what looked like the dance studio portion of the Scera. Mirrors to my back, director, music director, assistant director at the table in front of me. The deciders faced me as I sang.I wanted to sing "I Get a Kick Out of You" from "Anything Goes". Or anything by George Gershwin. I do better with the torch singer ballads. But, I sang and apparently did okay, because I got a call back.
I did, of course, mention I was the daughter of Bozo the Clown. Maybe that's why they called me back. I mean, what says Little Women more than a clown's daughter, right?
More about the call back on my next blog.
So, for now--keep playing!
I went to audition for "Little Women" at Orem's Scera Theater. Orem is about a 30-minute drive away on a ridiculously bizarre slash of freeway that seems to be perpetually torn up with construction. Hence, mistake #2 in this plan.
The Scera is a beautiful facility--a cozy indoor stage, two fine movie screens, an art gallery. It's posh. All around the first floor are couches and yummy chairs--it looks like the fancy lobby of a fancy hotel. For the "Little Women" audition, sitting on each of these couches and chairs were teenage girls--tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny. Most of them had impossibly long, shiny hair, slightly curled under at the ends. It was like I'd entered into an audition for a Pantene commercial.
Many of these possible Megs, Beths, and Amys seemed to know one another. With much squealing and hugging, these ladies sat close together on the comfy couches, arms entwined and eyes like daggers. Oh yes, these girls were all the best of mates, but once I heard them speak, it was clear what was really going on.
"Oh, what was YOUR last part? I had the lead in blah blah blah." "Oh, you were only in the ensemble? Well," (small knowing shake of the head) "I bet you did a great job."
And on and on. It was like watching a nest of vipers wearing shiny wigs fight over the last piece of roadkill.
I went into the audition, which is always a little daunting. I handed the accompianist my sheet music ("I Don't Know How to Love Him" from Jesus Christ Superstar), and stood in the middle of what looked like the dance studio portion of the Scera. Mirrors to my back, director, music director, assistant director at the table in front of me. The deciders faced me as I sang.I wanted to sing "I Get a Kick Out of You" from "Anything Goes". Or anything by George Gershwin. I do better with the torch singer ballads. But, I sang and apparently did okay, because I got a call back.
I did, of course, mention I was the daughter of Bozo the Clown. Maybe that's why they called me back. I mean, what says Little Women more than a clown's daughter, right?
More about the call back on my next blog.
So, for now--keep playing!
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Hairspray
Recently I was in Spanish Fork Community Theater's production of "Hairspray". After the show was over, I wished I had blogged my experience. Since it is now retrospect, I will be adding details about my time in this show, from time to time (using the word time here is often as I can, apparently), but this is why I began this blog now. I don't want to miss another show, another audition, another amount of funness, challenge, friends made, life lessons learned.
Because I learn with theater. So here is my blog, talking about what this all means to me--what I'm gleaning from my experiences in theater, and who I am becoming as a result of all of this.
Join me. And whatever you do--keep playing!
Because I learn with theater. So here is my blog, talking about what this all means to me--what I'm gleaning from my experiences in theater, and who I am becoming as a result of all of this.
Join me. And whatever you do--keep playing!
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