Leaving for the Gig

(Note: I've had to hyphenate odd words because the computer where I'm staying has a problem with dr ugs and alco hol, the mere words, so I'm trying to work around it.)

So we're getting ready to leave on Dec. 31st for Greensboro. The packing process begins. Being in this business as long as we have, we've developed what I term the OOT (Out of Town) List. A check list of those things we want to take with us that has been honed to a diamondlike perfection after 35 years. We are beyond anal retention here. This list is about five pages long and is divided up into various categories. Of course we drive, otherwise we'd be unable to take the majority of our life with us. We are like snails that carry our houses with us.

OFFICE SUPPLIES - include the obvious from stamps, envelopes, address book to scotch tape, lap top and rulers (29 other items in all). You never know when one of them will come in handy.

HARDWARE/HOUSEWARE - 100 watt bulbs because they ALWAYS give you only 60 watt bulbs and there are usually only two lamps in the place, one of which has a broken switch and a burned out bulb; a bathtub/sink stopper because they never hold water, an extension cord (you generally find you'll need one), etc., etc.

KITCHEN - this is the largest category and takes up an entire page by itself. Theatre housing is notorious for 3 bent forks, a spoon and perhaps the most hideous Dollar Store wine glass you've ever seen. Forget there being a broiling pan available or anything over a six inch frying pan. Do bring your favorite coffee mug. If there IS a potato peeler it definitely has seen better days as has the can opener and the melted plastic ladle. Oh, and unless you're a Brit, do bring along a couple of ice cube trays if you like ice in your drinks and don't expect any there the first night of your stay because inevitably the freezer will have only been defrosted a few hours before you arrive. Well, either that or there will be an igloo inside the freezer compartment which you will need a sledge hammer to break up if you wish to keep anything other than a miniature package of frozen peas.

Of course if you fly this is all a moot point. Though you are allowed to ship a certain allotted Equity enforced free poundage which management must pay for. No doubt a concession which management rues, but does anyone really understand what an actor goes through when leaving his home for seven weeks or three months or, God forbid - a year's TOUR. The latter is beyond my imaginings. I'd need my own train compartment.

Where was I? Oh, the odd kitchen items one may not think of - knife sharpener/ whetstone. Imagine, if you will, how many actors over how many years used that same knife to chip out the freezer igloo. It's never been sharpened nor replaced. Jack the Ripper would have had to take up different employment.

DR-UGS - well in the old days, it might have been psycho-tropics, but these days it ranges from prescriptions for GERD to an ice pack. Getting old is so much fun.

MISCELLANEOUS - things like a camera to a Swiss army knife, ear plugs to a sewing kit

FOOD - all those items in your fridge that will rot 'ere you return, condiments - why not save some money - bo*ze and cookies. Not that bo-oze will rot, but believe me the first thing you'll want to do after unpacking is have a nice cock*tail.

GAMES and TOYS - is really a category that has almost disappeared off the list. It includes books, but as I've mostly played leading roles, there's little time for games in the dressingroom.

THE SHOW - has items that range from makeup to a wig. In the majority of the shows I've done (being a clahsical theeeahtah ahchtress), I've had to wear a wig, which means you must first put your hair in pin curls. On two-show days you can a) remove all the pin curls - which takes forever - and then re-do them prior to the second show, which also takes forever and cuts into your dinner hour b) wear some hideous scarf which makes you look like you're currently undergoing chemo or c) put on another wig. When I was doing "To Kill a Mockingbird" at Ford's Theatre, several of the black actresses wore wigs on a daily basis - just for fun. And we all went around the corner one day, and got ourselves a new look. I bought myself a short brunette thingie that made me look very pixieish. Since then I've always used that wig on two-show days.

The other SHOW items I usually take are certain talismans, baubles, photos I've gleaned from research, accent tapes if appropriate, and a huge vase of gorgeous silk flowers. A long time ago a friend of my mother's gave me on one opening night a check for $75. My mother had then recently passed away. She said it was "from mom." I was rather overwhelmed and thought, how would I spend it? I went to Michael's and chose the most beautiful individual flowers and created a magnificent arrangement. So now I always have not only Emmy, but Ma with me on gigs.

Where was I? Once again I digress. Packing up. Why it is that even though one has this perfect list, it still takes FOREVER to pack? I'm trying to pour the remainder of a large shampoo bottle into a smaller vessel when the top breaks off. What should have taken two minutes now takes 15 for I had to then do it drip by drop rather than a squeeze. What clothes and shoes and jewelry to take? I always take more clothes than I ever wear. I always think I'll dress like a lady and always end up in jeans. I might as well just take two tops and two pairs of pants and be done with it. But I never do.

And why is it one feels the need in these final few precious hours to do things like clean areas of the bathroom one never before considered? Or do desk work that you've paid absolutely no attention to for the past year? Why is that?

Now, if we don't take the Christmas ornaments off the tree, the tree will sag and the ornaments may fall off and break. Aside from the fact that it's positively no fun to take ornaments off a very dead tree. We know. We once left it up 'til almost Easter. What a mess THAT was. So that's another thing that needs be done.

And then there are our three cats. We're told by the local vet that a bit of a human antihistamine will make them drowsy - approximately 1 mg per pound of cat. They already know SOMETHING IS UP because the two of us are off the wall with tension and there are boxes everywhere and we are not at all acting like our normal selves. They sense the change in energy level. And then of course, when the carrying cages come up from the basement - the jig's up. The ONLY time carry boxes are employed are under unpleasant circumstances. They aren't stupid. They know this. It usually means going to the vet for shots, or traveling to strange new, scary places. Their guards are up.

OK. Here we are at the day of LEAVETAKING. Husband says - "Oh, I'll take care of giving the cats the pi-lls. I'll just put it in some wet food..."

Right. Food gone, pi-ll remains. Now we have to finger force it down their throats - IF we can get them. Our big boy, Mr. Docile, is growling and husband can't hold onto him. Ooookaaaay. Time to wrap them in towel like a straight jacket. He holds, I shove down the gullet. Trying to capture our autistic cat (he's gotta be autistic), is a true study in patience. NEVER EVER GET A YELLOW CAT!. Behind the couch, dash to under the chair, by the table, behind the couch. Fortunately he finally realizes that at some point SOON he's either going to be trapped or the WRATH OF KAHN will be upon him and he more or less gives up. I SOOOOO want to strangle the little bugger - my fingers itch - but I say in a soothing voice between clenched teeth(I AM an actress after all), "It's all right sweeeeetie, everything is going to be aaaallll right." And then trying to get him into the carrying cage. Squeeze his hind legs together and force them in first because there ain't no way he's going in head first, then mash the rest of his miserable yellow body into the cage. Ah. Finally. All three cats are in the cars. I'm taking the two boys, husband taking the girl.

We're loaded to the gunnels with two vans. We each let the cats out so they can roam freely and use the litter boxes we've set up in each. The boys howl and howl...and howl. Mugwump, our usually implacable one, is growling and actually barking like a dog. Talk about stressed. He eventually calms down. Butternut, the hideous yellow brat, howls for over an hour and pants. He does not take at all well to car travel. So much for the calming effects of antihistamines.

Finally after three hours we arrive at the theatre where we meet the Company Manager and are taken to our apartments, side by side, one flight up. Jimmy offered to help us load in, but we knew he had a New Year's Eve party to go to. Poor guy, I let him carry the litter box up. He would have preferred to have taken one of the cats, I know, but they were so freaked out I thought it better we take them. I tried to get Mugwump into his cage - forget it. We're given the lay of the land and Jimmy goes off to celebrate. How many trips up and down those concrete stairs did we make? Who knows. We finally finish unloading, carry two of the cats up in our arms but the Yellow? Oh, well, he's managed to place himself under the back seat where only a bat could fit. I manage to pull his head through the small opening and try to squash the rest of his body while reaching under and pushing from behind to no avail. Although I'd like to kill him, I don't want to hurt him. Odd dichotomy three. Finally the little bastard comes out and I grab him by more than the scruff of his thick yellow neck and hold him at a very judicious distance from my person as I walk up the stairs to the apartment. I already have one deep hole in my thigh from earlier in the day, thank you.

5:30 pm and we're IN! We're exhausted. What did we have for dinner? I don't remember. Ah, yes, dear husband found a Harris Teeter and got us turkey burgers, but got lost coming back for there is no street sign for this street we're on.

We had brought some champ*agne and went over to celebrate with the pussies (we're keeping them in the other apt. - do you wonder why?...). They were all in hiding.

Happy New Year!

I've got the bloody, blasted croup AGAIN. Very debilitating. Had hoped to play tennis tonight at the pick-up games but too tired. Hope I'm well enough by Saturday for our normal match.

Meanwhile we've only got a few days left before we take off for Triad Stage and we're trying to get all that needs to be accomplished by then accomplished. I feel like I could sleep for a month at this point.

Still haven't quite learned all of the 4th Act. Listen to it every chance I get in the car, and in spare moments here - the script is ever at the ready. The Laird is doing well with his lines. He's got a bit of the croup too. What a way to start rehearsals for show.

Oh yes, Mr. Vaughan did give me permission to use six of his photos, which I hope to put on here at some point in the not too distant future.

Mrs. Warren

Well I've now put the fourth act on tape and have a wee bit of it memorized. Set a goodly speech into my brain while working out on the Nordic Trak in the basement. Got all my hair chopped off a couple of days ago. Shortest I've had it since I was nine. Told the hairdresser to keep it just long enough for me to be able to put in pin curls to hold the wig into place. Now, of course I'll have to get new head shots. Sigh. Well, it was time anyway. I look in the mirror and don't know who this person is. But it sure is easier to take care of.

Been printing out more and more of the victorian photos. There's something that speaks to the muse within when gazing at them. I hope I'll have time to have imaginative play on here. Letters to Sir. George and sister Liz and Vivie. And especially letters to some of the girls in the "hotels" we run. Or more likely - descriptive writings. That's how I create an inner life for the character. If you believe - then so will the audience. If you fake it - they know it.

Mrs. Warren

I just found some more wonderful photos of the Victorians/Edwardians on the web (http://www.rogerco.freeserve.co.uk/) and have written Mr. Vaughan to see if he'll grant permission for me to use some of them here. I so love the internet. The entire world is at one's fingertips and one can discover so many delights - instantly. AND sometimes make new friends. We won't speak of the negative aspects of the spider's web.

(This is Amelia in the Ostend House. She'll pleasure a man in more ways than can be imagined! And one of the ones who really enjoys her work.)

Mrs. Warren

Well I managed to rough through the second act in the bath last night. I'm finding that's a great place to learn lines while easing the muscles from two hours of tennis. My brain is tired. And I've yet to glance at the third act, oh boy. Three weeks to the end of the month. Will I manage to get act IV under my belt before we leave? I doubt it. Too much to do. (Here's a snap of one of the girls in our Brussels House. Her name's Sarah and she's worth her weight in gold. Has a great sense of humour, this one!)

Mrs. Warren

Put the script on tape yesterday in various styles. Once through saying the cues AND my lines, then once saying just the cues. Well - not the third act, haven't gotten there yet. Am up to page50 - only 2 more to go to the end of Act II. YAY! And act III will be a piece of cake because I only have 5 lines, I think. (That's Rand's monster act.) Then back to slogging through the 4th act.

Trying to make up our minds as to whether we want to be in the third floor apts. or second. Third will be tough on my poor ankle (achilles surgery is a one-year recovery period) but we'll have no one above us tromping on our heads at odd hours. Second much easier for lugging up groceries but sleep could be a problem if there are trompers. Decisions, decisions, decisions....

Will be sending off the contracts today with a page of suggestions for script cuts. Trying to trim some of the excess verbiage. And better to do it before memorizing the rest of the script, eh? Our director told Rand he never met a cut he didn't like. (Here a photo of sister Liz before she moved down to Winchester. You can see the ladylike airs already!)

Mrs. Warren

So I've got this croup which has been hanging on since Thanksgiving and keeping my husband awake a night due to my coughing. Finally gave in and went to the doctor. They're never on time there so I brought along my script to continue memorization work. Glad I did. Got in over an hour of study before they finally saw me. A mere sinus infection. A cycline to knock it out and a suppressant/expectorant/decongestant to save me from drowning. Perhaps we'll both get some sleep tonight.

I have no compunction whatsoever about sitting in public places and babbling lines. I've no doubt people may well think I'm an absolute loon, but what of that. It used to be easier to study in waiting rooms. They used to be fairly quiet, except for the occasional screaming baby. This particular one not only had music playing from an overhead speaker in the ceiling but ALSO a large television which was blaring out some morning game show idiocy. Some multiple choice game where you try to guess the answer and then spin a dial to win money. They may think me a loon but I think them geese for watching such nonsense. Second hand smoke may offend some people - second hand noise offends me.

I stopped at the thrift shop on the way home and picked up a goody to put in my dressing room - a fake floral lei, very gaudy. I normally have a whole bunch of beads and whatnots hanging across my dressingroom mirror or dangling from light bulbs, but that's one of the boxes we've never unpacked since moving here. So....we accumulate MORE! Yesterday I picked up some opening night cards and one opening night gift. One thing I always take with me on gigs- a card that came with the flowers my mother sent me for opening night of Moon for the Misbegotten in Cincinnati. It was typed by the florist in the middle of a plain white card with their logo on the bottom, not even her handwriting. It says: "To my star in the moon. Love Ma" And it means the world to me.

(This shot is of Mary. She's rather too sweet natured for this business and often comes crying on my shoulder.)

Mrs. Warren

Now into the heavy monologues in the second act. What a bear to learn. If Mr. Shaw can use five examples in a speech, he'll use them all. Not one to edit himself. For example: "The other two were only half sisters. Undersized, ugly, starved looking, hard working, honest, poor creatures." How many adjectives can YOU use to describe someone!!!.... Aaaargh!

And I KNOW, although the director said he didn't think he was going to cut anything, that he probably will. I would if I were directing the thing. And then I'll have to UNLEARN lines. Ain't theatre FUN!

Actually what IS fun is what I did the other day which is to find pictures of the women of the period. I think I got the idea of finding photos of people, places, things to create an emotional reality in my own mind for the character from Zoe Caldwell when I did Medea with her on Broadway. She'd a collection of fabulous pictures which she found that I am sure inspired not only her psychological development of the character but the physical as well. But that's another story.

But it's just grand fun to tape up pictures all over one's dressingroom walls. I flourish in a creative space. One of the most creative rehearsal rooms I've ever worked in was in Indianapolis. Perhaps the ONLY creative rehearsal room I've been in. Most are just large, blank walled, open areas with tape marks on the floor, pock parked with uncomfortable folding chairs. Not dissimilar to dance studios sans mirrors. If I owned a theatre I would make the rehearsal space colorful and full of warmth. A place where creativity was nourished visually and physically. I've never understood why rehearsal rooms are the most barren places on earth. Yes, of course you paint your own landscape during the process, but how much richer it could be with some warmth to start with.

Anyway, this is one of the pictures that spoke to me. Mrs. Warren in her younger days, perhaps? Isn't it just delicious.

Mrs. Warren

Thoughts: Why don't I want George to know my daughter's age? Because it will give away my own? Because if he knows my age and when she was born he can figure out if he's her father or not? Because if she's "of age" she can make her own decisions? Who is her father? Am I lying when I tell Vivie it's not any of the men she's met? Do I even know who her father is?

Mrs. Warren's Profession

This blog begins this day. It's all new to me, but why not give it a go. Try it for a while. Since there is no Boswell, one must do it one's self, no?

I thought I’d write down my processes when beginning work on a show. Why not. Initiate a civilian into the working mind of an actor or give a newcomer some ideas and/or perhaps guidance. Then again it might bore them to death....

First of course there’s the excitement of when the job is offered. And then, if you’ve already purchased the script you begin reading it. Or they’ll send you one. Or if you’re really an idiot you wait until you get to the first rehearsal to read the play.

In this case, with Mrs. Warren’s Profession, there are several different versions. Apparently Mr. Shaw saw fit to change the script every so slightly from year to year so that royalties would necessarily continue to have to be paid to his estate.

The theatre first sent an 8X10 unbound script which was printed on both sides of the page. There were many many errors. I wondered who in the world typed the thing. Having gone to Katherine Gibbs Secretarial school in my youth, and having spent many years as an executive secretary, I’m very keen on lack of typos. This script was a mess. Some stage directions were written as if they were the characters’ lines, etc. Being such a one for perfection and being extremely detailed, I made note of the errors on the pages to tell them later.

I read the play through about three times. At first I had many questions about Mrs. Warren. Some of the play didn’t make sense to me at all. Was she still on active duty as a prostitute or merely as a Madam, for example. And who IS the father of Vivie?

I begin to underline certain descriptive passages. Things like what other characters say about her & how Shaw describes her. Gathering as many details as possible about the nature of her character, the setting, the clothing, time of day, weather, etc. Then I begin to jot notes on the page. Things like: “I don’t know who my daughter is, have spent no time at all with her.” “Would I ever have this discussion with him if he were her father? - probably not.” And I put a box around those words with which I’m unfamiliar. Like ‘broomsquires’ and ‘assizes,’ which I later look up. I’ve never understood how an actor can come to the first rehearsal and ask what a word means? Or how to pronounce it. Why haven’t they done their homework? Personally I’d be embarrassed to sit there during the first read-through and mispronounce words. It shows a laziness of mind, lack of intellectual enthusiasm and a palty spirit.

We (my husband who will be playing Crofts, and I) asked for the script well in advance of the beginning of rehearsal because there’s an enormous amount of words to learn. I’m a particularly fast study and usually know the entire script by heart by the time I walk in to the ‘meet and greet’ on that first day. I don’t like working with a script in hand. It’s cumbersome and interrupts the flow of emotions when one has to suddenly look down and grope for a line. Though I keep the script at the ready, of course, during the blocking process.

The theatre told us they would send a corrected version of the script, that they had gotten the original off the internet. Ah, that’s good, I thought. At least the typos weren’t their fault. That relieved me somewhat. About three weeks later it arrived. Many, though far from all, of the typos had been corrected. Ah well. Perfection is hard to come by.

So I began by memorizing the old script and now here’s the new one. And it’s printed only one one side of the page - which is how it should be with lots of nice space to write notes on the blank side. And once again I am amazed to realize how much the memorization process is photographic. You’re used to seeing a line a certain way in a certain place on a page. And suddenly it’s different - higher or lower, to the left or on the next page. And you’ve already set it in your mind’s eye. You actually “see” the line in your mind when you recite it in the beginning. So it makes it a wee bit more difficult to change scripts mid stream.

11/15/07

I’m up to around page 38 now. Soon I’ll be into the heavy monologues. Yesterday I learned all about ‘tripos’ and ‘wranglers.’ Some theatres have dramaturges, but I tend to do my own research. It's part of what I consider "homework." There’s a fabulous blog that Susan Booth did of her production at Alliance which I’ve saved and other wonderful bits and pieces from various reviews of various productions which give many flavors and ideas from which to choose. Seeing the myriad photographs of the actresses who have portrayed her is quite interesting. Some looked lean and gorgeous and upper class, others looked plump and gaudy. Isn’t the Internet a wonderful thing! One can just go anywhere and discover infinite realms of fascinating information.

I haven’t begun to determine who I want this woman to be. Sometimes I know instinctively who a character is inside and out (like Hedda, or Maureen in Beauty Queen). Sometimes I haven’t a clue (like Miss Julie). And sometimes, as in this case, I half know her. I know parts of her, but not all of her. I’m not sure whether to make her a lower class baud, or a nouveau riche type with airs. Shaw specifically states that at one point she drops into her lower class speech patterns, so obviously one must start with a more upper crust accent. The question becomes - how good is her attempt at upper class speech? Is she proficient at it? And if not, where are the nots. One doesn’t want the audience to think that the actress can’t do the accent correctly, which could easily happen if one bastardizes her main way of speaking by jotting in odd cockney words here and there. The other question is WHAT is her street accent? As the Laird (that’s my husband) pointed out (being a master of dialects), there are many to choose from. North Country being one. My inclination is to go with the standard cockney. The main reason being that, although it might be a rather uncreative choice, it will be less likely to confuse an audience. An audience will identify immediately if I drop into a Liza Doolittle accent, but might wonder what the heck’s going on if I suddenly sound like I’m from someplace near Scotland. But there’s a bit of laziness in me too. It’ll be hard enough to learn the cockney. North country would be even harder.

BIOGRAPHY

(This post has been edited. It was originally my bio, but I've moved that to a different place.)