Thursday, March 28, 2002
'I Hate Hamlet' director Pamela Robertson shares
Special to the Register
Imagine crossing the majestic, snowy Alps in a leaky canoe drawn by an irritable walrus. And, by the way, your only provisions are an unopened coconut and a chocolate éclair, full of liverwurst that must go towards sustaining the walrus. One of those nightmares that would be hilarious if it happened to someone else, except it's happening to you.
This is community theater on a good day.
When the scheduled director of Dreamweaver's production of "I Hate Hamlet" suddenly had more pressing obligations, the honor came to me. I gleefully accepted before I realized there were only three weeks before auditions.
This was when I had my Alec Guiness, "What have I done?" moment.
But it's theater, so everything will work out somehow. We all believe this because the only realist in theater is the treasurer who can be found in a dimly lit back room. She's the one banging her head against the wall wailing, "They can't do that!"
I have done "low-budget" theater since I was 13 and was still completely unprepared for this. I have learned to love the word "free." I now cringe every time someone begins a sentence with, "Oh, by the way É"
Our budget for this show is $1,500. The scripts and royalty fees promptly eat up $647.47. Out of the remaining $852.53, I must build a set, costume the cast, publicize the show, and find a cure for cancer without giving one red cent to any human being connected with the production. Not a problem.
Oh, by the way, the set is being built at Dreamweaver's, and then moved (through a space the size of your front door) to Vintage High School. This means we will also have to find a way to keep the show from being viewed as a high school play.
"Ah'll think about it tomorrow, when Ah can stand it."
Oh, by the way, the lighting boards at Vintage are antiquated. Everything should work fine for opening night but after that, the boards will start going out in the middle of performances. Well, it's a ghost story, so we'll work it in somehow.
Oh, by the way, "Call Board" didn't print the audition notice. Fine, I'll drag in an old friend from the city for one role and cast my sound designer as the lead.
After four weeks of walking around with my phone strapped to my head, I have an incredible cast of real estate agents and dot-commies who take direction with the ease of power steering; a set design and build team who are knocking themselves out every minute we aren't rehearsing; a sound guy at my beck and call; a producer with the patience of Job;and a light genius who says, "Thy will be done," then vanishes into thin air. My stage manager is a charming little Goth girl who is undaunted by the thought of keeping me together. She also has half the cast and crew slobbering in their boots.
In theater there are two things you don't say out loud. You never speak the name of that Scottish tragedy that begins with the letter "M" because your show will be cursed. And you Never, Never, Never ask, "What next?" because five minutes later you'll find out.
Here's what was next. My Philistine boss fired me. I have left a pack of jobs and been laid off a couple through downsizing, but I have never before been fired. Fine. Now I have to be ready to teach people to be funny in two hours, and my attitude needs some serious adjustment.
So I call my set designer, we meet for a coupla brews, and crack jokes about starting a Homeless Community Theatre.
We have a plan. We will hijack a dumpster, motorize it, paint "Cardboard Only" on the side, and drive from lot to lot surreptitiously collecting set material. We will write grants and get wads of money, which will all go to administration and the search committee because we won't have anywhere to actually put on a show because we're homeless. We'll be rich. All is well, and it doesn't matter today that I will lose my house in a couple of weeks. So long as I can pretend it's happening to someone else? It's Comedy!
Here is the director's curse: If the show is a hit, it's because the actors are great, but if the show is a dog, it's because the director is an idiot. The show only belongs to the director until the curtain goes up, so the director better make sure the actors land on their feet instead of their faces.
Some days the most difficult part of being a director is keeping your mouth shut. Today half the cast needs to be sacked. They still don't know their lines. Not one of them has listened to a word of my character direction. And he keeps doing that thing with his hand!
And the set. Oh, my God! Yesterday when I wasn't looking, they sucked 8 square feet of acting space into techie oblivion. Now I have to re-block (this foot goes here, smile, sit leap) an entire scene!
But I can't roar, and I can't throw a fit, and I can't stomp out in a fit of pique because they are all stepping away from their work and their families and their chores to do all of this out of love. In their offices they are master painters with broken fingers. They are stockbrokers with crashed computers. They are people with gifts and desires rendered useless and thwarted by the dread "day job" so they can pay the rent.
So I keep my frustration to myself. I go home and try to think of a better way to communicate with them. I go to rehearsal the next night with a new game plan that involves a lot of wheedling, cajoling, and, yes, begging.
But the set crew was in again today. It looks, well -- amazing! There was a reason they built into the actors' space, and this set will be a masterpiece! Now my whole attitude has improved, and rehearsal begins. They still call out for lines but the characters -- they were listening! They just needed to go home and let it sink in. And he isn't doing that thing with his hand half as much tonight. Saint Genesius be praised.
There is a sword fight in the show, but I would have a difficult time calling it "violent." Come see it and you'll understand. It was choreographed, then re-choreographed after the set change, by Rick Pallaziol. This man has a real business (Weapons of Choice), making real money, and came to our rescue for free. I can choreograph a brawl, but give me a blade and my fencing training demands pain be inflicted on someone. Usually myself, but that's beside the point (no pun intended).
Rich incorporated my cheeseball comedy bits into the fight and added a few of his own. He has spent hours of his time with me and the guys and even replaced a broken blade without flinching. He is a joy to work with even if he can't get my last name right. (Rick, it's not Harrison.)
Big costume pow-wow. he three costumes that need to be "built" are decided on. (Real costumers rarely use the mundane verb "sew") I am less than ecstatic but that's because I have built so many period costumes myself I have become a costume snob.
Other costume snobs will come to the show and snicker at me or wince in actual physical pain. They don't have my budget, and since I recently destroyed my third sewing machine, I must "depend on the kindness of strangers."
The next day I remember the script demands codpieces. "Hamlet" was a medieval piece, and the codpiece fashion fiasco didn't occur for another 200 years! I throw a small fit of aggravation at the playwright in the privacy of my own home, catch myself being a temperamental artist, and banish myself to the back yard for a much needed dog-break. I decide to change the time period and hope the costume-snobs and the anachronism snobs don't start a gang war in the lobby.
Actually, if you knew these people, you'd envision the potential hilarity in such a clash. Once I explained it, my dog thought it was a riot, but he's easily amused. I'd call my favorite, self-proclaimed, costume-fairy but God took him early and I know he's in heaven giggling his silly little head off at me. I miss you, Nicky. Send help. OK, Nicky, I'll quit whining and do them myself.
One good thing about being unemployed is that I have time to skank free stuff. The board is puzzled. "How did you do that?" Well, I called and asked. Three particularly generous local merchants are Lori from Silverado Furniture, Honor from President Tuxedo, and Scott from Carpet 1. (And gosh, one of those carpets would look awfully nice on my floor after the show Éhint, hint É no? Ah, well)
This idea has never occurred to the board. I find this odd. I even wrote to Mr. Coppolla to ask if he might have a suit of armor standing around not doing anything. He didn't, and I know this because the next day he had someone call to say they had looked. Now the board jokes about my letters and phone calls. They won't laugh so hard when they see how much we've done with so little. Hah! Neener, Neener, Neenest. OK, I'll be a little over budget, but part of my costs will be absorbed by "Dracula," and it'll be close.
The set is falling behind schedule. The Shakespeare Festival sucked up half the tech folk in the valley, and the other half are teenagers being sent to camp by their thoughtless parents. I get a job in Marin, and the commute is like crossing the Great Wall of China on a pogo stick. I am living a life of vaguely controlled panic. But theater is wonderful, and I'll tell you why.
One night after a particularly evil commute, I drove to rehearsal unable to think about anything but the colossal amount of hair that slithered down the shower drain that morning. I could've constructed an entire Pekinese from it. I drag my file box and the weight of the world in with me and unlock the theater door. It's dark, as usual, but on the far side of the set there are now glorious stained glass windows, romantically backlit. A gift of beauty from the set builders. A moment of charm that will never occur in an office. I leave it that way, backlit in the darkness, for the cast. Presents like this need to be shared.
The show is two weeks from opening. This is moving day, so by the time this goes to print some of you may recall some strange looking things traveling the streets of Napa. The next two weeks will be non-stop chaos, so I have to finish this now.
We need another week of rehearsal that we don't have. I shouldn't say that. I always want one more week. These people will be wonderful, and the audience will laugh their heads off. I still laugh and I know the show by heart I've seen it so much. You know these people. They work for you, live next door to you, shop at your market, go to school with you. They are Joe Adams, Debbie Baumann, Annette Bosque, Bryce Byerley, Matthew Cowell, and Amber Price. They do their jobs every day, cleverly disguised as mundane members of the common masses, but at night, they have super powers. They race to the nearest phone booth and suddenly become Helen Hayes, Tommy Tune, John Geilgud, Lawrence Olivier and all the Barrymores. They save the dejected and laugh deprived from a night of boredom and domestic squabbles. They spirit you away from the sad tidings of the world and take you to a place where all is sparkling wit and hilarity. And their reward is knowing they did so.
We know that the theater is made up of sawdust and spangles and dreams. All the stress in the world cannot deter us from building and struggling to get that monologue down and sewing until the wee hours of the morning.
Why? You'll get different words from any one of us you ask, but we will all be saying, "Because we have to. It's in our souls. It's the best present we can give you, and we hope you enjoy it. And thank you for your gracious acceptance."
From the Napa Register's website - © 2000, Pulitzer Newspapers, Inc.
