Readings, writings, and pourings of wine.

I'm getting a bit painfully aware that my blogatrons of late have been rather thesp-centric, and for those who care not about the theatre, all I can say is, well gto back to watching porn then, and stop trying to distract yourself from life by listening to my ramblings. My internship (which, i've just realised, i have basically failed to mention at all.. wow.. what the hell have I been going on about for 20 bloody posts? Oh yes. Squirrels and that.) Anyway, my internship is theatre, at some point I was going to have to get round to talking about it, and anyway I'm not actually really going to talk about it so stop being so bloody mardy and put the kettle on.

Right. So theatre. Tonight I was working at my venue (its the chocolate factory in queens, if any of you are popping by later), sort of ish co-managing the evening's reading of a play called 'The Verge'., By co-managing, I obviously mean that me and another girl got wine ready for the intermission, I gave some bits of paper to the very serious girl behind the box office, and I sort of looked at all the actors in a superior and very British type way. Of course, when I talk about this to future employers, the story may be a little different. Possibly may involve me wearing a suit and putting out a fire, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it eh?

Now. 'The Verge'. I'd had a little look at the blurby blurb, and it said something about it being about a woman who makes genetically modified frighening plants in a greenhouse. Oh God. And it was a reading. There wasn't even going to be any shiny movement. As I took my seat, I was imagining the next two hours to consist of a very wordy version of The Little Shop Of Horrors, with all the songs and dancemoves edited out to get to the real crux of the tragic tale. I'd nicked a glass of intermission wine(/'I'd check all the fire exits and safety prosecures'-as this tale goes on record) and was prepared to drink away the proceeding time with the logic that, if they weren't going to move, my wine could at least make them wobble. I took a sip as the lights came up. A man stood, walked to a music stand, at procceeded to talk in the WORST fake British accent possibly I have ever heard. Why is it that Americans 'doing' British seem to think that by making their voices higher, gayer and clipped to the point where you can barely make out their words, they magically transform into someone from Surrey? I took another glug. Oh lord, two hours, I thought.

However. Then something very magical happened. He sat down (that wasn't the magical thing, but it was a bloody relief all the same), a new character arrived and suddenly, I was gone. The play was brilliant. In the simplest terms, it was a very wordy-my favourite type-play about a woman who wants so desperately and so deeply, to stretch for possibilities outside what exists, that the prospect of actually achieving what she wants the most ends up disgusting her. In becoming achievable, they lose any semblance of wonder, and trapped in this paradox she ultimately falls apart. This kind of thinking gets me going in a big way. It was horrible, it was beautiful, it was bizarre, and it was funny. The Verge. I've never heard of it, but then, I've heard of about 7 plays- 6 of which I've been in and the other is 'Hedda Gabbler'. Maybe you have. But I bloody bloody freakin loved it. I was utterly absorbed, and these actors were reading from scripts, dressed in jeans and stuttering occasionally over their words. It just didn't matter. I don't even know who wrote it. I could literally just google it now but dammit i'm in a flow and nothing short of a massive need for a wee could stop me now.

So anyway, the point is, it was lovely to be absorbed in something for a change. AND, it was even lovelier to watch something knowing that I didn't know anyone in it, that I hadn't paid, that there was no pressure for it to be good or for me to say interesting and intelligent things about it afterwards. I mean, who was I going to discuss it with? The man next to me on the subway home was a bit too fast asleep to begin a conversation. But it was nice. Refreshing, and kind of surprising.

OH though. There was a BRILLIANT old woman who came to see it, old and grouchy in a 'help me up the stairs for god sake' kind of way. She had never seen anything by the company before, a flyer had just come through her letterbox and on a whim she had decided to come. Which is amazing, and made all of us working there want to be very nice to her in a kind of 'oh look how justififed your decision was' kind of way. The director of the company even, the 'pay no attention to the man behind the curtain' gentleman behind it all even paid her special attention, which was no small achievement. I knew she was brilliant the moment she turned to David (the director) and said 'So. 'Target Margin'. Strange name for a company. Do you have any link with the 'Target' Stores.' Now the momentary disgust and panic on David's face, immediately washed away by a jovial and highly amused smile was a thing of beauty. You have to understand. For him, that question was basically the equivelant of someone asking Peter Brook whether the 'S' in RSC was the same one as in DFS. It was brilliant. I decided to usher her swiftly to her seat, where she muttered that the actors 'better speak up' as she could tell that 'the acoustics in this room are awful'. She stole a quick look at me as if i was going to have a small heart attack at her using the word 'acoustics', and then added 'my son, is an actor.'
'Oh,' I said politely, 'thats amazing!'
'A BRILLIANT actor', she said fiercely.
I wondered that I had accidently said 'yeah but he's shit', instead of 'that's amazing'.
'I often help him with his voicework.'
'mmmm' I said, 'yes well we're about to start I think so-'
'Its all about the WORDS you see. If you can't here the words-
the light started to go down
'yes, yes, but I think the reading is about to
'You don't mess with Shakespeare! Do you know what I'm telling you?'
I nodded in a very silent way, and smiled a smile that I hoped signified 'that is all fascinating, I do hope to continue this later, but now is the time for being quiet, yes?' it was quite a lot for a smile to achieve in ever approaching darkness, but still.

So the first act happened, and I got up to prepare the wine in a post first act-y glow. The woman shifted over to me, attracted obviously to my youthful optimism, and perhaps slightly more to the bottle of red wine in my hand. I poured her a glass and smiled, 'are you enjoying the play?'
She looked at me as if I'd asked a ridiculous question.
'Do you know how many of them I can hear?'
She was on the front row. The actors were maybe 2 and a half feet away from her.
'erm... well, i, i dont know-'
'Two. Two of them. The rest of them, they dont know how to speak.'
'oh. Oh dear.'
'Can you hear them?' She looked at me in a way that told me I could definately not.
'Well, I... I can hear most of it, I mean..' I paused, I wasn't sure how to say politely that the the only bits I couldn't hear were the silent bits.
'HA!' she motioned for some more wine, 'They don't know how to BREATHE. My son,' she looked up again, 'he's an actor,'
'yes you menti-'
he's an ACTOR, and do you know, he was Puck once. Puck. In Midsummer.'
I fought back the automatic catty Tash response of 'oh really? Summer is lovely to perform in! Which play was it?' and instead said 'oh yes?'
'yes. Puck. One of my favourite plays, you know. And there was one scene, in rehearsal, where he FLEW, Flew across the stage and when he landed, he couldn't say a single word, he was so out of breath'.
It occured to me to ask how she knew this, if it was in rehearsal, but she was way ahead of me,
'I like to go to his rehearsals, you know. To check he is breathing properly, to make sure everything can be heard.'
I felt a sudden deep pity for this poor boy, and wondered whether acting was what he always dreamt of, whether in fact he'd dreamt of being a train driver, but his mother had assured him that the breathing for it was just far too difficult for him to even attempt... realising I was in a bit of a self haze, I hastily asked,
'oh well, erm, what scene was it?'
'what?'
'whats scene was the scene where he had to fly?'
She waved away the question with disgust
'Oh I don't know what it was! But he couldn't say a word. But I helped him. And by the peformance, every word, EVERY word was perfect.' She beamed, and took some more wine. 'But THIS show, i mean, can't hear a thing. Terrible breathing, you know.'
'Oh, well, I'm so sorry, maybe I could have a word with the director-'
She gulped and shook her head, 'Oh i already found her. She knows. I've told her to tell her cast for the second act.'
Its nice to be a helpful audience member. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my co-manager girl give me the signal that the second act was starting. Determined not to be caught grinning and nodding into the darkness this time around, I began to usher this pillar of womanhood back to her seat. 'You know what the problem is today with people seeing theatre?' I assured her I didn't, as I pointed quite firmly at the seat in front of me. ''the problem is,' she plonked herself back down into the chair and stared up at me with finality, waving her empty glass into the space around her, 'audiences, are getting ignorent-er and ignorent-er'.
On this bombshell, and with the lights dimming, all i could do was nod and grin (dammit), the much louder second act began, and all thoughts beyond that of non musical little shop of horrors floated away from me. Until now of course. What a night. I also saw a very cool looking man with dredlocks walk into a pillar on the way back, but frankly I'm a little tired, my brain is full, and I need a wee. And nothing can tear me from that call, I'm afraid. Safe to say, it was amusing in the most basic and shameful way possible. And with that, I will leave you. goodnight, and try to keep breathing. Apparently its tricker than it looks.