Some theatre lessons are harder than others

Oy! I need to get my laptop up and running and write on stuff other than this blog!  This is ridiculous!  Updating almost daily!  Unheard of!  But writing is apparently part of my sanity-maintenance self-treatment plan.

Anyway.*sigh*

New theatre experience last night that I need to process (aka write through): I got yelled at by the director.  And most everything she said was valid.  So it was mostly deserved, I guess. We did reach somewhat of an understanding, but I'm still stressing.  Someday I'll have more experience, and I'll know how to avoid situations like this, or at least not take it so much to heart when they arise. But as I'm still very new, still growing that thick skin, it's stressful and disheartening. Which means... I have to write.  Just the act of writing is cathartic, and ordinarily that's all I need, but I'm gonna go ahead and publish this for those who find my blog through google, looking for theatre information. Some lessons are harder than others, and maybe reading about someone else's struggle will help another newbie.

All the things I didn't, couldn't say last night...

Dear Director,
When I first thought about auditioning for Fiddler, and thought about what roles I could write in the "What role are you auditioning for?" spot, I wasn't sure I could even hope to be Yente.  Every production of Fiddler I've ever seen has had a movie Yente.  I figured it was written into the script that Yente was old and hobbling.  So I researched a bit. Google Books has the 1964 script, IBDB has information on the original production. And discovered that the role was originated by a young, able-bodied Bea Arthur and I sang 'Halelujia!'. I could maybe be a younger, brasher Yente!  So I auditioned.

AND I GOT THE PART!  And I sang 'Halelujia!' again because I thought "Hey! The directors are open to a younger Yente! Can I hear a what-what? Woo-hoo!"  I dove into channeling Bea, discovering that young, brash Yente in the 1964 photo. No cane, no age makeup.

And then... before we'd run a single line... you told me I must have a cane.

I was so disappointed.  But I nodded and said okay, and even found a cane to practice with, brought it to rehearsal.  I adjusted the character to accommodate.   Perhaps Yente didn't need a cane, but used it more as a status symbol and sometimes weapon.  Okay, I thought. No big deal.

Then you told me I needed to USE the cane more. Hobble.  And I explained that I thought my Yente didn't need a cane, but used it more as a status symbol and sometimes weapon.  You shook your head and set your jaw. Nope.

So I used the cane more. Hobbled a bit.

You told me I should 'forget' the cane when I stood up.  As directed I 'forgot' the cane when I stood up.  You got frustrated with me and told me I needed to hunch, and grab my back, "Oy, my sciatica!", if I was going to leave the cane behind.  In my head I was thinking, "You TOLD me to leave the cane behind!" as my heart was breaking a little because my Yente, the Yente I had hoped to be, was flushed down the toilet with those words. But what I verbally took issue with was the hunch. Something inane about my height. It was silly, I know. But the hunch was for me the death of a youthful Yente. So I retrieved the cane and tried to at least follow exactly the directions you had given but I was flustered and my lines were shot. You said speak up, I said I'll be miked. And bam. In that moment I could sense that I had just become 'that' castmember. The difficult one. The one who has an excuse for everything, that doesn't want to play well with others.  I choked back a sob when I got off stage. Again, silly, I know.

On Tuesday I did my best to hunch and hobble and incorporate every stage direction you'd given. Then I came off stage and my double relayed to me the message about arriving early on Wednesday to go over Yente stuff. The fact that she told me about it and not you (even though you had opportunity) alarmed me. I stressed the entire drive home. All night long. All morning Wednesday. My thoughts: I'm obviously not hunching and hobbling enough. I can't hunch and hobble and move quickly. I suck at being the 'standard' Yente. I don't want to be the 'movie' Yente!! If people want the movie Yente, they can pull her up on YouTube for free anytime they want!  People come to Plaza to see fresh, innovative live theatre!

So I sent you an email early in the day, asking you to give me the opportunity to play Yente more as I think Bea Arthur did.

And last night you were upset. Upset that I had emailed, rather than talk to you in person. I'm a writer; I communicate best with written words.  Upset that I had thrown history at you. I included some historical information so you would know that I'd done some research into it, and wasn't just asking on a whim or to be difficult, not because I thought you didn't already know.  I apologized rather than explain, because I didn't want to prove right there that I was indeed 'that' castmember.

Yes, I should have talked to you weeks ago, in person.  Should have pulled you aside and fully discussed my view of Yente when it became apparent that our views weren't the same. Instead I tried to meld our views. Because here's the thing: You intimidate me. It's not a usual thing, so I'm a little unsure of how to effectively BE intimidated. You've spent the last 40+ years on stage, running theatres, directing shows, living theatre, and raising amazingly talented theatre kids who in turn are raising amazingly talented theatre kids. You've played Yente!  I've spent most of the last 30 years simply wishing I could be on stage. Wistfully attending plays. Wistfully reading plays. I'm new to this, and still unsure of myself despite outward appearances. And when you yell at others for screwing up, I cower just a smidge inside. Outside of being costumed for Annie and working with your family, I don't know you, what to expect from you. From my view, you have very definite ideas about what you envision and what you expect. End of story. I felt it was my responsibility as an actor to meet your expectations and do my part to make your vision happen. If anything was negotiable, I couldn't tell.

I thank you for allowing me to give a younger Yente a shot, though I can tell through your expressions and body language during rehearsal last night that you are not happy about it. It's not how you envisioned; it's not how you played her. But thank you for letting me try, anyway.  After seeing the daughters mimic Yente in the Matchmaker number, I'm thinking perhaps the cane might be necessary, but more as a scepter for the uncontested Matchmaker rather than a physical crutch. Today I am working on milking the comedy while standing straight and tall. And despite the whiny, high-maintenance tone of this post (I apologize), I'm confident I will succeed, at least for audiences.

Stacey