The final tech rehearsal. This time the fart is timed perfectly. The music cues, on the other hand, still need some work.
Herb, Ginny and I, as agreed, arrive early to practice a bit more what I laughingly refer to as choreography. Jean, who plays the mayor, wanders over and says she thinks it’s a real shame our song was so brutally curtailed. It is, she says, one of the best things in the show. We, of course, agree completely, but are far too humble to say so. (It is, after all, the only “big” moment Dino/Herb and Sammy/I have in the show.)
At the break between rehearsing act one and act two, Ginny excitedly informs me that there is some sort of back room (back stage?) lobbying of the director going on to get our song reinstated in its entirety. Turns out we really aren’t the only ones who feel cheated. Watch this space.
We rehearse act two, including our bows and exit. The first bow is taken by the four villagers (who have absolutely no lines), the second bow by Herb and me, the third by the mayor and Muddle, the fourth by Scurvy and the Rat King, the fifth by Widow Wobbly and Pickle, the sixth by the Piper, the final by Rattles and Daisy.
The director (noticing for the first time how ridiculously small the stage is?) feels something must be done about how crowded it looks by the end of the bows. Her solution? The villagers, Herb and I must take a step back after our bows to allow the rest of the cast to spread out in front of us. Well, that’s me put in my place. (If I wasn't really genuinely humble earlier, I am now.)
Full dress and make-up rehearsal tonight. (And last chance for reinstatement of full rendition of That’s Amore.)
Tomorrow my “fans” (ha, ha) arrive to attend Friday’s opening night.
Gulp.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Timing the fart
Our first rehearsal at the community hall where the panto will be performed. Ginny comments that if she ever wins the lottery she will give them the money to build a proper stage. I understand what she means: the stage is tiny.
For the first time I truly appreciate the sets which were designed for previous pantos.
Last year’s production of Scrooge.
Somehow they managed to give the sense of a full-sized stage. It ain’t.
The space for the stage had been marked out with tape on the floor of the rehearsal room, so I suppose I should have had some sense that there would not be much room to move around, but tape isn’t walls. Now there are walls. Yikes. It’s a tight squeeze.
Tonight is a technical rehearsal: lights, sound effects and music. The Rat King’s fart comes in a bit late, which is very funny for the cast watching, but needs to be corrected before Friday.
Man, the lights are bright. Nancy comments on this when she does her entrance as Muddles. Despite this warning, I’m wishing I had sunglasses on when I walk onstage.
Disaster struck last week after the full play rehearsal ran well over: our song has been cut. Not completely, but drastically shortened. Scurvy, Rat 1 and I all agree this is a shame. It is actually one of the best songs in the show. Better, we feel, to keep it in its entirety and cut something else. (Let’s be honest: What exactly does Daisy’s rendering of “I Can See Clearly Now” bring to the party? Not much. Meow.)
Not only is it disappointing, but the shorter version has thrown off our fancy footwork. We do not need the director to tell us we need to go back to the http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifchoreography drawing board – although she does. More work required last minute. How will we remember new steps? (Well, I say “steps”, but, as previously noted, it’s more swaying with a little shuffle.)
We agree amongst ourselves to come in a bit early tomorrow to practice. Somehow, I tell myself, it will be all right on the night. (And if it’s not, I’m sure Darryl and Morag will let me know.)
Two more rehearsals to go, including full dress and make-up rehearsal. Then a night off.
Then the show must go on.
For the first time I truly appreciate the sets which were designed for previous pantos.
Last year’s production of Scrooge.
Somehow they managed to give the sense of a full-sized stage. It ain’t.
The space for the stage had been marked out with tape on the floor of the rehearsal room, so I suppose I should have had some sense that there would not be much room to move around, but tape isn’t walls. Now there are walls. Yikes. It’s a tight squeeze.
Tonight is a technical rehearsal: lights, sound effects and music. The Rat King’s fart comes in a bit late, which is very funny for the cast watching, but needs to be corrected before Friday.
Man, the lights are bright. Nancy comments on this when she does her entrance as Muddles. Despite this warning, I’m wishing I had sunglasses on when I walk onstage.
Disaster struck last week after the full play rehearsal ran well over: our song has been cut. Not completely, but drastically shortened. Scurvy, Rat 1 and I all agree this is a shame. It is actually one of the best songs in the show. Better, we feel, to keep it in its entirety and cut something else. (Let’s be honest: What exactly does Daisy’s rendering of “I Can See Clearly Now” bring to the party? Not much. Meow.)
Not only is it disappointing, but the shorter version has thrown off our fancy footwork. We do not need the director to tell us we need to go back to the http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifchoreography drawing board – although she does. More work required last minute. How will we remember new steps? (Well, I say “steps”, but, as previously noted, it’s more swaying with a little shuffle.)
We agree amongst ourselves to come in a bit early tomorrow to practice. Somehow, I tell myself, it will be all right on the night. (And if it’s not, I’m sure Darryl and Morag will let me know.)
Two more rehearsals to go, including full dress and make-up rehearsal. Then a night off.
Then the show must go on.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Dressed for success
A couple of missed rehearsals as I take my stinking cold to Vancouver for birthday celebrations. Not quite the same as hopping on the Eurostar for a weekend in Paris (as I used to do when I lived in London), but staying with my friend Krys (in town for a conference) at the lovely and surprisingly continental Sylvia Hotel is a very close second.
An excellent exhibition and a couple of films add to the feeling of getting away to the big city.
But the best thing is, of course, spending time with lovely friends.
Back on Gabriola, an e-mail informs me that we will be rehearsing all of act one in costume.
Mine (sorry, no photo) is a trenchcoat, white shirt, bow tie and fedora, complete with rat ears. (Happily, the furry legs seem to have fallen by the wayside.) Certainly not the greatest challenge facing our excellent costume department.
They’ve gone to town on Sonia’s Widow Wobbly ensemble.
Michael’s not entirely sure why Rattles is wearing lederhosen, but, oddly enough, it works.
Herb and I may have escaped the furry legs, but Ginny’s General Scurvy gets ’em. Rather her than me.
And Jean’s Mayor Stevens is coming along nicely.
Did I mention that out of eight male roles all but two are actually being played by females? I’d say it was a deliberate piece of panto gender bending, but it truly is a case of needs must. For whatever reason, 90% of the Gabriola Players are women. (Makes finding plays a bit of a challenge.)
So, we’re all costumed up and the rehearsal begins. A considerable reduction since last week in the number of times people have said “Line” to the prompter, which speeds things up to slightly longer than we want act one to be. People need to pick up the pace a bit.
We await the director’s verdict. She wants to run through two of the scenes again.
Neither of the scenes involve the rats. Yes! Ginny, Herb and I exchange high fives. The rats continue to be perfect. (Well, more or perhaps less.)
Next rehearsal is all of act two, in all of which Herb and I share a one-word line. I think we can probably manage it.
Thursday we will be doing the full play.
And then we move to the actual venue for technical and dress rehearsals.
Oh, my god. It’s coming up fast.
An excellent exhibition and a couple of films add to the feeling of getting away to the big city.
But the best thing is, of course, spending time with lovely friends.
Back on Gabriola, an e-mail informs me that we will be rehearsing all of act one in costume.
Mine (sorry, no photo) is a trenchcoat, white shirt, bow tie and fedora, complete with rat ears. (Happily, the furry legs seem to have fallen by the wayside.) Certainly not the greatest challenge facing our excellent costume department.
They’ve gone to town on Sonia’s Widow Wobbly ensemble.
Michael’s not entirely sure why Rattles is wearing lederhosen, but, oddly enough, it works.
Herb and I may have escaped the furry legs, but Ginny’s General Scurvy gets ’em. Rather her than me.
And Jean’s Mayor Stevens is coming along nicely.
Did I mention that out of eight male roles all but two are actually being played by females? I’d say it was a deliberate piece of panto gender bending, but it truly is a case of needs must. For whatever reason, 90% of the Gabriola Players are women. (Makes finding plays a bit of a challenge.)
So, we’re all costumed up and the rehearsal begins. A considerable reduction since last week in the number of times people have said “Line” to the prompter, which speeds things up to slightly longer than we want act one to be. People need to pick up the pace a bit.
We await the director’s verdict. She wants to run through two of the scenes again.
Neither of the scenes involve the rats. Yes! Ginny, Herb and I exchange high fives. The rats continue to be perfect. (Well, more or perhaps less.)
Next rehearsal is all of act two, in all of which Herb and I share a one-word line. I think we can probably manage it.
Thursday we will be doing the full play.
And then we move to the actual venue for technical and dress rehearsals.
Oh, my god. It’s coming up fast.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
What’s in a name?
Apologies for lack of updates recently. Facebook friends will know I have been smitten with the cold from hell. (After wondering for some days where the hell the chicken soup fairy is when you really need her, I discover she’s in Belgium, so no bloody use to me.) The cold drags on and on. It’s as much as I can do to haul myself to rehearsals (where I am semi-quarantined by other cast, fearful of catching my lurgy). Rest of the time spent under a quilt on the sofa feeling sorry for myself and rewatching The Wire. (Every cloud has a silver lining…) Lemsip with whisky helps, but nothing kills the cold.
So, let me see if my phlegm-soaked brain can summon up some panto highlights.
(Slight detour as the word phlegm coming so soon after a mention of Belgium reminds me of the excellent Monty Python Prejudice Game sketch.)
Anyway…
It is in the lead up to our first rehearsal of the panto’s long final scene when Herb and I finally find our shtick. We appear halfway through the scene and between us share one one-word line. In response to the Piper yelling “Rats!” when he realises we have escaped, we reply “What?” Not a lot to work with, and yet suddenly it becomes obvious to us: We’re the Rat Pack, right? So, of course our response should be a rat packish shrug and a somewhat insolent “What?”
The first run through we do our big shrug “What?” Big laugh. Well, reasonably big. Enough to let us know we’re on to something. How has it taken so long? Never mind channeling Del Boy or Arthur Daley. I am, of course, Dean Martin personified. Sorted.
Well, not quite. At the next rehearsal, Jean, who plays Mayor Stevens, asks if my character has a name. No, I tell her, Herb and I are simply Rat 1 and Rat 2. Oh, no, you aren’t, says Jean in true panto fashion. She insists we must have names and decides I will be Sammy and Herb will be Dino. Sammy? I want to be Dino. No, no, no, says Jean. Herb’s the tall one, I’m the short one, ergo he is Dino and I am Sammy. Well, I can’t fault her logic, so Sammy it is.
While we’re in the rehearsal room wowing them with the fancy footwork for our big number (well, okay, it’s more like semi-synchronised swaying), the make-up artists are busy in the back room. Having used me as the guinea rat, they are now taking on the challenge of using the basic formula to create variations. Although Daisy does have to look like a rat, she also has to look at least a little bit pretty.
These people may be amateurs, but they’re bloody good at what they do.
The next challenge is creating make up for BJ's doddery old Rat King. Again, bloody brilliant.
There are certain characters it is already clear will be scene stealers. Sonia's Widow Wobbly is quite endearing - and we haven't even seen her wobbly costume yet. Ginny's General Scurvy is also going to be a hit. And then there's BJ. The Rat King voice is good, but it's the facial expressions she comes up with which are truly hysterical. I don't know how far back the audience will be able to see these, but those who do will be howling with laughter.
Yes, it's all coming together nicely.
Or so I think until we have our first off-book rehearsal of act one. One of the most frequently uttered words is "Line", addressed to the prompter. So, not as off-book as we're supposed to be. Rather a lot of fluffing of lines, too. Oh, dear. Not to worry, says Ginny. There is apparently always one rehearsal during which everything goes wrong. It seems this is it. (How smug are Ginny, BJ, Herb and I when the only two scenes Jenny does not want to repeat are the ones we’re not in? Pretty bloody smug, truth be told.)
Three weeks to go. Yikes.
So, let me see if my phlegm-soaked brain can summon up some panto highlights.
(Slight detour as the word phlegm coming so soon after a mention of Belgium reminds me of the excellent Monty Python Prejudice Game sketch.)
Anyway…
It is in the lead up to our first rehearsal of the panto’s long final scene when Herb and I finally find our shtick. We appear halfway through the scene and between us share one one-word line. In response to the Piper yelling “Rats!” when he realises we have escaped, we reply “What?” Not a lot to work with, and yet suddenly it becomes obvious to us: We’re the Rat Pack, right? So, of course our response should be a rat packish shrug and a somewhat insolent “What?”
The first run through we do our big shrug “What?” Big laugh. Well, reasonably big. Enough to let us know we’re on to something. How has it taken so long? Never mind channeling Del Boy or Arthur Daley. I am, of course, Dean Martin personified. Sorted.
Well, not quite. At the next rehearsal, Jean, who plays Mayor Stevens, asks if my character has a name. No, I tell her, Herb and I are simply Rat 1 and Rat 2. Oh, no, you aren’t, says Jean in true panto fashion. She insists we must have names and decides I will be Sammy and Herb will be Dino. Sammy? I want to be Dino. No, no, no, says Jean. Herb’s the tall one, I’m the short one, ergo he is Dino and I am Sammy. Well, I can’t fault her logic, so Sammy it is.
While we’re in the rehearsal room wowing them with the fancy footwork for our big number (well, okay, it’s more like semi-synchronised swaying), the make-up artists are busy in the back room. Having used me as the guinea rat, they are now taking on the challenge of using the basic formula to create variations. Although Daisy does have to look like a rat, she also has to look at least a little bit pretty.
These people may be amateurs, but they’re bloody good at what they do.
The next challenge is creating make up for BJ's doddery old Rat King. Again, bloody brilliant.
There are certain characters it is already clear will be scene stealers. Sonia's Widow Wobbly is quite endearing - and we haven't even seen her wobbly costume yet. Ginny's General Scurvy is also going to be a hit. And then there's BJ. The Rat King voice is good, but it's the facial expressions she comes up with which are truly hysterical. I don't know how far back the audience will be able to see these, but those who do will be howling with laughter.
Yes, it's all coming together nicely.
Or so I think until we have our first off-book rehearsal of act one. One of the most frequently uttered words is "Line", addressed to the prompter. So, not as off-book as we're supposed to be. Rather a lot of fluffing of lines, too. Oh, dear. Not to worry, says Ginny. There is apparently always one rehearsal during which everything goes wrong. It seems this is it. (How smug are Ginny, BJ, Herb and I when the only two scenes Jenny does not want to repeat are the ones we’re not in? Pretty bloody smug, truth be told.)
Three weeks to go. Yikes.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Totally made up
A major role change for me tonight. Instead of playing Rat 2, I am to be Guinea Rat, the first of the rodents to be transformed into character by the Gabriola Players make-up artists.
An image of rat make-up has been found and downloaded from the internet. The challenge now is to figure out how to recreate the image onto an actor. (Oh, get me. An actor.)
Taking the lead is Maddie, who starts off whitening my face as the other five watch and take notes.
Then there’s adding the rat cheek definition.
Then comes the challenge of giving me a ratty red nose and turning my upper lip into rat teeth. Coming along nicely.
The make-up photo from which Maddie is working does not include whiskers, but Jenny, the director, is quite insistent that whiskers are required. Maddie draws them on.
This, it is agreed by all, is a disaster. The whiskers are drawing away from the lines defining my rat teeth. Time to bring Jenny in from the rehearsal for an opinion. One side whiskers, one side not. She can see the problem, but she still wants whiskers.
Maddie tries adding much smaller whiskers. Compromise wins the day. We’re done.
Oops. Turns out no one has brought any cold cream. How to remove the make-up? Not to worry, I say, I’ll do it at home.
Come home, surprised make-up does not frighten cat. Apply Body Shop face wash to face. Yikes. At least 90% of make-up is still on face. Wash it again. 75% of make-up still on. Wash face again. And again. And again. Fill wastebasket with cotton balls. Make-up eventually gone.
Note to self: Buy some cold cream.
An image of rat make-up has been found and downloaded from the internet. The challenge now is to figure out how to recreate the image onto an actor. (Oh, get me. An actor.)
Taking the lead is Maddie, who starts off whitening my face as the other five watch and take notes.
Then there’s adding the rat cheek definition.
Then comes the challenge of giving me a ratty red nose and turning my upper lip into rat teeth. Coming along nicely.
The make-up photo from which Maddie is working does not include whiskers, but Jenny, the director, is quite insistent that whiskers are required. Maddie draws them on.
This, it is agreed by all, is a disaster. The whiskers are drawing away from the lines defining my rat teeth. Time to bring Jenny in from the rehearsal for an opinion. One side whiskers, one side not. She can see the problem, but she still wants whiskers.
Maddie tries adding much smaller whiskers. Compromise wins the day. We’re done.
Oops. Turns out no one has brought any cold cream. How to remove the make-up? Not to worry, I say, I’ll do it at home.
Come home, surprised make-up does not frighten cat. Apply Body Shop face wash to face. Yikes. At least 90% of make-up is still on face. Wash it again. 75% of make-up still on. Wash face again. And again. And again. Fill wastebasket with cotton balls. Make-up eventually gone.
Note to self: Buy some cold cream.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Doing choreography
I’m not sure what it is I’m doing in the scene where Herb (Rat 1) and I are called upon to remove Rattles and Daisy from the Rat King’s presence, but it gets a laugh every time, so obviously I’m on to something. I don’t suppose I will know until I buy and watch the DVD. (Oh, yes, boys and girls, it turns out the panto is to be filmed. Mercifully copies will not be available on Amazon.)
It is, however, clear at the rehearsal – as it has been since the first time Ginny, Herb and I performed it – that we need some help with our number. There is, of course, no help for the fact that I cannot sing. I just remind myself that it’s a panto, definitely not the opera, so making a fool of myself goes with the territory. Herb has a fairly booming voice. With any luck he will drown me out.
No, where we need the help is with, for want of a better word, choreography.
(At this point I had hoped to embed a link to the Danny Kaye “Doing Choreography” number from White Christmas, but, alas, the only link I could find for it had been taken down from YouTube, so have this instead.)
Turns out Ginny’s partner Sara used to be a professional dancer and she agrees to provide much needed assistance.
And so we gather in their livingroom, Sara sitting on the sofa to watch us perform That’s Amore in the half assed fashion we have so far adopted. Sara’s very good. She doesn’t laugh (in a bad way) or roll her eyes at the hopelessness of the cause. Apparently I have a good sense of rhythm. Apparently Herb (who would never deny it) doesn’t. Thus I am (apparently quite obviously) having to compensate. There is some suggestion of adding a bit of basic footwork. (At the moment, Herb and I are just swaying – occasionally in time with one another – behind Ginny.) This suggestion is vetoed by Herb, who feels swaying and singing at the same time are as far as he is able and willing to commit. Fair enough.
We decide it probably wouldn’t hurt to have a go with the actual Dean Martin song playing in the background. Ginny digs it out and puts it on. Ginny has a revelation. She has up until now been singing the song in three/four time, when it should actually be in four/four. What, oh what can this possibly mean, non-musical me wonders.
We do the song again. It sounds exactly the same to my untuned ear, but, wonder of wonders, for the first time ever I do not find myself swaying out when I should be swaying in and vice versa. How did that happen?
Much, much better, says Sara, allowing us a moment to bask in the glow of our progress. Except… Uh, oh. It seems that when the song slows down, Herb and I are still losing the plot a bit. Or, more appropriately, the beat. Oh, dear. Fortunately, she has a suggestion: Just stop “dancing” (can I really call our swaying this?) for a moment, as if we’re savouring the sentiment of the line. (“When there’s cheese in your dream, but you know you’re not dreaming, signore.”) Then jump back in for the finale. Herb considers this for a moment, decides he’s up to it, and we give it a go. Big round of applause from Sara. By Jove, I think we’ve got it!
We do it again, just to make sure our first, successful attempt wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t.
Sara predicts we’ll bring the house down. I rather think we might.
It is, however, clear at the rehearsal – as it has been since the first time Ginny, Herb and I performed it – that we need some help with our number. There is, of course, no help for the fact that I cannot sing. I just remind myself that it’s a panto, definitely not the opera, so making a fool of myself goes with the territory. Herb has a fairly booming voice. With any luck he will drown me out.
No, where we need the help is with, for want of a better word, choreography.
(At this point I had hoped to embed a link to the Danny Kaye “Doing Choreography” number from White Christmas, but, alas, the only link I could find for it had been taken down from YouTube, so have this instead.)
Turns out Ginny’s partner Sara used to be a professional dancer and she agrees to provide much needed assistance.
And so we gather in their livingroom, Sara sitting on the sofa to watch us perform That’s Amore in the half assed fashion we have so far adopted. Sara’s very good. She doesn’t laugh (in a bad way) or roll her eyes at the hopelessness of the cause. Apparently I have a good sense of rhythm. Apparently Herb (who would never deny it) doesn’t. Thus I am (apparently quite obviously) having to compensate. There is some suggestion of adding a bit of basic footwork. (At the moment, Herb and I are just swaying – occasionally in time with one another – behind Ginny.) This suggestion is vetoed by Herb, who feels swaying and singing at the same time are as far as he is able and willing to commit. Fair enough.
We decide it probably wouldn’t hurt to have a go with the actual Dean Martin song playing in the background. Ginny digs it out and puts it on. Ginny has a revelation. She has up until now been singing the song in three/four time, when it should actually be in four/four. What, oh what can this possibly mean, non-musical me wonders.
We do the song again. It sounds exactly the same to my untuned ear, but, wonder of wonders, for the first time ever I do not find myself swaying out when I should be swaying in and vice versa. How did that happen?
Much, much better, says Sara, allowing us a moment to bask in the glow of our progress. Except… Uh, oh. It seems that when the song slows down, Herb and I are still losing the plot a bit. Or, more appropriately, the beat. Oh, dear. Fortunately, she has a suggestion: Just stop “dancing” (can I really call our swaying this?) for a moment, as if we’re savouring the sentiment of the line. (“When there’s cheese in your dream, but you know you’re not dreaming, signore.”) Then jump back in for the finale. Herb considers this for a moment, decides he’s up to it, and we give it a go. Big round of applause from Sara. By Jove, I think we’ve got it!
We do it again, just to make sure our first, successful attempt wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t.
Sara predicts we’ll bring the house down. I rather think we might.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Oh, get me
When you’re starring in a play at the same time as you are producing watercolour masterpieces and finishing the great Canadian novel, occasionally you need a break from the whirlwind of creativity.
So, a weekend visit to Sointula to see theatre fans Darryl and Morag. Two trips to the rocky shores of Malcolm Island to witness the awe inspiring spectacle of humpback whales breaching.
Pretty amazing, eh? Yes, it would have been. This photo was stolen from Google. On the second day of our whale watching, a humpback did actually breach (and I’m sure it was every bit as impressive as this). Unfortunately, by the time it happened, Morag and I were engrossed in our books, so Darryl was the only witness. (Although I did get to see the splash and the boom.) Oh, well.
Recharged by almost seeing a humpback breaching, I return to Gabriola for rehearsals.
I have another line! Two more words. If this keeps going, I could have at least 25 words to memorise. I hope I’m up to it.
Tonight we are rehearsing Act 1, Scene 5. Last week I only had two lines in this scene, now I have three. It’s a challenge, I know, so early in the rehearsals, but I decide for the second run through to go off-book. (For the non-thespians out there, this is the point in rehearsals when the actors have memorised their lines and no longer need to read from the script.) And it works! I remember all three of my lines, all 14 words. Yes! God, I’m good. So good, in fact, so seamless in my performance, that the director neither notices nor comments on this breakthrough. That’s fine. Clearly she can see me for the pro I am.
Of course, I do still have the problem of figuring out my rat voice. I’m still all over the place with it. I could sit around the house on my own trying out voices (and walks, I must not forget the walk), but, let’s face it, I’d feel like a pillock. (So, not such a pro, after all.)
Morag is coming to Gabriola this weekend for the art trail event. Perhaps I can try a few voices out on her? Hmmm. Perhaps not.
What would Olivier do?
So, a weekend visit to Sointula to see theatre fans Darryl and Morag. Two trips to the rocky shores of Malcolm Island to witness the awe inspiring spectacle of humpback whales breaching.
Pretty amazing, eh? Yes, it would have been. This photo was stolen from Google. On the second day of our whale watching, a humpback did actually breach (and I’m sure it was every bit as impressive as this). Unfortunately, by the time it happened, Morag and I were engrossed in our books, so Darryl was the only witness. (Although I did get to see the splash and the boom.) Oh, well.
Recharged by almost seeing a humpback breaching, I return to Gabriola for rehearsals.
I have another line! Two more words. If this keeps going, I could have at least 25 words to memorise. I hope I’m up to it.
Tonight we are rehearsing Act 1, Scene 5. Last week I only had two lines in this scene, now I have three. It’s a challenge, I know, so early in the rehearsals, but I decide for the second run through to go off-book. (For the non-thespians out there, this is the point in rehearsals when the actors have memorised their lines and no longer need to read from the script.) And it works! I remember all three of my lines, all 14 words. Yes! God, I’m good. So good, in fact, so seamless in my performance, that the director neither notices nor comments on this breakthrough. That’s fine. Clearly she can see me for the pro I am.
Of course, I do still have the problem of figuring out my rat voice. I’m still all over the place with it. I could sit around the house on my own trying out voices (and walks, I must not forget the walk), but, let’s face it, I’d feel like a pillock. (So, not such a pro, after all.)
Morag is coming to Gabriola this weekend for the art trail event. Perhaps I can try a few voices out on her? Hmmm. Perhaps not.
What would Olivier do?
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