To both of my regular readers, I’m sorry.  Something came up and I won’t be able to concentrate on my project for a few days.  Hopefully this situation will be over by Sunday and I’ll have some new posts for you on Monday.

For the rest of you who don’t read my blog regularly and have no idea what i’m talking about, go read someone who actually has interesting things to say like Don Hall or Isaac or Nick.

Taking a break from Project Introspection today to focus on a marketing question.  I was eating lunch with a colleague yesterday and talking about what I wanted out of getting involved with a theatre company here.  I basically explained that I want to learn, to share my ideas and to help out to the best of my ability.  I started talking about an idea I had for a marketing plan.

You all remember that movie The Blair Witch Project, right?  One of the reasons why the movie was so successful is the producers built a cult following before the movie was even produced.  The put out information that made it seem as if the story were true, that students really did disappear and this really was footage that was recovered.

Of course, it was all fake and scripted, but it piqued the interest of the country and became a box office success.

So my question was, why don’t more theatres do that kind of stuff?  

I’ve been in Chicago for three months and I honestly haven’t seen any advertisements for any theatre stuff except for the major companies like Broadway in Chicago and The Goodman.  I don’t know what’s going on in the smaller storefront theatres.  The only advertisements I’ve seen are flyers in windows and maybe in some of the less-read magazines going around the city.

And of the advertisements I have seen, they all seem to say “Pleaaaaaaaase come see our show!  We put a lot of hard work into it and we don’t want to have wasted our time, so pleaaaaaase come give us your money and watch our show!”  Basically, they put out the who/what/where/when/how much, but they never explain the why. 

WHY should I see your show?  What makes it interesting enough that I should take the time, effort and money to go see your show?

Do something to make me interested.

I wrote a play two years ago and I’ve been working on it intermittently for awhile.  It’s a play based on the old Pied Piper of Hamelin story — you know the one, the rats and the piper that takes away the kids and all that. 

Let’s use that as an example.

How can we get the public interested in that?  Let’s take a page from Blair Witch and put up a website that pushes an agenda — rats are a problem.  And they are in any major city, especially Chicago.  Rats!  More rats!

Write letters to the editors of various publications complaining about rats and wistfully wishing that someone like the Pied Piper could come and get rid of them, put up flyers around town:  ”Got rats? Call the Piper!”.  Remind the public of the story of the Pied Piper, remind them how relevant rats are to their daily lives.

Get them thinking about rats and keeping the story of the Pied Piper in the back of their minds.  All of these things can be done fairly cheaply.

Then a week or two before the show, blow the rest of your marketing money on advertisements in local papers, on local TV, on the radio.  With the economy in a slump right now, with the presidential election over, ad prices are dirt cheap (or so my father, an advertisement salesman, tells me).   

The people will see your advertisement, say “Oh, wow, I was just thinking about that story… this could be interesting!”  They’ve had exposure after exposure to the theme and story of the Pied Piper over the past several weeks (”Got rats? Call the Piper!” “Dear Editor, rats are a huge problem in Chicago.  Gosh, I wish there were someone like the Pied Piper around!  What is the city going to do about it?”).  

We know that long-term memory is triggered by multiple exposures to the same stimulus.  If you put out one ad in the paper, people are going to forget about it very quickly.  But week after week of “Oh, hey, don’t forget about rats” and subtle reminders of the Pied Piper of Hamelin story, they’ll have a little bit of the story stored up in their minds, so when you go “BAM! PIED PIPER PLAY!” it sticks.

This wouldn’t work for every play, but it’s a different approach than I usually see.  What I usually see is:

“Come see our play!  Friday, Saturday and Sunday at 7pm, 10 bucks! It’s funny! Check it out!”

…yeah, right.

The Prof wrote a blog a long time ago about how we should be putting on plays that are relevant to our communities.  You don’t have to pick topics that are relevant now.  You could MAKE them relevant.  Were rats on the forefront of people’s minds before I started this ad campaign?  No, probably not.  But after papering the city with flyers about rat problems, letters to the editors, calls to radio shows… it’s more relevant than it was before, and that just might be enough to draw a full house.

Thoughts?  I’m sure I’m missing a lot, but this was just something I was thinking of yesterday and I’d love to hear some responses.

For those of you just tuning in, I’m in the middle of a multi-part blog series calledProject: Introspection. Previously, I discussed the importance of taking the initiative. Read on for the next part in the series.

Theatre students, whether memorizing lines or learning the technical aspects of production, must have the ability to memorize and absorb vast amounts of material quickly and accurately.  When you work on a production, memorizing steps, blocking, lines, cues and timing are essential to keeping a production moving smoothly.

Incidentally, the flip side of this is that you also need the ability to listen.  Not just listen, but comprehend and adapt your memorized material to the new information.  How often have you had a whole page cut out of a play, stuff that you’d already memorized?  How often have you had blocking changed at the last minute?  Memorization and listening comprehension are critical to the success of a production.

Several years ago I worked in North Carolina for a living history museum.  There were six of us actors, and we were going to play parts for the duration of the summer.  This wasn’t a play, but a living history museum.  That meant that we were in character for eight hours a day going about our daily business while visitors came in and observed and asked questions.  We had a few staged things like a musket drill and a pike drill, but otherwise it was completely improv.

Before we could get started, however, we had to learn about the lives of these characters.  What kind of food did they eat?  Where were they from?  What was the weather like?  How did my character wind up being rich while the others were poor?  What were the different types of weapons we used?

Our trainers essentially locked the six of us up into a library for twelve hours over the course of three days and then we spent the rest of each day observing the full-time workers.  After our training week was over, we were on the job full-time.

Learning that information took a vast amount of concentration, but we had to be accurate, consistent and correct.  Every single day and often nearly every hour we had visitors try to catch us in a lie.  They asked us where we were from and when I responded “Yorkshire”, they wanted to know where I REALLY lived.  Of course, we had explanations for how we’d lived so long and such and they aren’t relevant.

We had a few visitors come in that were actually from England, and they left impressed at our knowledge of our “hometowns”.  Granted, our “knowledge” was based on 16th century England, but they were well aware of many of the things we mentioned in our narratives.  We also had some visitors who were history professors or teachers that tried to catch us in mistakes about the history of the area that we were reenacting, but again, our memorization and understanding of the time period helped to prevent any major disasters in that area.

Every once in awhile we’d slip up and the visitor would correct us (or more likely go, “AH HAH! Sir Walter Raleigh wasn’t born in Yorkshire!” or some such).  At that point we’d shrug, make an excuse, and look up the answer that night so that next time we wouldn’t make that mistake.  By the end of the summer, my co-workers and I were veritable experts on the history of the location.

Bottom line:  Memorization.  Quickly.  Accurately.  Necessary for theatrical projects.

For those of you just tuning in, I’m in the middle of a multi-part blog series called Project: Introspection. Previously, I discussed the importance of taking the initiative. Read on for the next part in the series.

Rules are created for a variety of reasons but ostensibly to protect people from harm.  Some rules are made to be broken, some can be bent a little, and some you don’t break at all unless you’re a moron.  In a theatrical setting, one learns quickly to which type each rule belongs.  You don’t eat while in costume, but maybe sneak a cookie when nobody’s watching.  No cell phones can ring at rehearsal, but inevitably, someone’s phone rings.  

There have been several instances in the past where I’ve learned the benefits to following rules and reaped the penalities for breaking rules. 

During the musical productions at college, one of the steadfast rules was “No talking backstage.”  Now, this is a rule for every show (and for good reason!), but it holds especially so for musicals since we used microphones to allow the actors to project over the orchestra.  Some actors’ mikes were almost superficial as they could project their voices very far, but others could barely be heard above the music.  At any rate, there was no guarantee that the microphone would be turned off when you exited the stage.

The resulting rule:  No talking backstage, because your mike might be on.

One particular instance comes to mind during a production of a popular musical.  The lead actor was kind of a douche.  He was perfectly nice to your face, but when your back was turned, he said all sorts of horrible things.  He also blatantly sexually harassed castmates.  Anyway, those are rules that he broke, but in this particular story, he didn’t break the rules.  He did, however, sing the opening number completely off-key.

One of the other actors backstage couldn’t believe how badly the song was butchered.  ”That fucktard sang the whole song off-key!” he exclaimed.

It later turned out that his microphone had been broadcasting, as he was in the upcoming number, and the entire audience heard the comment.

Oops?

Another rule that I’ve learned about theatre, especially when it comes to special effects on stage:  always be honest about your physical situation when your safety is on the line.  Are you allergic to latex?  Paint?  Have you had your tetanus shots?  All kinds of things can go wrong in the scene shop.

One show several years ago required that the TD build a platform to lower an actress from a balcony down to the floor of the stage.  

“How much do you weigh?” he asked her.

“Uhh… I weigh, uh… 120.”

He nodded and wrote down her weight and walked away.  Fortunately for the girl, the costume designer (you might remember Fred) overheard the conversation.  He went to the TD and said, “There’s no way that girl is 120, Dave.  She’s probably closer to 160, 170.”

They both went back to her and she fessed up.  She weighed closer to 160 than 170, but that’s still 40 lbs over the 120 figure that she gave to the TD.

Some of you may have figured out why that’s a big deal, but for those of you who didn’t, let me explain.  When you lower anything using a pu lley, you have to have a counterweight to keep whatever you’re lowering or raising from crashing to the floor, or to keep you from flying up off the floor.  This girl claimed she weighed 120 lbs.  Had the TD taken that figure and set up the platform accordingly, she would’ve been 40 lbs over the counterweight and fallen sixteen feet to the ground, possibly seriously injured herself, and opened the theatre up to a massive lawsuit.

So the next time the costume designer asked me how much I weighed, I applied the rule I learned:  be honest.

Some rules can be broken.  Some can’t.  The lesson you should walk away from after training in theatre is knowing how to tell the difference.

For those of you just tuning in, I’m in  the middle of a multi-part blog series called Project: Introspection.  Previously, I discussed the importance of taking the initiative.  Read on for the next part in the series.

Another lesson that goes along with time-budgeting that I talked about on Wednesday is promptness and a respect for deadlines.  Tardiness is never acceptable in theatre because it shows a lack of self-discipline, and more importantly, a lack of consideration for others.  Being late for a rehearsal or a work call or failing to finish an assigned task on time damages a production and adversely affects the work of many other people. As a result, we expect that everyone arrive on time and meet scheduled deadlines.

I’ve always been a stickler for being on time at the theatre.  I usually try to get there early, to prepare or hang out before rehearsal starts.  If I’m on a tight deadline, I make sure I’m fully prepared or work on my lines or choreography or whatever needs to be done.

I’m not going to relate a long, boring story about one time when I was late (it wasn’t my fault, i swear), but I will say this:  the success of your production depends on you and your team meeting deadlines.  If the deadlines aren’t met, whether it’s lighting up a cross or memorizing lines, guess what!  The show must go on!  Which means it goes on without your fancy cross, with you fumbling through your lines… in a word: disaster.

For those of you just tuning in, I’m in  the middle of a multi-part blog series called Project: Introspection.  Previously, I discussed the importance of time-budgeting skills.  Read on for the next part in the series.

Have you ever been in a situation where everyone is complaining about something, but not getting off their asses to do something about it?  Have you ever had your inner voice make like Obama and cry “Change!” while others seem to despair and procrastinate in the status quo?

In another vein, have you ever had a brilliant idea that nobody else seems to have thought of?  Have you ever come up with this great backstory for a character without prompting? 

And have you ever just sat on that idea without pursuing it?

What you need is to take the initiative.  Make that change.  Take that idea that you had and make it a reality.  Don’t wait for someone else to bring it up, don’t wait for validation, don’t wait for permission.  Find a way to make it a reality, because sitting around and thinking about it doesn’t make things happen.

When I was in high school, I worked for a company that made underwear bands and bra straps (hey, someone’s gotta do it!).  I worked in the Finishing department, which meant we took the fabric that had been dyed and made sure it was the same shade of blue, purple, green, whatever that Hanes or Fruit of the Loom or whatever wanted.  My job was to run a machine that dyed the fabric slightly different shades.

One of the downsides to these machines was that fabric would often get static charges and stick to the machines, rolling up and getting stuck in the machine.  I’d have to go in and cut out the ruined fabric, re-attach the fabric to the line and start the machine up again.  It wasn’t hard, but on some types of fabric, it was extremely frustrating.

One day, my machine got stuck at least a dozen times in a half-hour, and I was furious.

“Fucking machine!  Goddammit, stop fucking breaking, you shit-faced machine!”  Yes, I was a teenager who swore a lot more than was absolutely necessary.  Finally, I went to the lead operator, Wayne, and I said “Dammit, my machine fucked up again.”  He just chuckled and went over to help me with it.  He just kinda smiled as he worked.  

“Wayne,” I said.  ”Don’t you ever get mad?”

He shook his head.  ”Nope.”

“Why not?”  He looked at me in the eyes and spoke softly.

“Why?  Does the machine care if you get mad?  Doesn’t help.  So why bother?”

That lesson stuck with me for life.  My temper improved dramatically.

This lesson can be applied to us today.  Does theatre care if we sit around and bitch and moan about how it doesn’t work?  No, of course not.  Does theatre care if the government doesn’t give us grants or the difference between Obama’s arts policy and McCain’s?  Does theatre care if we work day jobs or spend 40+ hours per week acting or designing?  No, absolutely not.

But WE care.  And since we care, it’s up to us to make things happen, to make the changes we desire.

All across the theatrosphere, bloggers like Scott Walters, Devilvet, Isaac, Nick, Don and many, many others have recognized that a deficiency exists in the arts, a distinct lack of financial, social and cultural support from the government and the masses at large.  They’re crying for change, for an improvement in the theatre community, calling for passion, organization, community, support, and participation. 

Does this sound familiar?  Do you feel the same way?

Then take the initiative.  Get off your ass and get out there and change things.  Don’t think about what the theatre down the street is doing, think about what YOU’RE doing.  Figure out what problems theatre faces that you personally can affect.  You can’t affect how much money the government will give you, so don’t worry about that.  You can’t affect how many times Shakespeare is performed across the country or affect how many women playwrights exist (unless you are one or want to become one).  Think about what you can do, and then do it.

Early into grad school at college, I still hung out at the theatre department.  We were a small school, so we held auditions on a show-by-show basis.  This one time, however, the department held auditions for the entire semester at once.  Both mainstage shows were cast within days and a horrifying truth was revealed. The directors had cast a few actors in both shows, and in the second show, the double-cast actors were the only drama majors present — the rest of the cast were non-majors.

So did the other 30+ drama majors do?

They sat outside, smoked their cigarettes, and bitched about the situation.

“Wah wah wah,” they cried.  ”We’re here to learn about acting.  How can we act if they don’t cast us?”

“Yeah!” cried another.  ”I pay them so I can learn to be an actor!”

They conveniently ignored the fact that most of the time, real life actors are NOT cast in shows they audition for.

I offered a solution.

“Why don’t you do something yourselves?”

They stared at me as if I were a poisonous snake in their midst.

“What?” one girl said, obviously disdainful of my suggestion.

“Put on a show.  All of you get together and perform a show.  Ask Carl for permission to use the studio theatre, get off your asses, and put on a show yourselves.”

They all rolled their eyes and walked away.

After all, they were here to ACT, not to… do whatever…  it is…  that non-actors…  do in theatre.

I should have let them drown in their naivete, fester in their ignorance.  But then, I was one of them.  I wanted to do something, too.  It just wasn’t fair!

But the more I thought about it, the more my idea made sense.  I went to Carl, the department head, and I said “I realize I’m not a drama student anymore, but there are 30 actors outside bitching about how they don’t have anything to perform now, because McPsycho and Doc didn’t cast them in the two shows this term.  So I would like to request permission to put on a production.  I’d like to give directing a shot, and give these guys a chance to perform.”

He didn’t really say anything; he just handed me a form.

“Fill it out.”

That semester was the birth of my directing passion.  Because I took initiative, I provided acting opportunities for twelve actors, design opportunities for four designers, directing experience for myself, and proved to my peers that getting off your ass and doing something actually works better than sitting around bitching about it.

You got a passion for something that isn’t happening?  You got an idea that you think is interesting?  Don’t sit on it.  Get off your ass and make it a reality.  You owe it to yourself.

For those of you just tuning in, I’m in  the middle of a multi-part blog series called Project: Introspection.  Previously, I discussed the importance of working independently.  Read on for the next part in the series.

Time: our most valuable resource.  Time is non-renewable, limited, and ever elusive.  Large sections of our lives devour time before we even get to think about it.  We don’t have a choice.

We sleep for 6-8 hours per day (ideally).
Many of us work for 8 hours a day.  Factor in commute and preparation, and you’re often up to 10-12 hours gone.  
Meals, bathroom breaks and other necessesities take up even more valuable time.

That leaves us very few hours to relax and enjoy our hobbies and entertainment.  That leaves us very few hours to pursue theatre, art, music, or whatever your chosen medium is.

Therefore, an artist must be an expert at time management.  In order to be successful, one must be able to balance the aforementioned time slices in such a way that leaves you relatively stress-free and avoid burnout.

Time management is crucial to success, and the key to time management is prioritization — ordering tasks in such a way as to maximize productivity and minimize waste.

Yesterday, I mentioned a show I performed in with my castmates Tom and Meghan, where we spent massive amounts of time devoted to memorizing our lines and perfecting our characters.  That’s a great example of how we utilized time management skills to pull off an amazing show with a very limited resource — time.  But since I already talked about this yesterday, I’ll discuss another example.

Three years ago, I was granted the opportunity to direct a show.  I chose to direct a stage adaptation of George Orwell’s 1984.  It’s actually quite faithful to the book, with only minor changes in the name of pragmatism and budget.

Since the show wasn’t on the scheduled season, I was given very limited resources — no budget, limits on who I could cast or have in my crew, and very limited time.  

I was given approval on Oct 26th and told that opening night would be December 1st.  The show would be performed in the studio theatre.  Because of scheduling conflicts and limitations imposed by the theatre, we could only rehearse between the hours of 8 and 10pm.

It took me nearly a week to secure the rights, order the scripts and hold auditions.  By November 1st, we began rehearsals.  In the meantime, I was balancing graduate classes and an internship with a local high school, as well as coordinating with set, costume, light and sound designers.  I slept maybe 5 hours a night.

The first two weeks were relatively safe.  There were no conflicts or obstacles to getting rehearsals done.  We had to rehearse hard and fast, with only two hours per night to block, rehearse and give notes.  In the third week of November, the next mainstage show opened.  Unfortunately, the studio theatre was also the venue for the angel reception, held in honor of our patrons.  No rehearsal that night.

Saturday afternoon I received a call from a cast member.  Amy, one of the other members of the cast, had been in an accident.  Jogging along a bike trail, she had been hit by a driver.  She was alive and going to recover, but for now she was in ICU and obviously would not be able to fulfill her commitment to the show.  I called her sister to offer my condolences and proceeded to find a replacement.  Enter the set designer.

The following week was, of course, Thanksgiving.  School was out on Wednesday, but I asked my cast members to meet on Wednesday morning for one last rehearsal before the break.  We had to perfect the show at this point, because when we returned on Sunday, we were entering tech and dress rehearsals.

The cast returned from the break invigorated and ready to work.  We rehearsed long and hard those nights and opened that Thursday night with a sold out house.  The entire run was sold out and we got rave reviews.

All of this was accomplished in a little over 19 days of rehearsal, not including weekends, Thanksgiving break or the Thursday night angel reception.  It was a massive undertaking and the cast and crew came together in the spirit of teamwork and cooperation, worked individually to perfect their parts, and as a team, budgeted their time to make the most of every rehearsal.  And keep in mind, this is on top of work, classes, social lives, and other commitments these guys had.  I was and remain very proud of my cast and crew.

With proper time management and dedication, even a strenuous and limited schedule can result in a successful production that brings accomplishment, pride and a good reputation to the company.

For those of you just tuning in, I’m in  the middle of a multi-part blog series called Project: Introspection.  Previously, I discussed the importance of working cooperatively.  Read on for the next part in the series.

If working cooperatively is important to the success of a production, then the ability to work independently is vital.  A lot of teamwork is required to get a production from script to stage, but even the most cohesive and dedicated teamwork will fail if there is a lack of individual effort.

Take any place.  Get a great team that works wonderful together.  The sound guy understands exactly what the director wants and makes it happen.  The technical director builds the set to specifications.  Everything is exactly as the director and designers envisioned.  No complications.  The actors show up and follow the director’s instructions.

But wait… the lead actor didn’t spend any time out of rehearsal learning his lines.  Opening night is tomorrow night, and he is still calling for line!

Epic fail.

A few years ago, we did a show that I’ll probably always cherish as one of my favorites.  It was written by one of my professors, who we’ll call Doc.  It was a hilarious comedy about a newlywed couple on their honeymoon, ready to get it on, when a bumbling idiot of a forest ranger (who thinks he’s some sort of secret undercover agent in the battle against evil… me, of course) bursts into the scene and proceeds to bring down pandemonium on this hapless couple.

The show was a little over two hours long.  We had three and a half weeks from the day we got the script to the day we opened.  I was on every single page — my first lead role!  I was determined not to let Doc down.

My fellow leads, Meghan and Tom, were also on every page.  Almost the entire first act (almost an hour and a half) was composed of just the three of us, with a fourth character slipping in at the 1:10 mark.  Then, after a brief intermission, there was another hour’s worth of script to memorize and perform.

There were very few pauses and moments to reflect.  This was a fast-paced script.  Think Gilmore Girls.

Needless to say, there were a lot of lines to learn.

Meghan, Tom and I spent about 8 hours each day in rehearsal, both formal and informal.  We met at 4:30pm and ran lines til 7:00 when the director arrived.  We rehearsed until 9:30 or so, grabbed dinner, and then went to Tom’s house to run lines til midnight or 1am.  During the day, we were on our own. 

I was taking summer classes at the time, so my mornings were tied up with Victorian Literature.  But from lunch until 4:30, I studied my lines.  I worked on it on the way to class, on the way to lunch, while doing my laundry, while taking a shower.  I probably even said lines in my sleep — I don’t know. 

I’d go into the theatre mid-afternoon and walk around and rehearse.  Occasionally, Tom or Meghan would show up and we’d do scenes together.  I know they worked just as hard on their lines as I did on mine.  We had a shitload of lines.

Opening night went almost perfectly — only one slight hiccup when the stage manager goofed and didn’t call a light cue.

Doc was beaming after the show.  He came up and shook my hand, told me it was perfect.  He told Meghan and Tom (and the rest of the cast) the same.  It really was.  I found out later that the show had opened on Doc’s birthday, and I was ecstatic to know that I had given him such a great birthday present.

The show could never have succeeded without Tom, Meghan and I putting in countless hours of preparation, both cooperatively and individually.  We took it upon ourselves to independently learn our lines so that when we met to rehearse together, we would be on the same page — literally!

Every show that I’ve ever been in has been made or broken by the individual contributions of the players.  If the actors don’t practice on their own, the characters fall flat and drop lines, causing confusion and disorientation.  The audience might not know that lines were dropped, but they usually find it harder to suspend their disbelief when the actors break character because of a forgotten line, or there’s a long, awkward pause where there obviously shouldn’t have been one.

The key here is to work independently of the team, as well as with the team.  Directors highly value actors who will work hard independently, show up on time to rehearsal with their lines already memorized, and put in a lot of effort to support the production.  Technical directors will hire designers and techs who put in individual effort at a level that goes above and beyond “just getting it done”.  Individual, independent effort is crucial to a well-oiled, successful production.

Not only do theatres need this skill, but any employer you’ve ever worked with or will work with in the future.  I do web design in my day job, and if I wasn’t able to work independently, I wouldn’t have this job.

So now it’s your turn.  When was there a time when you did some independent work that helped make or break a project?  Was there a time when it failed because you (or someone else) didn’t put forth enough effort as an individual?  Let me know!

I’m so proud of my country.  We’ve elected the first African-American to the Presidency of the United States.  We’ve elected a President who has an arts policy, who actually cares about the arts and their impact on Americans.  We’ve elected a President with common sense, education and general intelligence.  We’ve elected a President who stands for change and promises hope to those of us who have seen the country go down the shitter in the last eight years.

We’ve elected Barack Obama.

Holy shit.

For those of you just tuning in, I’m in  the middle of a multi-part blog series called Project: Introspection.  Previously, I discussed the importance of having a “more than just get it done” attitude.  Read on for the next part in the series.

One constant in theatre is that it requires cooperation among those participating.  Theatre demands that participants work together cooperatively for the production to succeed.  There is no room for huge egos or selfishness, for “we” versus “them”, for divas or know-it-alls.  The project succeeds only if the participants can come together in the spirit of teamwork.

Putting on a show requires a variety of different jobs to be performed:  writing/analyzing a script, directing, acting, hanging lights, sewing costumes, marketing, box office, sound recording and mixing, ushering, and much, much more.  There are often many different conflicts that arise when these types meet, including creative differences, scheduling conflicts and stubborn personalities butting heads.

It’s important that a team be able to work through these difficulties, especially if you don’t like your crew members.

A few years ago we did a production of this wonderful show called Jesus Christ Superstar.  I played one of the soldiers.

The guy who normally directed the musicals, we’ll call him Doc, was adamantly opposed to directing Superstar.  The costume designer (we’ll call him Fred) stepped up to the plate.  And a great job he did, thanks to his musical background.

The problem lay in the interminable contention between the costume designer and the technical director.  They seem to think at perpindicular angles to each other.    Fred wanted a cross that would support the weight of Jesus and allow him to be lifted up a few feet off the ground.  He wanted the cross to light up behind him for an extra dramatic effect. 

Six months before opening night, the TD said “No problem.”

Fred also wanted Judas to be able to hang himself in front of the audience (or at least make it look like he was hanging himself).

Again, the TD said “Not a problem.”

Fast forward six months.  It’s now a week before the production.  There is no cross and no noose.

As usual, the TD had gone off and done his own thing, ignoring the wishes of the director.  Now, had the TD said “That’s not possible” at the beginning, then this wouldn’t have been a problem, but Fred had been promised that it wasn’t going to be a problem and that the requests would be fulfilled.  They weren’t.

As a result, the final scene of the musical fell a little flat.  The cross was a simple wooden cross with no special effects (a dramatic departure from the rest of the musical, which was heavily laden with special effects).  Instead of Judas hanging himself, he walked off stage and a dummy was lowered with a noose around its neck to the song of “So long, Judas…”

It sounds like a small thing, and the audience didn’t really notice, but knowing what went on behind the scenes, I was very disappointed in the lack of teamwork here.  The show could’ve been BETTER.  In my last post, I wrote about having a “more than just getting it done” attitude.  The TD had a “just get it done” attitude.  I helped out in the scene shop a lot, and there were plenty of days where we sat around waiting for instructions from the TD rather than working on the cross and noose.  Plenty of time to get these things accomplished.

But instead of pushing the limits, instead of putting that extra effort in to make it better, the TD slacked off.

The show was a success.  But it could’ve been an even bigger success had the TD cooperated with Fred, whether by explaining that it wouldn’t/couldn’t happen or by getting the project done.  

Cooperation would’ve made it all possible.