A Night in the Studio

Tonight we found ourselves at Mary’s TV studio at Mt. Sinai Hospital, along Central Park East. And as the sun set on August's last Sunday, we set to work—with opening night less than one week away.

While Giselle and Tim ran lines in the lobby, Mary and I arranged our set for the night, including our props. Then Tim and Giselle continued to speed through their lines, as Mary finished her work for the day and I set up what I hoped would be the show’s music. Eventually, we all came together for a real run—straight through with sound—with the focus on character development.

Fifteen minutes later, and Mary went over her notes. (She approved the music, whew, but there’s still some work to do in that department.) And then, such pros that they are, Giselle and Tim went at it again, but with the intention of stopping and reworking parts at Mary’s discretion. And another substantive run emerged. We covered blocking, achieving a greater fluidity between memory monologues and the present scene (since lights and sound will also emphasize these two periods), additional props (hoo-ray beer!), and even…the script. I’ll admit, I made a rare concession—changing the pronouns and tense in a short paragraph to better express the idea to the audience. Ugh, if it’s to tell a better story…then I guess I can let it slide this time. But just this once!

But the focus of the night ended up being on the climax of the play (where else?): when Wayne and Marissa meld past and present, recall with different perspectives their special connection, and …oh, uh…dance together. It’s the moment (you can really have one in such a short time frame, really) and deserves this much emphasis.

And then wouldn’t you know it, just when were getting comfortable dancing and holding each other (Well, not me, no … never. I just write that stuff down and make other people do it on stage, and hope to live vicariously through their youthful wanton exuberance. How sad but true.) it was time to leave. 'Night, bitches!

We Rehearse!

One by one, we arrived at Giselle’s Hamilton Heights apartment for rehearsal Tuesday night. From a quick line-thru between Giselle and Tim (who were pretty much off-book), we transformed things into a rehearsal proper.

With pretty much all our props and costuming in order (sort of …), and Giselle’s living room serving as a fair approximation of the stage, we did a straight run-thru. Tim and Giselle organically felt out their blocking, while they put together a conversation from the seemingly random set of lines I gave them to say. Afterward, they went into a more involved start-and-stop style run of the approximately 20-minute show. Mary directed—with her keen attention to the stage picture—often injecting with blocking suggestions. And I, sitting on-book, ran our few sound cues. I kept my nose to the script—and was the more nervous for it, watching each line as I heard it performed. But when I glanced at the unfolding scene, I had one of those moments of ease, when I could just marvel at my play coming to reality, again.

While not to downplay the serious work of the runs themselves, I would say the discussions within and between the scenes were in themselves extremely beneficial to the production. As a creative collective, we touched on character and costume (whether Wayne & Marissa are true slackers or kinda hip); atmosphere (what sort of party they find themselves at); timing and structure (six hours of concert = six hour of party, all shown in about twenty minutes); music and mood; bullshit banter vs. effusive monologues and how this juxtaposition informs character and meaning; what the audience may get from this, if anything; and even the subtle art of delivering a line which includes “finger bang” as a verb. And perhaps most importantly, we hashed out a working schedule for the next week. Still … much work to do!

But it is on nights like this that shows truly come together.

Um ... yeah.

Due to some scheduling issues, the Thursday rehearsal did not take place as scheduled on Thursday. And neither will one this weekend. The next rehearsal shall be Tuesday. Subsequent rehearsals are TBA and will occur in a rapidly narrowing selection of time slots. Sorry for any inconvenience.

Supposedly, I am working on the soundtrack for this play. It’s not going well. Or much at all. Is a post about failing a failure in itself? Never mind. This has become one of my less-than-humorous posts. Forgive me.

Should’ve gone to the beach.

Official Festival Poster!

Yeah, pretty much all the information you need for WHEN you go to my play, not if. Be there.

A Taste of Dan Deacon

Not my favorite artist, but his live show (and the story of getting there) was crazy enough to inspire a play.

Check out the song I might use to end the show: Get Older.

The First Reading … but not the last?

Production team secured, we gathered for our first meeting and first reading of the script. As usual, the Jersey City headquarters of Triple Decker Productions was alive with activity.

After a quick dinner, prepared by Mandy (amidst various baking projects), I rushed off to the PATH station to wrangle my actors—first Giselle, then Tim. Soon enough, I conveyed them along the meandering route to our apartment—and quickly through to the conditioned air of our living room/bedroom/boardroom. On top of her game as usual, Mandy placed a series of snacks—a veritable smorgasbord—in front of our wide-eyed guests: fuel for their acting, and fuel for sitting on my ass. Meanwhile, Tim slaved in the bowels of Hell, I mean, our kitchen, washing every dish we own.

And so we waited and snacked, snacked and waited. The remaining member of our party, Mary, apparently was a victim of one of the many hazards of interstate and intra-metropolis travel: traffic. Though the Holland Tunnel practically drops you on our doorstep, getting to the tunnel and out is not a simple matter during rush hour. Cliché and logic cleared up the situation: the show must go on.

I began with the stage directions—my second favorite part of the script (like you care)—and Tim and Giselle did the rest. Around 15 minutes later, I had heard “The Concert” outside my head for the first time. Yes, I was nervous to hear my words aloud, but it wasn’t close to the nerve-wracking experience of that first KOTM reading back in March. No glaring inconsistencies or awkward phrasing struck my ears…this time around. Perhaps in coming rehearsals, I feel the need to edit. And for some reason, I seem bent on axing my props and set dressing. Aside from the couch, they aren’t essential to the story—but they do set the atmosphere, establish the context, and provide the characters with some action. But it’s just that, as an already fretting stage manager, I’m worried about setting and striking in the time-honored slapdash chaos of a festival. Well, there aren’t that many props. Let them be. Play this out as the author intended, genius that he is.

And…black out. More snacks.

Oh, yes, Tim (Decker, that is. God this is going to be confusing. Does he have a nickname or something? Oh ,that’s right: “The Tyrant”. That ought to clear things up.) made himself useful during all this—he is “Lead Helpie” and second understudy, after all—by playing appropriate party songs in the background to set the mood—or to set off Mandy. Either way, it was a good reminder of the soundtrack I need to assemble—how much time I need to fill, and how I want to cue it up (or “queue” it up?). And as I mulled all this in the sun’s dying glow, who of all people happened to show up on my stoop? Why our director, of course.

Gracious as ever, Mary jumped into a chair, grabbed a brownie, and we ran it all again for fresh ears. With a bit more energy and sense of tone, Tim and Giselle tried out there roles again. Fourteen minutes was the run-time, and we expect to add 4-5 minutes in blocking and pacing—including an indeterminately long dance break. No doubt already envisioning Tim and Giselle as “Wayne” and “Marissa”, Mary seemed satisfied with our starting point and was eager to move on to a setting a rehearsal schedule—perhaps even one at the famous Depot Theatre (where she herself once worked on a show—small world!). Looking forward to our next rehearsal, I guided my actors through the humid night toward home.

Actors, Directors, and Props*—Oh my!

Oh, dear Reader!

What I mean to say—to truly cry out wholeheartedly!—is that at long last (has it been over a half-dozen days since last I wrote?) I have assembled the theatrical troupe which will perform The Concert in twenty-three days hence.

The stately Timothy Chan will perform the character “Wayne.” Mandy Decker (né Blevins, of the Elkton Blevins) and I have worked with this young man in previous productions of the Urban Youth Theater, giving me full confidence that Messr. Chan will fulfill this role with vim, vigor, and authentic slackerdom. I look forward to it longingly.

Next, the impeccable Giselle D’Souza will grace the stage as “Marissa.” Adhering to social etiquette, I deigned for Mandy to engage the initial communiqué with Miss Giselle. Impossible to believe, I am not above the rigid bounds of proper decorum—even in pursuit of an actor! But with communication established, my pleasurable acquaintance imparted her heady desire to carry my prose heavenward, and bestow her talents upon Marissa and her foul-mouthed charms.

And fresh from her Grand Tour of the Continent, Mary Geerlof, reprising her role as “Director.” If you, Reader, were by chance lucky enough to be in Town to catch a mere glimpse of the world premier of King of the Mountain, you should consider yourself truly blessed by Providence. Who would have thought a velocipede standing alone with rider for an hour’s time would be truly soul-rousing theatre? Mary Geerlof, for one. Under her incomparable direction, "Max" rode to the top of that daunting Alpine summit, taking our breath away with each agonized pedal-stroke. May she so craftily handle my script again, albeit three-fourths shorter and three-times dumber.

And there you have it, Reader. Though my network be small, and my time short, there are people out there eager pledge to themselves and make something of this crazy little show.

Yours truly,

T. Dekkes

*Well, actually, converting my stolen twenty-year-old red milk crate/trashcan into a milk crate/prop really took no effort, but I needed to mention it for the Wizard of Oz allusion. Do you see what I’m getting at? Never mind. And sorry for the pseudo-Victorian nonsense, this is what happens when I write late at night, by candlelight, overlooking a fog-tinged moor.

Logo!

Here's a little fresh hotness, courtesy of Timothy Decker.

Visiting the "Theater"

Okay, that’s not fair. The Philipstown Depot Theater (in Garrison, NY—more on that later) is a theater; more so than many I’ve seen in NYC. But I must add it to the list odd spaces converted into theaters that I’ve been involved with: 13^th Street Rep. (a dilapidated brownstone) and Manhattan Rep. (squeezed on the third floor of an all-purpose arts center). It is a historic building, the former train station of a town whose only claim to fame is that very train station—and it does hold a real light grid and 67 seats. These features go a long way in lending it legitimacy.

But I seem to be getting ahead of myself. First, I had to make the journey to Garrison via a Metro North train from the grandiose Grand Central Terminal. The train ride through the Hudson Valley is certainly the most scenic of commutes throughout the tri-state area. The tracks run right along the river, passing through towns built to the water’s edge—panoramic views abound. In an hour I was in Garrison. Everywhere I turned: trees … and not much else. Afterward, by the time the meeting finished, the clouds had passed, revealing a dying golden sun. Strolling along the platform, the scene became tranquil, perhaps even serene as I stared out over the water. Quiet. That’s what it was. The city was far behind me. Rustling leaves, lapping waves, birdsong—these small doses of sound were just enough. And interrupting all this natural sublimity (besides the occasional rumble of a commuter train), the steel-grey walls of the West Point citadel looming on the opposite bank. Lovely.

Back to the matter at hand—visiting my next performance space, and getting the gist of the competition. Yes, the organizers emphasized that this was a competition: that our fortunes would be in the hands of the audience and a few judges, and we’d advance toward additional performances according to their votes. So, I need to fill that house. I need your vote. Yes, YOU. But they assured us the structure of the festival nearly guaranteed each production two shows, either by advancing to the next round the second weekend, or in a “wild card” round. And when is all this madness taking place you ask? Ah, that was my #1 question. My play will be the last of five one-acts on Saturday, September 5—a show which begins at 8 p.m. Information on tickets will be forthcoming, as will transportation arrangements.

Other matters…I have already secured my largest set piece: a readily available couch in the men’s dressing room. Check that off. (And yes, the infamous production “to-do” list is posted on my living-room wall.) Wait, I can cross off that I went to the meeting—and started another web-log. Awesome. Be right back.

[Minutes pass.]

Whew. Sorry for that. Long story short, I had to rehearse my Partridge Family rendition of a Decemberists’ song for my insane family’s talent show. Yeah … its gonna rock. Oh, wait…I’m singing. No, never mind then.

The company manager and artistic director went over sound and lighting specs, our tech rehearsal schedule (very little time to mess around, as usual), and finished by giving a tour of the space for those of us first-timers. (“You mean you’ve never been to the Depot Theater? Oh, it’s an absolute delight. I’m a regular subscriber.”) At first I was a tad nervous considering that I am young and don’t have a local fan base, but I need to embrace all of my outsider status and use it to my advantage. And hell, if nothing else, I’ve already produced a kick-ass play, just three months ago. I kinda know what I’m doing. And I’m pretty adamant on having my productions not suck. So I might as well have fun.

And I’d say that began on my sun-drenched ride back to Gotham, with a few of my city-bound competitors. Amid stories of socially-oriented plays, colonics, professors, vaginas, and classmates, I learned that they were newbies taking a class assignment to the next level. Rock on, Mike and Katabe. At least I’m not the only one representing the city (well, technically, Jersey City.)

And soon enough, I emerged at the base of a Midtown canyon—42^nd Street—looking through Times Square to the scene of my last project from the gateway to my next.