Month: September 2014

Step 11: Go to Tech Week

“Tech week” (or “Technical Week”) is the final week in the rehearsal process of a theatrical production in which all the technical elements are added. The focus shifts from the actors to the set, costumes, lights, and sound. All the director’s efforts go into making sure these elements are working in harmony. At this point, the actors’ performances have been solidified. In fact, because the director’s focus is now solely on these technical elements, the actors can just relax and have fun doing a show they now know by the back of their hands.

Ha ha, no, no, I’m kidding. It’s always total chaos and everyone has nervous breakdowns.

Usually, the week before tech involves a few shaky runs while everyone gets used to not having their scripts. The actors are still making new discoveries and figuring out what does and doesn’t work, all while trying to remember their lines and blocking. During this time, the show is like a newborn fawn taking its first steps. Tech week is like grabbing that fawn, shoving it in a van, driving it to a theatre, stuffing it into ill-fitting clothes, dragging it onto a darkened stage, blasting music in its ears, and then shining bright, hot lights in its eyes.

The fawn does exactly what you expect. It freaks the hell out.

Among the actors, terrified looks, worried murmuring, and anguished sighs are common. Open weeping and throwing up are not unheard of. Also, tech week means extended hours, so everyone in the production is exhausted. From the actor’s perspective, the show does not look or feel good, and opening night is a week away. According to Wikipedia (in an article that “does not cite any references or sources”), tech week is also called “torture week” or “hell week.” This is because every member of the production feels as though they are about to witness the coming apocalypse.

This feeling of desperation reaches its zenith about two nights before the show opens. Then, depending on the production’s quality, the actor either realizes, “Hey, this could actually be a decent show!” or, “Hey, the Canadian border is only about five hours away! I bet I could make it out of the country before nightfall! I could change my name to Logan and become Mountie and wear one of those silly hats! It’s nothing but maple syrup and Tim Hortons for me from now on! GOODBYE, AMERICA!!!!!!!!”

This is why we lose so many actors to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

It’s a national tragedy.

So please, even if your show is crap, don’t immediately turn to the Mounties. There will be other shows. I promise.

Hang in there.

Of course, none of this applies to my current production of Twelfth Night, which is nothing but fantastic. Buy tickets. We open on Friday. I take over the role of Sir Andrew from the 10th-12th. Be there.

Step 10: Memorize Your Lines

Having been a professional actor for over a month, I feel like I am now experienced enough to begin doling out advice on acting technique. This week, we shall start with a seemingly small but crucial step on your way to winning your Emmy for outstanding supporting actor or actress in a miniseries or TV movie (the highest of all honors). This step is, of course, memorizing your lines, which you would know if you read the title of this post. I made it pretty clear up there. It really says everything you need to know about this entry’s topic. Kind of makes this whole introduction irrelevant. If I had an editor, they might say, “What is this first paragraph? You don’t say anything here at all! Is it just for that weird Emmy joke? Is this going to be more garbled nonsense, like your last post? I can’t read another entry like that. Please, just cross this whole thing out. Also, who’s paying me? I’ve edited nine of these things, and I haven’t seen a dime. Do you have any sort of revenue stream at all? What’s going on here? Is this even a real— Hey, hey, put that down! What are you doing? NO, WAIT—”

Luckily for you, I don’t have an editor.

In my days and days of acting, I have seen several different line memorization techniques. Some actors keep their scripts in neatly organized binders and highlight all their lines and stage directions with a variety of colors. This color-coding helps them visualize their scenes and makes memorization significantly easier when the off-book date arrives. Other actors transcribe all of their scenes onto index cards, which both allows them to shed the cumbersome script during early rehearsals and creates an easy way for them to quiz themselves when the time comes for memorization. Other actors simply begin memorization as soon as possible, going off-book for certain scenes well before the official off-book date, giving them more freedom to explore the space and work on their physicality.

All of these approaches are wrong.

I present to you my Disintegrating Script Technique.™

First, do not keep your script in a binder or folder of any kind. Just stick some sort of heavy duty paper clip on the corner.

Make sure that you do not take any sort of special care of said script. Throw it around. Scribble all over it. Lose the back three pages. It should never look any better than this:

WordPress says, “Images are a vital part of grabbing a visitor’s attention, breaking up long pieces of content, and helping your content be shared across the web.”

WordPress says, “Images are a vital part of grabbing a visitor’s attention, breaking up long pieces of content, and helping your content be shared across the web.”

Soon, your script will be nearly unusable. You will be embarrassed to show it at rehearsal. You will start to lose entire scenes. Your peers will judge you. Your superiors will shake their heads in disappointment.

You must memorize your lines before this happens.

The threat of shame is a powerful motivator. Depending on how much of a slob you are, you’ll probably learn your lines well before the off-book date.

It’s just that simple.

See you next week.

And if you are in Chicago and want to see me in a production of Twelfth Night (you do), buy your tickets here. I will be playing the role of Sir Andrew Aguecheek from October 10th-12th. If you cannot make it that weekend, I will be on stage the other nights as well, but in the smaller roles of the Captain, Officer, and Priest.

Step 9: Go to Rehearsal

Ah ha! You almost forgot this step, didn’t you? This why your email account and cell phone are filled with angry messages from someone named “Stage Manager.” You can’t just go around telling people you’ve been cast. You actually need to attend rehearsals.

First, where are your rehearsals? A theatre? Well, aren’t you fancy? Mr. Fancypants. Fancypants McGee. Lord Fancypants McGee Moneysworth the Third. You’re all like, “Look at me everyone! My rehearsals are in a THE-ATE-RE. I like opera and burning hundred dollar bills in front of the migrant workers who tend to my caviar fields. I’m positively made of money! MADE OF IT. AH HA HA! HEE HEE HEE! HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!”

*ahem*

My point is, if you’re doing storefront theatre, you’ll probably spend some time rehearsing in your director’s house before you get access to theatre space.

So how are you going to get to your director’s house? You’ll drive? In your car? Of course, because you’re all like, “I’m Lord Fancypants McGee Moneysworth the Third and I have a car and a driver’s license. I brush my teeth with escargot and the tears of the impoverished. NO MORE PORRIDGE FOR YOU!  AH HA HA! HEE HEE HE—”

Sorry about that. It won’t happen again.

Take the bus.

Note: The bus, as public transit enthusiasts may notice, is very different from the train. The train is typically full of professional commuters on their way to work. Yes, occasionally you see the odd desperate-looking fellow snorting pinches of cocaine, but note that this individual is always doing it in a quiet and respectful manner. The bus, on the other hand, is full of lunatics who have no understanding of manners or human hygiene. I do not know whether this difference is because of the 25¢ price gap or simple proximity to street level, but if you take the bus, expect a lengthy and laborious journey full of mysterious smells and unnecessary shouting.

Anyway, rehearsals should be fun. Listen to the director, provide input when it seems appropriate, don’t try to coach other actors, and make interesting choices. Try to stay upbeat, don’t be too distracting, and work with your scene partner. You’ll be fine.

I have rehearsals every evening from Sunday to Thursday. However, because I am only playing bit parts and understudying, I don’t have to be at every one. If you are in a leading role, WHY ARE YOU AHEAD OF ME? YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE FOLLOWING THIS BLOG STEP BY STEP! THAT’S WHY I’M PUTTING ALL THIS EFFORT INTO MAKING THIS DARN THING! IF YOU’RE JUST GOING TO BE LIKE, “I’M BETTER THAN JOE. I CAN JUST BE A LEAD RIGHT AWAY. I’M LORD FANCYPANTS MCGEE MONEYSWORTH THE THIRD AND I DON’T NEED SILLY LITTLE BLOGS,” THEN JUST STOP READING! NO ONE WANTS YOU HERE!

SO THERE.

Wait, no, where are you going?

Come back!

No, no, that? I didn’t mean any of that.

No, of course not.

Yes, I know I overused the caps button and kept calling you fancypants. I’m sorry.

I know it was hurtful.

I think your pants are totally normal.

Yes, of course.

They look great on you!

Really.

Please come back next week.

Please?

You will?

Aw, thanks. You’re really sweet.

Oh, you don’t have to flatter me like that.

You’ll read it every week until I stop writing? Wow!

Such commitment. That’s just great.

You’re the best.

No, you’re the best!

No, you!

Aw, alright, if you insist. See you next time, bud!

Step 8: Try to Find a Day Job

You may be thinking, “Day job? But Joe, you just got cast in a professional theatrical production! Don’t you spend your days wandering through willow-filled parks wearing a beret, smoking cigarettes, and reciting your lines for the ducks in the nearby pond, emotionally preparing yourself for a riotous evening rehearsal where you will undoubtedly become so lost in your character that you will not be able to find your way out again without a few midnight drinks at the local pub with your poet-friends?”

To you, good sir or madam, I say, “I know, right?”

Sadly, in these United States we are not nearly civilized enough to provide young actors with enough financial support to allow them to solely focus on the great service they provide humanity. More specifically, I get a hundred dollar stipend for my entire run of shows, and that compensation is as good as or better than that offered by most of the other productions for which I auditioned. So, unless you’ve figured out a way to live on one hundred dollars every two months, you might want to consider a day job.

Unfortunately, the job market is not overflowing with positions for under-qualified staff who must work around audition, rehearsal, and performance schedules.

My initial instinct was to turn back to theatre, where I thought I could find some interesting daytime work while staying close to the industry. Of course, having worked as an intern at a theatre in the past, I should have known that the vast majority of low-level theatre “jobs” are actually all internships, because, if there is one rule that storefront Chicago theatres have learned, it is “Don’t pay someone if they’ll work for free. Or for a hundred dollar stipend.”

So avoid the storefront theatres. Think bigger. Who pays their employees in theatre? Steppenwolf? The Goodman? They must hire daytime workers, right?

Sort of. All their entry level jobs are part-time, and most of them are vaguely-titled positions called something like “Ticket Sales Associate.” I found an opening at one such position at the prestigious Chicago Shakespeare Theater on Navy Pier. I made the mistake of reading “Ticket Sales Associate” as “Box Office Employee,” a job I have done before and would happily do again. I called their hiring office and spoke to a very nice woman who said that no, the job was not in the box office, but in a call center selling season ticket subscriptions. This was not really what I was looking for (for I, dear reader, hate telemarketers as much as you do), but beggars cannot be choosers, so I went in for an interview.

I will not bore you with all the details of the interview, but here are a few highlights:

I did not meet with the nice phone lady, but instead a man who did not know who I was or why I had been called in for an interview.

After exchanging pleasantries, he said, “All right, I’m a customer and I’m interested in buying season tickets. Sell me on them.”

I said, “In that situation, I suppose I would say that—”

“No, just tell me like I’m the customer.”

“Okay, well, I would say—”

“No. I’m the customer.”

“Okay. You’re the customer.” Then, since I had not been trained because I was still applying for the job, I repeated what information I could remember from the website about the upcoming season and the packages available.

“Don’t tell them about the cheaper packages,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“Always try to sell them on all the shows first.”

“Okay.”

“So?” he said, indicating to me.

“Good to know,” I said.

“No, let’s here the pitch.”

The interview went on this way for some time. He would make me pretend to sell tickets. I would. He would tell me why what I did was wrong. I would say okay.

“What if I said I wasn’t interested at all?” he said.

“I would say that I’m sorry to hear that and give them my contact information in case they reconsider.”

“No, I’m the customer.”

“Okay. I’m sorry to hear that. Here is my contact information in case you reconsider.”

“Never take no for an answer.”

“Okay.”

“So?”

“Never take no for an answer.”

“No, pitch me.”

The interview ended with him telling me that they actually only needed people on the evening shift, thus making the position not a day job at all. I also would get paid on commission.

I did not hear back from them.

It’s okay.

It wasn’t a good fit.

Now I spend my days trying to get retail stores on my street to call me back. They never do.

The moral of the story is that if you have a job that pays money, please contact me. I would like it.

Now I’m going to go recite my lines to some ducks.

Step 7: Get Cast

I have been cast in a show.

Applause break.

Since I know that getting cast is the main objective of every aspiring actor, I am going to walk you through this step very carefully. Every little detail might be crucial to replicating my success, so I don’t want to glaze over anything. In fact, I’m going to break down this post into fifty micro-steps that, if followed exactly, should act as a foolproof method for getting cast in any show.

You ready?

Here it goes…

 A Foolproof Method for Getting Cast in Any Show:

  1. Find an audition notice for a production of Twelfth Night on the Chicago Artists Resource website on July 24th, 2014.
  2. Email the production company to reserve an audition time.
  3. Receive an email confirming your audition time and informing you that instead of preparing a monologue, you must prepare one of three Shakespearean sonnets and perform it as if you were reciting the poem for a lover.
  4. Read the email and then forget about it for a week.
  5. Check the email again the night before the audition, panic, print out the sonnets, and then go to sleep.
  6. Wake up the next morning and pick out the one sonnet that you understand (mostly).
  7. Try to memorize it on the bus.
  8. Fail.
  9. Arrive at the theatre way too early. Instead of going in, walk around the block several times before sitting down on a park bench next to a playground.
  10. Recite the sonnet aloud ten to fifteen times, cursing whenever you screw up.
  11. Ignore the worried looks you are receiving from the parents of the nearby children playing on the playground.
  12. Start sweating profusely.
  13. Go into the theatre.
  14. No, not that theatre. There’s a show going on in there and the house manager is not pleased with you.
  15. Oops.
  16. Go to one of the theatres upstairs.
  17. Ask the lady at the bar upstairs about where you might find the Twelfth Night auditions.
  18. She doesn’t know.
  19. Sit on a couch and wait.
  20. Oh, here’s someone. The stage manager?
  21. Yes, the stage manager. You’re still too early, and you’re the first audition of the day, so the director has not yet arrived.
  22. Wait some more.
  23. Here’s the director. “You’re early,” he remarks. You confirm that this is the case. “Well, I guess we’ve got some extra time. Are you ready to go now?” You say yes.
  24. WHAT? Why did you say that? You’re not ready! You’re not ready at all! How does the sonnet go? “Not from the stars does my judgment…” No, wait, “do I my judgment… pick?” No, “do I pick my judgment,” right? No?
  25. Walk into a small theatre off a hallway behind the bar.
  26. “No, it’s pronounced ‘Klane.’ Like ‘main.’ It’s German.”
  27. Recite the sonnet. Get, like, a third of the lines mixed up.
  28. Apologize.
  29. Have the assistant director tell you to stop apologizing.
  30. Try to do the sonnet again, but this time, make it even worse.
  31. Let the director give you some advice.
  32. Don’t listen to the advice. Just do it again, but this time glancing down at the sheet that you printed out last night and crumpled up in your pocket.
  33. The director and the assistant director are trying to help you, but this is going nowhere fast.
  34. Do it one last time, but have the director cut you off halfway through and tell you that he’s seen enough.
  35. Walk out of the theatre, dejected.
  36. Throw your crumpled sonnet sheet at a garbage can outside.
  37. Miss.
  38. Are going to just litter like that? Pick it up, you monster.
  39. Place it in the garbage can like an adult.
  40. Receive an email later that day from the production company saying that, “We really enjoyed your work. Unfortunately, we will not need you for callbacks.”
  41. Mope around for a week.
  42. Receive another email from the Twelfth Night director. He apologizes for the wording of the previous email, saying that, although he did not need you at callbacks, he would still like to offer you the role of Captain/Officer/Priest and Sir Andrew Aguecheek understudy.
  43. Do a little dance.
  44. Wait for a couple of hours. You don’t want to seem desperate.
  45. Ah, who are you kidding? Email the man, for God’s sake!
  46. You’ve been cast!
  47. You’ve really been cast!
  48. HURRAY!
  49. HUUUURRRRRAAAAYYYYYYYYY!
  50. I really want this to be 50 steps, so, like, get a milkshake or something. Doesn’t a milkshake sound good? Milkshake. Yum.

So there you go. How to get cast. Right there, in plain, simple English. Pretty great, huh?

Don’t worry, though, this blog is far from over.

Far, far from over…

 

And if you want to see me in a show, I’ll be in a production of Twelfth Night with Leftend Productions that has performances every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in October at the Den Theatre in Wicker Park. To see me as Sir Andrew, aim for the weekend of 10th-12th. I’ll provide more information when tickets go on sale. In the meantime, feel free to donate to Leftend’s Indiegogo campaign so we can have a set, because sets are good and THEATRE ISN’T FREE, PEOPLE!