Table work, table work – and table work

Days 7 and 8: Wednesday, February 22 and Thursday, February 23

Sorry for the delay, but (at the risk of quoting both Beckett and Sam and Dede, “every day’s been the same").

We’ve spent the last two days in our tiny room on 29^th Street, going over the script with a fine-tooth comb, paying particular attention to the punctuation. Some of it’s been tedious, some of it’s been exhilarating, so in that regard, it’s just like any other rehearsal process. We’ve been finishing at 5:00, rather than the scheduled 6:00, for the dual reasons that we’re done and the room-rental rates going up at 5:00.

After Wednesday’s session, I was going to the theatre (more in a moment), so I had about 2 and a ½ hours to kill. Part of that time was taken in walking up to our theatre on 59^th to pick up some postcards for the show. While we were up there, I decided to get supper, but couldn’t figure out what I wanted. Since we were near the Plaza Hotel, I thought I might try the new food court in its basement. There were plenty of options (mainly coffee- and bread-related, it seemed), but I somehow got my mind set on fried chicken, and a quick glance at Yelp told me about a place that had a fried chicken sandwich. I went and, while expecting an actual sit-down restaurant, got more of an upscale fast food place. The fare—potato tots with a dusting of Parmesan, bottled iced tea, and a chicken breast that had been pounded almost paper-thin—was adequate, but not particularly satisfying. I still had time, so I headed to a Starbucks just north of the Theatre District, and had a small cup of tea, when proceeded to the theatre on 42^nd for Arthur Miller’s The Price. 

The postcard/poster for the show

The show kind of matched the sandwich; kinda dull and drowse-inducing. There were some good moments, some odd moments (most of which involved Danny DeVito, of all people, playing an octogenarian Yiddish furniture appraiser; he had a long bit of business that involved Jerry Lewis-levels of spitting out a hard-boiled egg as he was eating it, but I couldn’t tell if that—or his constant seeming to fumble for lines—was part of the script or an actor’s invention). I struggled to maintain consciousness (don’t know how successful I was), but it eventually ended and I headed home.

Once here, I decided to go to bed early, thinking I could sleep in (9:45!), but somehow woke at 8:00 and couldn’t get back to sleep.

Once I did get up (and the last two days, it’s been overcast, so the morning sun hasn’t gotten to me), it was almost a rerun of yesterday. There’s a snack bar at the rehearsal place, but the prices are ridiculous ($2.50 for a Snickers?), so I planned on bringing fruit today. Since there’s been a farmer’s market in Union Square every day this week, I figured I could get something good there, but they picked today to take the day off, so I bought a flavorless apple and a decent orange at a bodega (a dollar each).

We worked on Scene 5 today (the longest in the play), and got a lot of good work done. Afterward, I walked home, vacillated about having dinner, and, while deciding, stopped at the place I’d read about on Yelp that specialized in foot massages. Having averaged 7 or 8 miles at day this last week, I figured I needed one, so went in, told the receptionist what I needed, and she ushered me into the back, where the masseuse rubbed down my back, arms, neck, and legs, and utterly ignored my feet. It was good work—and something I did need—but not what I wanted. Oh, well.

After that, it was home, a nap, then finally trying a burger place Yelp recommended that was, again, just okay. A so-so patty melt, house-made potato chips, and a beer, followed by a froyo cone at a hole in the wall that specializes in fried foods (especially beignets and Oreos, from the looks of the place) and frozen yogurt.

Then it was back here, a little TV, and catching up here.

My biggest concern right now is that my throat’s felt a little raw most of the evening, so I hope it’s just being tired and not the onset of anything. Thanks to Pidge’s suggestion, I found some zinc lozenges in my suitcase and had one. Since rehearsal is here tomorrow, I can really sleep late and will hopefully be able to this time.

We shall see what tomorrow brings.

Four people enter a small room; only four come out

Day 6: Tuesday, February 21

As predicted, I’ve been sleepy most of the day. Fortunately, we didn’t start until noon (our rehearsals are mostly scheduled from 12:00 to 6:00), so I could sleep a little later than expected.

Sharing a bathroom is always tricky, so I have to admit I’ve been getting up a little early so I can be the first to get done. (Fortunately, there’s a powder room downstairs, so no one has to hold it if necessary. There’s no shower, though, so that part of the morning ablutions has to wait.) I was even done early enough that I had time for a quick nap before I had to leave.

We’re rehearing the next couple of days at a building on 29^th Street, so it’s not terribly far (about a 35-minute walk [and, yes, it’s west on 11^th, north on 4^th, then up Broadway, as everything seems to be for me]). I walked and it turned out that Beth (who had taken the subway) was right behind me. We took the elevator to the second floor (I didn’t see any stairs), and found our room, which was the approximate size of—well, I was going to say “phone booth,” but who knows what that means anymore? Suffice it to say, it was small, but since we were just sitting around the table and doing table work (reading through and discussing the script, rather than getting up and moving), we didn’t need much room. We went through the first three scenes of the show, paying particular attention to punctuation and indicated pauses (some of which had been overlooked in the rush to get the original production up), and it seemed to make a difference. The challenge for me will be to reconcile three things: staying true to that punctuation, seeming Beckett-like, and also seeming like a real human being. In a realistic sense, I should be able to do it (I’d better be able to do it … ); it’ll just add depth to what I did the last time. I’m just suddenly wondering if my previous fear of being over-rehearsed will lead to a feeling of under-rehearsal. (It shouldn’t; we’ve got all this week to do the table work and give a foundation to the blocking, which shouldn’t be substantially different from what we’ve already done—and we’ve got a week to review that before getting into the theatre.) 

 The room we rehearsed in. Actual size.

We broke at 5:00, and my potential plan was to spend the evening listening to Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks (a 1920s dance band that plays at a restaurant in the Theatre District every Monday and Tuesday), but I was just too darn sleepy to sit and listen for three hours. In spite of that torpor, I texted a friend about having dinner, and we settled on John’s Pizzeria, which is in the same area. We split a salad and a pizza, but by the end of the meal, I was all but falling asleep, so I decided to just come home, even if I decided to it by walking.

Once again, I hoofed it down Broadway to the East Village (you know the route by now), collected the mail (one of the three task requests from our hosts; the others are to water the plants, which I did last night, and to make sure the place is left as clean as we found it), came upstairs, planned to do a little surfing, but feel asleep for about an hour.

The Nighthawks (Vince Giordano is in the back

with the metallic bass)

I eventually roused myself, watched some television, wrote a little—I am not caught up, daywise—and will soon be looking at my lines for tomorrow and getting a little more sleep than usual (I might even get eight hours!). It’s Beth’s birthday tomorrow, so she’s got the day off from rehearsal, which means she shouldn’t be needing to use the bathroom at the same time as I, so I can get up about a half-hour later than I did today, before I head off. (And Friday will be even better, since we’re rehearsing here.)
 
We’ll break at 5:00 again tomorrow, and I have tickets to Arthur Miller’s The Price at the American Airlines, so I’ll have a couple hours to kill before curtain. It’s one of those time slots that it doesn’t make sense to come all the way back here, so I’ll probably find someplace where I can get a cup of tea and read.

And we’re off!

Day 5: Monday, February 20

We started rehearsals today.

I think there’s an almost-universal problem for all non-resident theatre companies in finding rehearsal spaces. I know that’s frequently true in the Bay Area, and it seems to be true here, as well. (I’ll amend that to “affordable” rehearsal space.)

I think that’s the case with us. We can’t get into our theatre until March 6^th (there’s another show in there now), so we’re itinerant until then. As such, we held the first rehearsal in the director’s apartment, way the hell uptown. We were scheduled to start at noon, and the first part of the day was consumed with paperwork (isn’t that always the way the first day of a new job?). We were scheduled to follow that up with a read-through—basically getting our feet under us again—but had to wait for the playwright to arrive. That wasn’t a problem; we had enough to talk about and it was good for everyone to get reacquainted. When he finally arrived, he pretty much immediately got up and went into the kitchen, which I assume was a move to allow him to listen to the play rather than be distracted by our dashing good looks. (I mean, he was laughing appropriately at stuff from the other room, so I assumed that’s what he was doing,) Unfortunately, he had to leave before too long, so he didn’t hear everything, but he seemed pleased with what he did hear (he’s coming back later this week).

After we finished, we discussed some things about the script and what we’ll be doing in our two weeks of rehearsal (and where we’ll be), then broke. We had talked about going out to dinner, but the options didn’t sound great to me, so I decided to head downtown and hit Shake Shack while Beth (the stage manager) and Leah (our director) went … someplace. I took the subway about seventy blocks to 86^th Street, then walked to the Shack across the street from the Museum of Natural History, figuring it was too chilly to eat al fresco at the Madison Square location and the one on 46^th and Eighth is always a zoo. It turned out not to be a bad choice. I actually had my choice of two tables and the food was good as always.
I felt the need for a walk, and decided that I’d go as far as I could on the hoof, then take the subway as necessary. As it turned out, I walked all the way (about 75 street blocks and a few avenues), and it was cold, but not terribly so. (More weird weather. It was in the 40s today, but will be approaching 70 later this week. Go figure.)

 No promotional considerations were involved

with this plug

I got home, wrote yesterday’s entry, looked at my lines, and turned in. Unfortunately, it was late, and between the noise outside Tuesday morning and the overall poor quality of sleep, Tuesday looked to be a drowsy day

Every day is like another / Theatre Adrenaline

Days 3 and 4: Saturday, February 18 and Sunday, February 19

I hadn’t planned on doing two days at once, but Saturday and Sunday weren’t all that dissimilar: a matinee, dinner with an old friend, and a second show in the evening, so why not combine them?

Let’s start with Saturday. It was unseasonably warm (in the mid-60s), so for the first time I was able to ditch my sweater and heavier jacket and stick with a short-sleeved shirt and windbreaker.

I walked up to the Theatre District (I’m getting real familiar with this walk: west on 11^th to Fourth Street, Fourth to Broadway, and then north as far as I need to go) and actually got to the theatre a little early to see Sunday in the Park with George, which is a musical I love. We saw the last Broadway revival in 2008 and were sobbing at the end of Act One, so this one had a lot to live up to. 

I went in with great hopes (given the reviews of last year’s concert version that had turned into this full production), and was very interested to see the Hudson Theatre, which is simultaneously the newest and oldest theatre on Broadway. “How is this possible,” you may ask? The building itself was constructed in 1903, but for the last 50 years or so, it’s been either dark or a conference center. (In the ‘50s, it was the home of Steve Allen’s Tonight Show, so there’s that, too.) It’s a nice facility, comfortable, good sight lines, but suffers from kind of a sterility (sort of a yellow-beige paint scheme with bronze-tone seating) and is hampered with some of its original architecture (narrow staircases, odd bathroom lines—stanchions and velveteen ropes to control lines, but only a single entrance and exit, so incoming and outgoing traffic are always bumping into each other). I’m sure that it’ll settle in soon enough, but for now, let’s say it’s not my favorite theatre.

As for the show, it just missed for me. Performances, led by Jake Gyllenhaal and Annaleigh Ashford are good and professional and well-sung, but fall short of the transcendence I want from this show. The technical aspects are good (especially the chromolume), but it’s not what it might be.

Meh.

After the show, I walked back down to the East Village (down Broadway to Fourth to 13^th Street this time) for dinner with an old college friend, whose career path I quite admire. Those of my readers who have read my other blog may be familiar with Jack Cantwell. Jack was an actor at Cal State Fullerton in the ‘70s. He was “old” (that is to say, in his 40s) and had had a successful career in business (insurance?) before finally being able, with the support of his wife and family, to do what he always wanted to do and pursue a career in acting. He wasn’t great—in fact, in some things, he was plain awful—but he was sincere, enthusiastic, and living his dream.

In a similar way, this friend (who shall go unnamed, but those of my readers who know her will know of whom I’m speaking) decided that, at long last, she was going to get her MFA in acting—in New York, off all places—and is almost done with the process. (The main difference between her and Jack is that she’s a really good actress.) We talked about old times and the future, and generally had a fine time before we walked over to the Classic Stage Company for their production of The Liar by Pierre Corneille, as translated and adapted by David Ives. It’s an absolutely delightful production and script—modern, self-referential, smart, funny. It’s a rhyming couplets, which can become tedious, but Ives’s rhymes are clever and unexpected. 

It's that kind of a show

After that, it was a search for some ice cream (which I found; good cookies-n-cream, not as good butter pecan) and then home to write some and study my script. I even finished early enough that I was finally able to get a good night’s sleep—even if I apparently missed a singing, screaming, shouting match that lasted from 4:00 am to 4:30.

Sunday, my initial goal was to find a New York Times, so I walked over to a bodega I can see from my bedroom window—only to discover it’s actually a flower shop. I walked all the way around the block, found a 7-11 with the paper, and came back to the apartment (there was no way I going to lug it around all day), only to discover an actual bodega just on the other side of the block that carried it. Live and learn.

The weather was even nicer than Saturday (I think my chances of seeing snow are slim at best), but since I was going to Lincoln Center that night, I felt like I had to wear a nice shirt and sports coat, so I had the choice of sweating all day or hauling my coat over my shoulder. (An odd thing I’ve noticed the last few days, even though it’s been warm during the daylight hours, people are still bundled up in ski jackets and scarves like it’s the arctic out there; it’s not.)

I walked up to the theatre district yet again, this time to see Come From Away, a new musical by Irene Sankoff and David Hein based on real events. After 9/11, when U.S, airspace was closed, 38 planes from around the world were forced to land at the airport at Gander, Newfoundland, meaning there nearly 8,000 extra people were jammed into a town that normally has a population of only 10,000.

I have to admit I was a little dubious about it going in; I didn’t know just what kind of a musical it was going to be. The last time I felt that way about a show was when I saw Natasha and Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812. I thought, “Do I really want to see this?,” but went in—and had an incredible time. This was the same thing. (I need to start distrusting my feelings even more.) This show starts with people being hearty and stomping in time to the opening number, so I was a little worried, but in a way that was the opposite of my experience with La La Land (where the opening number started with promise and lost me after two minutes), Come From Away won me over almost immediately and never let go (with the exception of one number that seems completely out of place and virtually stops the show—in the wrong way). The show recovers, though, and is one of the best things I’ve ever seen. It’s warm, human, funny, and is the kind of show I almost wished would never stop. The biggest drawback was the three guys in front of me. The one on the right kept checking his phone and texting someone. The one in the middle kept bending over and taking notes on a pad (I assumed he was a critic, which surprised me because, even though they review shows in preview, this was only the second preview.) The one on the left kept leaning over and talking to the other two. In my imagination, I pulled the middle guy aside and told him never to go to the theatre again.

Imagine my surprise then, when, after the show, they started talking and I realized they were part of the production staff, and the middle guy turned to me and apologized if they’d been at all disturbing. I felt like a boob for having hated them and told them how much I loved the show.

Like I said on Facebook, "See this show."

After that, I had some time to kill, so I wandered over to the Drama Book Store and bought the script for The Liar, then headed uptown for dinner. I sat in Central Park a little while—it was a lovely spring evening even if it was February—then walked over the restaurant where I was meeting a woman whom I’d directed in a show a few years ago and who has since moved to New York to pursue her acting career. (And, of course, she’s waiting tables in the meantime … ) We had a great time, even if the restaurant, which I expected to be kind of dead, was packed and extremely loud.

We finished and I walked over to Lincoln Center (basically across the street) to see a 25^th anniversary concert of Ken Ludwig and George and Ira Gershwin’s Crazy For You, directed and choreographed by Susan Stroman, who had done the original. I had high hopes for this one. It’s a great score, the numbers are breathtakingly good, and it had an all-star cast. As I mentioned on social media, it’s rare that I have sky-high hopes and expectations that are not only met, but exceeded to the point of being obliterated.

Maybe it was the fact that they knew they had only one shot at it, maybe it was that numbers that had previously taken over a whole stage were forced into a tiny rectangle in front of a chorus of about 200 singers (and that is no exaggeration) and an orchestra, but from the opening number, the whole thing took off like a rocket and never came close to touching the ground. It was one of those evenings where even a guy like me, who gives a standing ovation reluctantly at best (and then usually only to be able to see around people), shot up from my seat at the end of Act One (I even shouted in joy at the end of the show; I wasn’t alone). It was one of those transcendent evenings that we usually only dream of. When I came out, I was in sort of a haze of adrenaline and inspiration. I just did not want to leave the theatre, and when I finally did, didn’t want to leave Lincoln Center. I wanted the whole damn thing to start over again.

"I'm up among the stars / On earthly things I frown"

I kind of floated back to Times Square, caught the subway home, get lost by taking an unfamiliar route, and came back to the apartment, which was shockingly quiet—there were no drunken brawls outside. Oh, sure, the occasional drunken shout, but mostly peaceful and serene. It was a nice change of pace and the perfect prologue to Monday, the day rehearsals began.