Another op’nin, another play
In Shakopee or at Dor’thy Day
But usually it’s the VOA…
Most
professional theatres have opening nights. There is glamour, maybe just
a faint whiff, but it’s in the air nevertheless: press and theatre
cognoscenti are out front along with family, friends and scores of
"hope you’re great" or "hope you die" colleagues. The buzz of the
audience before the show has a special electricity that’s infectious.
When the cast arrives at the theatre there are often bouquets of
flowers, notes, chocolates and other giftie goodness waiting for you in
your dressing room. The show goes on and it’s great or it’s not and
then afterwards, there’s some kind of party or reception, either in the
theatre lobby or a nearby restaurant, where some of the best
unrecognized acting in the Twin Cities happens. People come up to you,
eyes a little too bright, smiles a little too wide and enthusiastically
embrace you so you can’t see their faces: "Darling, you took great risks!" "You should have been where I was sitting!" "Only YOU could have given such a performance!" "Your makeup was fan-tastic!"
are just a few of the memorable comments lobbed in my direction over
the years. I think there should be an Ivey Award for best post-show
performance by an audience member. And bless our actor hearts, we fall
and feed greedily on each stinking lie. Hearts are made to be broken,
but please, just not tonight.
That’s most professional theatres. TTT has an opening day.
Almost always at the Volunteers of America Women’s Correctional
Facility. Located in Roseville, the VOA is set well back from the road
and if you weren’t looking for it, other than a discreet sign at the
drive you’d never know it was there. It resembles a suburban
high-school, albeit with a lot more locks. TTT always performs in the
common room adjacent to the cafeteria.
Our
first performance is scheduled for 1pm on Feb 14 (Valentine’s Day) and
the company is supposed to arrive at noon to give us time to unload the
set, props and musical instruments off the van, set up and otherwise
prepare for the performance. Driving east from Mpls on I-94 I am a
little nervous still about my lines and start mumbling my way through
the play. I’m relieved to learn that I still remember everything but
alarmed to learn that I’ve missed my exit. I call Nancy Waldoch,
our amazing stage manager, effusively apologize and promise that I’ll
only be ten minutes late. "That’s OK, glad you’re all right!" she
chirps brightly but I can decode the reproach: "Guess you’ll miss the load-in, Hendrickson. How conveeeeen-ient!"
My
battered Subaru roars into the parking lot to see that the van is
indeed empty and parked. Shit! I grab my costume garment bag and stride
across the icy pavement as briskly as I can. I am met at the door by a
stern uniformed matron with a clipboard and a "just where do you think you’re
going?" expression. But after I announce I’m with the band her face
brightens, she says hi and I sign in. After passing through three sets
of locked being held open by staff, I’m in the common room, where all
is motion and controlled chaos. The inmates are still finishing their
lunch in the open adjacent cafeteria The set is in a jumble in one
corner and the rest of the company are pushing sofas and chairs into
the next room to clear our playing space. I’ve played the VOA six or
seven times now so I know the drill. Our dressing room is a tiny
library off the common room. The doorway has been festooned with a
homemade banner welcoming us and inside, plates of cookies and bottled
water await. I cross the common room borne on a non-stop round of
apologies for my lateness, drop my bag in the library and, without even
pausing for a cookie, go out to lend an extra-big hand in setting up.
After
putting the room more or less into performance shape, the actors
re-group in the library to get into costume. It is said (by me, at
least) that actors have no modesty and TTT actors even less. The
library is maybe 10X10 feet with two tables. One large table holds the
cookies, water and Valentine goodies brought by some of the cast,
another, smaller table is piled high with garment bags dumped there
when each actor arrived. No mirrors, no hooks or hangers and absolutely
no privacy. There we are, three men, three women, stripping down to our
scanties and back into costume with nary a shrug of uneasiness. The
room is bright with anxious chatter about pending Valentine’s Day
observances (or lack thereof), complaints about the cold weather and
last minute blocking adjustments to accommodate the new space. Our
director Larissa Kokernot arrives, still in the fearful grip of La Grippe, but looking cheerful and bearing lovely cards for each of us. Michelle Hensley
pops in to let us know we’re on in five and we scurry to finish
dressing and take our places. The audience have seated themselves and
the room is packed- not an empty seat to be had and people scurry to
find a few more chairs. Michelle always makes a short speech to the
audience, giving them a bit of background about the Orpheus and
Eurydice legend and playwright Sarah Ruhl’s conceit of having the land
of the living and land of the dead sometimes occupy the same space at
the same time. She finishes up, there is a polite round of applause,
and we’re off…
Next: The First Performance
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