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Showing posts with label musicals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label musicals. Show all posts

Thursday, 5 June 2014

Behind The Curtain

For someone who loves theatre, it can be quite a difficult undertaking to actually go and watch a show. Having probably been behind the curtain more often then I've been in front, watching a play or musical isn't ever really the same after you've been blinded by the spots and heard the roar of a sea of silhouettes. The problem, for me anyway, is that the illusion is no longer quite as strong once you've tasted the nerves and the adrenaline, and seen how it all works first hand. If I could sum it up, it's like watching a magician, knowing exactly how he's going to escape the locked container.

In my eyes, I see the stage through a cross-section. I hear the overture and instantly I think of the actors waiting in the wings, the technical team setting off smoke machines and prepping scene changes. But what does all that look like to the uninformed observer? Post-show, the first thing people ask is how things are done. And there is usually a pretty simple answer. But there's also a long tale that lies behind it. So I thought I'd show you how it all works...

The Quiet Before The Storm
Long before the audience is through the door, the actors are in the theatre, receiving notes from the night before, warming up vocally and physically, and generally relaxing. Entering an empty theatre is an extremely strange experience. The thought of the place being full an hour later is almost foreign.


As the house opens though and you hear those first voices coming over the PA system in the dressing rooms, subconsciously, the edge begins to grow. You focus. It's time to start creating characters.

And then comes the waiting. And the nervous energy. When you hear the 15-minute call over the PA, you slowly see people change. The loud can become very quiet. The calm, restless. And then it's through that stage door, and all you can hear is the hum of the audience. And then it really kicks in.


And then it's out, into that blinding, great white light.


Of course, that's not all that goes into it. Throughout the performance, there are people working tirelessly in the wings, silently ordering lighting changes and directing teams of men in black through scene changes, smoke machines and audience blinders, all so the audience is none the wiser.


In the midst of a performance, although you're constantly focussed, there's so much going on around you, and also so little. Depending on the part, you can be sat around for an hour or more - maybe even time to nip out for a pint. But then you can be on and off in seconds, and dressed in something new. Which means getting it all out side of stage. If you're lucky, you might even get a dresser to chase you around.
And, in the madness, there's the fun. Otherwise, why would we do it? You get a performance under your belt, and then nervous energy is channeled for the good, and you relax.

Not to mention the obligatory photos!
So, I ask you, why would you want to be anywhere else but behind the curtain, part of the cross-section?

*All photos courtesy of the very talented Rob Watson. He does weddings, don't you know?! Let me know if I can put you in touch.
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Monday, 21 October 2013

Post-Show Blues

post·show·blues

[post-shoh-blooz]noun 

1. the state of emotional fragility felt in the time following an extended run of theatrical performance.

 
"I went to the Doctor. There was nothing he could do. He said that I had it, had the post-show blues."
 
It's not unusual to feel a little down on a Monday. The weekend's over, you've not fully recovered from Saturday night and, to top it all off, it's pissing it down. But it's not for any of those reasons that I've felt slightly sullen today. You see, I have a case of the post-show blues.

Having not been on stage for a few years, I'd forgotten the feeling. The boredom, the quietness, the moping. In this case, it's only a small does of the blues - my birthday is just days away, I've another part to start preparing for and I'll be seeing my fellow cast mates before the week is out. But after a non-stop week of 'work, perform, sleep, repeat', it's difficult not to miss all the fun that you didn't have chance to appreciate. 

It's similar to that comedown you experience after a holiday, except you're absolutely knackered and therefore twice as dramatic and sensitive. I imagine it's akin to how the remains of S Club 7 feel in between half-hearted DJ sets at forgettable universities... It's the kind of feeling where opening the door to an empty fridge leaves you on the verge of tears. 

The best part of post-show blues is that, if you have it, you know you've shared something great. In show week, you live in each others pockets, make new friends and share in the applause that you've all worked so hard for. You make jokes about the script that no one else could possibly get - and those jokes stay with you! I have friends now who still bring out stories from shows we did in our mid teens. Which, cheesy as it sounds, is one of the greatest things about theatre. None of us are paid to act - we do it because we love it. And what could be better than sharing that.

Before this descends into a love in, I'd like to say thank you to every one who had anything to do with Thoroughly Modern Millie. To those who sewed costumes, designed lighting schedules or came to watch. But most of all, to the cast and production team, thank you and well done... I'm thoroughly depressed.
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