I’m still vertical. It’s a low bar for living, but there you are.
After this experience—rehearsing for my first stage role in nearly 20 years—I wish I had something profound to say about the craft of acting—preferably something that hasn’t been said before. The truth is, although this is the last of the actor’s journals, it may be a while before I can express in words how my Estragon came to fruition and whether it will ultimately be successful. It’s hard to have eagle eye vision when you’re still standing in the middle of the flames of production.
As I write this, we are preparing for a preview for members of the Board of Directors of BFT and selected invitees. The night previous, all costumes, props, lighting, and set were finalized. A well-known photographer of Birmingham Theatre, Steven Ross, came to document the show during that Final Dress Rehearsal. Earlier that day, Ray and Cliff did a great job promoting the show on Talk of Alabama.
It’s here. After nearly a year, the show is here.
I’m still standing. Or stooping, as so often is Gogo’s stance.
The sheer physical demands of the show are as such that one element will not even be present in our production—that of makeup. Lucky might wear some, but for the rest of us, we would simply melt in our heavy winter costumes under a wash of stage lighting in what will still be a very humid September; the air conditioning will most likely be set for the comfort of the audience, not us. We more peel our costumes off than remove them after a run.
But the Wednesday night performance, for all intents and purposes, was Waiting for Godot, a show I thought would never happen. Through the postponements, an arduous rehearsal process, the letting-go of a cast member, acclimating to a new one...As BFT’s slogan for the show reads, the wait really is finally over. All that is left are the audiences. So far, we have sold a little over a hundred tickets.
One must remember it is the beginning of football season in Alabama. So, not many wives who might be predisposed to do something cultural can pry their husbands away to theaters. That, and the absurd nature of the play might keep many away. But I have been surprised at the number of seats sold for our opening weekend which is, after all, a long holiday weekend for most 9 to 5ers.
It seems Labor Day has a healthy advance and the second weekend too. Perhaps with word of mouth, the final weekend will begin filling up. I have seen packed shows at BFT (a 108 person capacity) and I have seen them with relatively few, as some of their productions have been demanding on an audience more and more leery of being provoked.
Que sera sera: it’s here and there’s nothing else but to give each audience, no matter how large or small, their money’s worth.
I hope through this process I have been generally good to my fellow actors and director, not been too much of a diva or a snob. I regret not being more demanding of myself re: the memorizing of the lines. But, on the other hand, I have not missed a single day of work (or a single day of reading plays or a single day of working on this journal), so it’s been a full plate. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. You know how to eat an elephant, don’t you? One bite at a time. But this has been a pretty damned big elephant.
So, we’re back at the beginning. A few colleagues converge to tell a story for an audience. Each audience member will walk away with their own interpretation of the play. Our costume designer, Martha Summey (an old friend from my teaching days) has only ever read and seen the play in French, so this is quite a different experience for her. I wonder what she’ll think of the English rendering, which I’ve read more and more has startling differences and contains language the English-speaking world wouldn’t have accepted in the mid-1950s.
I wonder what my family and friends will make of it. In order to be grounded in reality, my friends and family are earthy people—simple but not simplistic, easy-going, not artsy. They make life normal for me which aides in my process of creating art. (I would hate to be surrounded by a bunch of neurotics like me. I’d never get anything done.) Will they have any clue what’s going on on the stage? Often, we actors don’t even know and I’ve known this play since middle school. Or, sharp as most audiences are, will they get the main thrust or just enjoy the physical gags? Or stay long enough to see them?
I wonder all these things, but I can’t dawdle on them.
The cliché of clichés: the show must go on.
We’re here. We wait. We go on waiting. At least for three weekends.
Godot, you magnificent bastard, I’ve read your book, taken your name, and I set to work.
Wish me the breaking of the legs.
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