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Nov. 2nd, 2003 10:32 pmI just got an e-mail from the director to all the cast and production staff for Good. It was an incredibly complimentary e-mail, congratulating us on an excellent opening night last night.
We did have a good opening performance. The first act was far funnier than it had ever been - stuff that I've always thought was funny was finally being recognized by a live audience. I could see it sort of jarring some of the actors on a few particular moments - I don't think they knew that what they were saying or doing was absurdist or comical in any way. Heh, now they know!
I felt like my song sucked, honestly. I'd been given direction to pull back ever-so-slightly on my volume for it, and so I did. I was also nervous, so this resulted in my not handling my breath as well, and I sorta choked on one phrase. It feels better to sing softer, anyhow, and it gives the lead actor help to make the monologue he speaks over my song much clearer. Apparently the director also told another actor to pull back on the volume, but not the acting, of his song as well. She's concerned (and rightly so) that the lead might have trouble pulling off two straight hours of talking and singing and being the center of the action at all times, and that our normal volume of singing might just be too much for him to talk over comfortably.
At the bar, later, I was halfway into a third glass of merlot when I mentioned my goof with the song. Two castmates shook their heads, and told me that they felt my song was one of the most beautiful moments in the play. Color me surprised. I mean, I sing decently and all, but I never felt as though there were anything more to what I was doing than what was required of me, plus whatever emotion and momentum I could add to it. So, it was a nice little floating moment, what with the wine, the warm dim lighting, the hunks of sourdough bread, the warm chatter all around me.
This play is odd in that it's almost toeing that Brechtian line of being self-referential and meta-realistic. The difference is that the man around whom this play centers is really creating these odd moments because he doesn't have any other way of coping with the morality of his choices. He tries deperately to cling to relativism as he journeys along, but that's where the buck stops. It'd be cruel and self-defeating for the audience to actively point out the flaws in the lead character's methods of coping, because that's not the point. Either he's going to learn to recognize his flaws by the end of the play, or he never will. No matter which happens, his legacy passed on to the audience, to do with it what they will.
What was really fantastic about the audience last night is that they understood that, and played along accordingly. They allowed themselves to be submerged into John Halder's world - the Bavarian mountain bands yodeling as he basks in the glow of a compliment from Hitler, the Wagnerian opera which represents the dysfunctional and sexless marriage between him and his wife. The interaction between Halder and the audience was palpable - he would ask for understanding, and the audience would react with laughter, with gentle mm's, with small gasps of surprise, with utter silence. On our side of the shimmering wall of stage light we kept our cool and our characters, and in that safe, quiet darkness, the audience kept their dignity, smarts, and sense of play intact.
It was a deeply satisfying sort of reward, for all those weeks of work. Would that all such endeavors were met with such fierce dedication and respect. On both sides.
We did have a good opening performance. The first act was far funnier than it had ever been - stuff that I've always thought was funny was finally being recognized by a live audience. I could see it sort of jarring some of the actors on a few particular moments - I don't think they knew that what they were saying or doing was absurdist or comical in any way. Heh, now they know!
I felt like my song sucked, honestly. I'd been given direction to pull back ever-so-slightly on my volume for it, and so I did. I was also nervous, so this resulted in my not handling my breath as well, and I sorta choked on one phrase. It feels better to sing softer, anyhow, and it gives the lead actor help to make the monologue he speaks over my song much clearer. Apparently the director also told another actor to pull back on the volume, but not the acting, of his song as well. She's concerned (and rightly so) that the lead might have trouble pulling off two straight hours of talking and singing and being the center of the action at all times, and that our normal volume of singing might just be too much for him to talk over comfortably.
At the bar, later, I was halfway into a third glass of merlot when I mentioned my goof with the song. Two castmates shook their heads, and told me that they felt my song was one of the most beautiful moments in the play. Color me surprised. I mean, I sing decently and all, but I never felt as though there were anything more to what I was doing than what was required of me, plus whatever emotion and momentum I could add to it. So, it was a nice little floating moment, what with the wine, the warm dim lighting, the hunks of sourdough bread, the warm chatter all around me.
This play is odd in that it's almost toeing that Brechtian line of being self-referential and meta-realistic. The difference is that the man around whom this play centers is really creating these odd moments because he doesn't have any other way of coping with the morality of his choices. He tries deperately to cling to relativism as he journeys along, but that's where the buck stops. It'd be cruel and self-defeating for the audience to actively point out the flaws in the lead character's methods of coping, because that's not the point. Either he's going to learn to recognize his flaws by the end of the play, or he never will. No matter which happens, his legacy passed on to the audience, to do with it what they will.
What was really fantastic about the audience last night is that they understood that, and played along accordingly. They allowed themselves to be submerged into John Halder's world - the Bavarian mountain bands yodeling as he basks in the glow of a compliment from Hitler, the Wagnerian opera which represents the dysfunctional and sexless marriage between him and his wife. The interaction between Halder and the audience was palpable - he would ask for understanding, and the audience would react with laughter, with gentle mm's, with small gasps of surprise, with utter silence. On our side of the shimmering wall of stage light we kept our cool and our characters, and in that safe, quiet darkness, the audience kept their dignity, smarts, and sense of play intact.
It was a deeply satisfying sort of reward, for all those weeks of work. Would that all such endeavors were met with such fierce dedication and respect. On both sides.
