Stepping Behind the Scenes of The 39 Steps*

Tags

acting, comedy, Hitchcock, The 39 Steps, Theater, Theatre, Whidbey, Whidbey Island, Whidbey Island Center for the Arts

As many of you know, I’ve been working on The 39 Steps. Playing Clown #2 in this production has been one of the most rewarding acting experiences of my life. Seriously. 

The reason I’m able to transition so seamlessly between my nineteen characters is because of crew member Evan Ray. I jokingly refer to him as “my handler.” Honestly, there aren’t adjectives adequate enough to express how wonderful he is, but I’ll try: Evan is one of the sharpest, most intelligent humans I have ever met. His meticulous organizational skills are mind-bending, he is always at the ready with a bottle of water and a fan so that I don’t keel over and he has the magical ability to keep himself and me calm throughout the backstage frenzy. He is as much a part of building my characters as my acting craft. 

Please enjoy this post he’s written about his process behind the scenes.

-Katie

Guest post by Evan Ray:

*Can you find the Alfred Hitchcock references hidden in this essay?

“How far is Winnipeg from Montreal?,” Hannay exclaims from his box in the audience. As Mr. Memory sorts through his extensive intracranial filing cabinet, I head toward the stage right clothing hooks. That was my cue to prepare Katie’s next costume change, the second of over twenty (it’s hard to count!) that will occur throughout the show. There are many instances like this one in the backstage orchestration of The 39 Steps, components of our own behind the scenes blocking that has formed both consciously and unconsciously in rehearsal and run. The play requests a high degree of organization from its stage crew and we make it our goal to bring that to the table (wings and booth?) in return. In a review of paper tech at the start of tech weekend, our stage manager, Kathy Stanley, produced a prompt book that likely contained more lighting, sound, and backstage cues than actual dialogue. My own script is full of graphs and charts reminding me how to position costumes for the most efficient quick-changes and notes about finally remembering not to leave the loops on that one dress over the hanger.

In spite of all our planning, an equivalent amount of creative problem-solving and quick thinking is necessary in a play notorious for rapid-fire action. If an actor is exiting the stage with a torn curtain—or a chair in three pieces, as the case may be—it is the backstage crew’s job to figure out what to do about it in that moment, especially if the prop will be needed later in the performance. For me, this synthesis of careful coordination and quick improvisation is one of the things that makes being backstage for The 39 Steps both an intense and intensely rewarding and enjoyable experience.

The clock reads 6:01 as I enter the mainstage door. I make brief stops at the sign-in sheet and green room and then start on the pre-show checklist. This consists of making sure the right props are onstage for the top of the show and the correct footlight is in place and “where did those biscuits go?” and the battery for the lamp is plugged in and “really, what happened to the shortbread?” and all of the money is in the right pockets and “seriously, who would have taken something from the prop table?!?.” Phew!

Compere jacket #2, British police cape, sideburns on a headband, three stuffed sheep—this is the eclectic inventory of items I pile onto my arm before heading to stage left to do final checks on the coat hooks and prop tables. “Fifteen to places.” We look over the stage one last time. Everyone makes sure the lamp works, independently of one another. No wonder the battery goes so fast. “Ten to places.” Water bottles are filled. “Five to places.” Are the safety lights on? “Actors in places and….

Here we go!” During the performance, it stays as busy backstage as it was before the show. My notes to myself, verbatim, often look something like the following: “Assist change to milkman SR (stage right), then hightail it to SL (stage left) with trench coat and bring compere jacket #1, dropping off clown hat along the way. Make sure sunglasses are in right pocket. Prepare coat with cape, take milkman costume quietly from Tristan, and assist Katie’s change to salesman SL. Then get to dressing room pronto for Bristol’s change to Pamela.” Yes, indeed, there’s certainly plenty to do and the pedometer in my phone doesn’t rest often.

Collaboration is key; this is especially evident in the middle of the show. A play itself is a giant feat of collaboration and the backstage crew is a smaller collaboration within the larger. Sometimes one action will involve many members of the crew, such as the shadow screen plane scene in Act I. Other things fall into a natural sequence; after a while you begin to notice patterns, walking past the same person in the hallway carrying the same things after that one scene.

Once the intermission checklist has been completed (tea is poured, chairs are placed, rope on the banner is properly set, etc.), it’s time for Act II. “Actors in places!”  We sometimes refer to Act I as “the busy act” (it is, after all, the act where I run from “flying” a plane to trigger the fog machine and then immediately open the mid-traveler), but there are still many things to be done in the second half. Sheep must be herded positioned, flannel nightshirts must be wrestled with, and then there is what seems to and may be a matter of seconds to strike and reset the stage for the final scenes.

Curtains close, lights go up—it’s time to pre-set for the next show. This means lots of sweeping (if you’ve come to see The 39 Steps already, you’ll probably know why), tracking down errant opera glasses, or trying to attain some semblance of order in that one chaotic stash of costumes that always accrues on stage left. The post-show checklist is as important as the pre-show one, as this is the time where that one pair of sunglasses can be located before it has had time to disappear into the woodwork, seemingly of its own accord, and make you spend fifteen minutes looking for it the next day. That’s right sunglasses, you know who you are. After double-checking everything for a third time, we head out.

Kazoos, kilts, and knives—where else can you find such diversity of prop and costume? This medley is representative of the play itself, with a storyline that winds through territories from spellbinding thriller to screwball comedy to romance to a puddle on the dark Scottish moors. And now, when you catch one of the last three opportunities to attend this show (available at tickets.wicaonline.com or 360.221.8268!) and see all of the incredible onstage feats of acting, you can imagine the glorious frenzy occurring behind the scenes as well.

Advertisements

Opening Night, Illuminated

Tags

acting, corset, electricity, light, opening night, OutCast Productions, play, Theatre, vibrator, Whidbey, Whidbey Island

On Friday, May 8th, at 6:25 PM, I was backstage at the fairgrounds black box theatre, getting ready to open In the Next Room (or The Vibrator Play.)

I had taken the day off of work, sleeping in until 11:00 AM and having a relaxing day. I had spent the afternoon having my hair dyed, cut, primped and styled by Chava at 2nd Street Hair Boutique.

At 6:25 PM, the lights in the dressing room went out suddenly. It’s an old building, so our first thought was to check the fuse box and see if a breaker had tripped. But we soon realized that we had a bigger problem on our hands.

It wasn’t just that the breaker had tripped–there had been an issue re-wiring a telephone pole on Langley Road that had caused a fire UNDER THE ROAD. Our lighting board operator hopped on his motorcycle to find out what had happened. He reported seeing scorch marks on the road, which was closed.

The cast stood backstage in varying states of undress. Those of us wearing corsets had already started the intricate process of being laced in. 30 minutes, they had told our messenger. 30 minutes, 45 five minutes tops and the power would be restored.

We waited eagerly for updates as the audience started pouring into the darkened theatre. We thought the worst case scenario would be delaying the start of the play by half an hour. We were wrong.

At 7:35 PM, our motorcycled messenger scurried down Langley Road again to see what progress had been made. The crew informed him that it would be until 10:00 PM before the power was restored.

There is a saying in theatre that the show must go on. The cast stood backstage in disbelief as one of our volunteers suggested bringing lanterns into the theatre.

“It’s a play ABOUT ELECTRICITY,” exclaimed one of the actors. “We can’t do it with lanterns.”

Like troops admitting defeat on the battlefield, we slowly took our corsets and other Victorian underthings off in the dimming backstage light. We would have to cancel opening night.

I’ve never had a show cancelled before. I’ve performed to audiences of ten or fewer and had wished the show had been cancelled. We were so ready to share our world of the play with the audience. We felt lost and betrayed by Thomas Edison’s creation, which is arguably a leading character in the play.

Since the power was on in the rest of Langley, most cast members decided to go to Mo’s and drown our sorrows. We took over a corner of the bar, some of us watching the Mariner’s game. And we talked. And we laughed. And we invited our other theatrical friends who we haven’t seen in weeks because we’ve been rehearsing the show.

At its best, theatre creates community and helps us discover more about what it means to be human. As we felt the very human emotions of disappointment and frustration, we were feeling them in tandem with a community of actors. We bonded.

I left the bar a little after midnight, feeling grateful for my theatre geek friends who lift me up, tease me, hug me, make me laugh and keep me sane. These people are why I live on Whidbey Island.

The next night, we opened the show to a nearly sold-out house that couldn’t stop laughing. They gave us a standing ovation. With the illumination of restored electricity came redemption. And we were ready for it!

This piece originally appeared on OutCast Productions’ blog and can be accessed here.

In the Next Room (or the Vibrator Play) runs through May 23. Get your tickets!

In the Next Room (or The Vibrator Play) runs through May 23. >>Purchase tickets.

I’m Not Pregnant

Tags

acting, Body Image, body-love, Shopping, Theatre

(I’m Not Pregnant -or- YES, I’m SURE I’m Not Pregnant -or- The Thing I Most Want to Punch in the Face (After Jennifer Worick))

This post is a long time coming. I just have to let this out.

I went to karaoke this past weekend at a local bar. I love singing and karaoke is one of my favorite ways to socialize and express myself.

After a couple of drinks, I had to go to the bathroom. When I came back into the bar, this woman motioned me over to her table. I am a friendly Midwestern gal at heart, so I happily obliged.

She immediately put her hand on my stomach. She told me how talented I was, and how brave. I had no response, but to say a curt thank you and return to my seat.

Lady, I don’t know if you were drunk, or confused, or rude, or any combination of the three. But don’t put your hand on a stranger’s stomach. It’s not okay. And I am NOT PREGNANT.

I’m assuming that’s why she put her hand on my stomach, right?! That, paired with the combination of her telling me that I was so “brave.” After I sang my next song, she came over to my seat, teary-eyed and pointing to my stomach. I stared at her blankly, just daring her to ask how far along I was. I was ready to let her have it.

Possibly sensing my hostility, she backed off and instead made a comment about how much she loved my skirt. I smiled and gave another curt “thank you.”

I am sad to say that this isn’t the first time that this has happened.

Three years ago, I was at a local recycling center, dropping off trash and recyclables. One of the employees there started a conversation with me.

“How far along are you?” she asked, looking at my stomach.

“Um, I’m not pregnant.”

She slowly scanned my body from head to toe, pausing grandly at my stomach.

“Are you sure?” she continued.

WAS I SURE?!??!?!!??!

Yes, I was sure I wasn’t pregnant.

Later that same year, as I was walking in Capitol Hill, a man passing me on the sidewalk looked at me, stopped, and said:

“You’re pregnant, right?”

“Um….nope,” I said softly and quickly, never slowing my stride or meeting his gaze.

Here’s the thing: It is NEVER okay to assume a woman is pregnant. This is not a conversation starter. I don’t care if a woman has a shirt on with an arrow pointing to her belly and fondly caressing onesies at Walmart. Nope. Still not okay.

And it’s also NOT OKAY to touch or point to a stranger’s stomach. It’s rude.

Dear reader, if you have ever experienced a similar situation, I am so sorry. Please do not let it depress you or lower your self-esteem. Your body is perfectly fine, just the way it is. Your body, and, more specifically, your stomach, is not a public landmark for strangers to explore or comment on.

I would encourage you to reframe the experience as a reflection on the other person’s narrow expectations of what a woman’s silhouette should look like. And how sad for them to have such a limited view of what feminine beauty “should” look like.

I experience this all the time. I recently auditioned for MFA programs in Acting. I have a ritual of buying a new dress for each important audition I attend.

On a brisk January afternoon, I approached the Alderwood Mall as if I were preparing to go into battle. Because shopping for clothing is challenging if you have a belly that protrudes, even in the slightest.

I have everything in my closet from a size medium to a XXXL. My dresses range from size 12 to size 20, and everything in between. Normally, I prefer to shop at thrift stores, as they tend to have a funkier selection and a wider range of sizes than traditional department stores. But this audition meant a lot to me, and so I wanted to purchase a brand-new dress for this special occasion.

I started at Nordstrom Rack. There were some cute and affordable dresses, but most of them only went up to a size 14 (and a VERY PETITE size 14 at that.) I was in the store for less than 15 minutes before I realized there wasn’t anything for me there.

I went to every major department store at the mall and I couldn’t find a damn dress. I must have tried on at least 50 dresses. Most stores had a variety of dresses, but the (for lack of a better word) “normal” dress sections stop at sizes 12-16. If none of the sizes in the “normal” department fit you, you are relegated to the plus sized section.

In most stores, it’s in a completely different area of the store. There was one major department store where the plus sizes were relegated to the basement. THE BASEMENT.

Dear department stores, let me tell you how this makes me, the consumer, feel:

It makes me feel like crap. It makes me feel like you think my body is inferior to the bodies that can fit into the “normal” dresses. It makes me feel that you think that people my size should only wear shapeless neon sacks with a plethora of ruffles.

What I WANT from you, dear department stores, is for you not have a separate plus sized section. I want the dresses to range from size 0 to size 24 and beyond and I don’t want a different style of dress. I want the same dresses as the “normal” sized women get, only in a bigger size.

I want to stop having interactions with smug saleswomen who dismiss me and say voice-fried condescending things like “Well, I think what you’re looking for is on our Encore section. It’s in the basement.”

Bottom line: I am sick of feeling that I shouldn’t or don’t exist for you as a customer. Because that’s how I feel, when I get to the end of the rack of dresses and realize that my size doesn’t exist in your store.

I do feel more comfortable shopping at Torrid or Lane Bryant. At these stores, everything is my size or bigger. The salespeople are often modeling the clothing themselves. They are kind. I feel more at ease. I enter the store with the confidence that I will leave with something that fits my body.

I have to say, though, I feel that stores like Torrid or Lane Bryant are more of a short-term solution than a lasting one. I sincerely hope that traditional retail stores can evolve to the point where any woman can walk in and find an outfit that makes her look and feel beautiful.

And while we’re at it, could we please expand our cultural opinion of what bodies are considered beautiful?!

As I mentioned before, I am an actor. I love to perform. I’ve been doing it since I was two years old. There is an old picture of me as a bald, awkward two year old in lavender overalls and a white turtleneck. I am dancing with so much vigor that my arms are blurry. This is what I love most to do in life: to perform.

Acting is not for the faint of heart. It involves a lot of rejection.

But what I wish it didn’t involve is costume designers making me feel fat.

Dear costume designers:

I was talented enough to be cast in a role in this production. My body is what you have to work with. It may not be the physical ideal you had envisioned for the role, but my body is the body you have to work with. I would so appreciate it if you took my measurements without comment. I would appreciate it if you didn’t say things to like “well, you’re a bigger girl” or “you’re going to be difficult to costume” or “I just don’t know how I’m going to find something that will fit you.”

IT IS YOUR JOB TO FIND SOMETHING THAT WILL FIT ME. THAT IS WHAT A COSTUME DESIGNER DOES: FINDS COSTUMES TO FIT ACTORS.

I gone into costume fittings feeling ashamed about my body before the measuring tape is ever unfurled from its holster. I have started conversations with costumers with “Of course, I’ll bring in some of my own clothes—I know I can be hard to costume.”

And I’m done doing that.

You can have all the opinions about my body and what you think it should look like. We’re all entitled to our opinions. But please refrain from the desire to express those opinions to me.

Also, dear costume designers, please ask yourself: would you make the same comments to a male actor?

My body is MY BODY. Sure, my weight goes up and down (as it does for most people.) But I love my body. I love my stomach. It is hungry, just like I am. It desires sustenance and new things to try. And I don’t care if you think it’s too big. I don’t care if you think I’m too big.

I just want to be a kind person, have good friends, eat tasty food, and make a lot of art. Those are my general life goals. Having a flat stomach is not on my list. If it’s on yours, more power to you. We all have different priorities and that’s one of the things that makes us unique as human beings.

So, to close:

No, I’m not pregnant. And what’s more, you probably don’t need to ask that question to me or any woman, for that matter.

Let me officially release you from the obligation of judging other people’s bodies.

Your opinions on bodies that are not your own are no longer needed.