education departments: bah, humbug!
Elsewhere I have recorded my prejudices about theatre education departments, as ever, it is funnier to be unfair than to be fair, so don't expect me to be otherwise.
In my experience, theatre education departments are usually staffed by failed actors and aspirational ex-nursery nurses, their outlook and their lives are permanently scarred by having to be optimistic and positive about everything. This inevitably effects their attitude to their co-workers in the theatre, which is often borderline psychotic. Two other factors which need to be mentioned, 1) many theatres depend on the income which a community and outreach program brings in, needless to say, this funding doesn't all percolate down to the intended recipients, its amazing how many things can be classed as 'educational' within a theatres budget, 2) because their work is in the community, no-one is ever surprised that the education department aren't in the office very much, and they often seem surprised that other people have to work very long hours for little reward.
My current project has, as I have mentioned, an educational involvement. The children, apart from my sound workshop, have been producing shadow puppets, with a view to exhibiting them in the lobby of the tent, alongside an interractive soundscape developed in the forementioned workshop (I hope you appreciate my packing in as many funding buzz words in this blog, I'll stop soon, I promise).
Four weeks ago, I gave Wilf (not his real name, but he looks like a Wilf), the head of the education department, a drawing of a shadow puppet booth, and a piece of very expensive back projection screen. He agreed to get one of the theatre chippies to make it (an afternoon's work, it was very simple). Yesterday, my liaison at the theatre called me and said they wanted the booth and interractive stuff for the opening tonight, but no-one had made anything, indeed the chippies had positively refused. It transpired that Wilf had only asked them yesterday morning, and now they are all full-on fitting the panto up, a time of maximum stress and demand in the industry, so it isn't surprising that he got a dusty answer.
So, today we have a hasty compromise, to be honest, I don't think he ever grasped the concept of shadow puppets anyway.
Oh, and the tree has been so badly butchered that it looks like someone let a bomb off next to it. Thankfully you can't see the scars in the dark.
swamp news
The weather in Bury St Edmunds is bizarre, for the last few days I have driven up the M11 in brilliant sunshine, blue sky and fluffy clouds. Yet, when I turn off onto the A11/A14 the sky turns grey and it starts to rain.
Yesterday we commissioned the sound system, and did the final tweaks, as we worked, there were three violent hailstorms, and a torrential rainstorm to add to the misery. Work on site is quite behind, everything has to be trailered in by tractor, and the route in is beginning to resemble pictures of the Somme. In the tent things aren't very much better, as rain can get in through the kingposts, there are already large pools and mud puddles in the walk rounds, who knows what it will be like when five hundred kids per show have churned it all up. At least it is warm inside the tent.
On another subject, as I travel up and down the road to Suffolk, the displays of christmas lights on peoples houses are begining to go up. The North Circular has some particularly spectacular examples, and I propose to record the worst/best examples that I find on my travels. Feel free to contribute any images that grab your attention. My e-mail can be found in my profile, or the little envelope at the bottom of this post.
you couldn't make it up...
Funny old day, started with me skidding on an oily concrete bit of the M25, bouncing off the armco, and ending up facing the on-coming traffic in the fast lane. Strangely little damage to the car (dented wing, smashed headlight), and after a moment or two's deep breathing on the hard shoulder, I continued on my way.
The boring logistical part of my project in Bury St Edmunds is almost over; another day of cutting cable, wiring plugs and light fittings was proceeding as normal when my liaison at the theatre came looking for me;
"You might want to sit down," she said.
"I am sitting down," I replied.
"You know that big beech tree that is the first thing the audience see when they turn the corner?"
"The eighty foot tall one, central image in my vista, that one?"
"Yep, the council have decided to cut it down."
"What now?"
"No, they're going to wait until rehearsals have started in the tent, and then they'll do it. There's a tree man coming out to the site to look at it. Apparently they meant to cut it down three weeks ago, but forgot."
"Is this the tree that has a lopping order on it?"
"Yes, but it's cheaper to cut it down."
I await developments with interest!
So far on this project, the tent isn't where it was planned to be, the toilets are in a much more intrusive place,and I have about a quarter of the power that I was offered at the beginning of the proceedings. It gives me great consolation that the show fit-up is going really badly too!
Further developments; it seems that the beech tree has had a reprieve, but they've decided to reduce another one, needless to say this was my second biggest target, and may now be reduced to a stump. It's all go in Suffolk.
let me through...
Today I started my fit-up for the show in Bury St Edmunds, mostly this consisted of me driving about London collecting various bits and pieces, and then heading up the M11 to the excessively fog-bound market town.
I guess I was a little premature, as there isn't any electricity on site yet, and the access is still a morass of churned up mud. Also, my secure shed, which has been on my list since the first production meeting, is not now being delivered until Wednesday, along with the toilet blocks. Isn't it a thrill to see the naked workings of a logistical nightmare!
As I trundled along the marylebone high road this morning,my attention was caught by a middle-aged man, pedalling a bike furiously along the bus lane, his high visibility jacket flapping in the slipstream, and at the same time proclaiming his profession for all the world to see. Now, I'm used to the kind of professionals who wear these fashionable garments having their job title on their backs; paramedics, banksmen and the worthy gentlemen who guide your truck onto a ferry all have their place, and in an emergency it is undeniably useful to know who is who. I remain puzzled, however, as to the sort of emergency that might cause this undoubtedly worthy gentleman to leap from his bike, and pressing through the anxious throng gathered at the roadside disaster, utter the words; 'let me through, I'm a Piano tuner'. He was quite near the Royal Academy of Music, perhaps there'd been a twin Bechstein pile-up, doesn't bear thinking about really.
Oh well, back up the road tomorrow, and a jolly day of wiring up things. They've given us a tractor to transport stuff around the site on, originally it was going to be a little one, but the farmer broke it, so he's loaned us a great big one instead. I can see that this fit-up may cease to lose its charm quite soon, tomorrow I think I'd better buy some wellies.
life's a beach
My soundscape for Robinson Crusoe develops apace, I now have the beginning, and the beginning of the end, and thanks to the kind intervention of my friend at the BBC I have some material to complete that. I finally cracked the opening sequence, a collage of sounds representing contemporary Bury St Edmunds, by using the voices of the children I was doing the workshop with to link between events. It's not what I had planned to do, but I'm curiously satisfied with it, and about 70% of the material was actually gathered in Bury St Edmunds.
Today I'm tackling the middle, the voyage, probably the most complex, but conversely the most mapped out. I'm lacking a suitably salty sea-dog voice to shout 'all aboard', so for the moment it will have to be me rather apologetically saying 'tickets please' or some such. I'm not very keen to put myself forward as a voice artist, especially when there are so many people clamouring to take on that role. Anyway, the preternaturally sharp of hearing may detect my Hitchcock moments, as a pair of squeaky shoes pounding the mean streets of Bury St Edmunds, and buying bananas in the market.
My other aquisition last night was an item that has been a long time coming, only inefficiency on my part I hasten to add. In what could be considered a Dorian Gray episode, my friend at the BBC has unearthed and copied a tape of my school choir performing on 'Songs of Praise' in the mid-1970's, when I was to all intents and purposes an angelic choir-boy. Somehow I quite like the idea of collecting up my inadvertant television appearances, I am neither ashamed or embarrassed by them, just mildly curious.
So much of the work I do is completely ephemeral, lighting is about the moment, photography doesn't represent more than a tiny slice of the experience, and can't hope to represent the subjective feelings of the witness. So, it's quite interesting to recover stuff that I had always thought was lost in the ether. It begs the question, of course, why on earth did the BBC keep this stuff, when they merrily deleted or recorded over hundreds of programs that had a much wider appeal?
workshopping
I had to do a workshop with special needs children yesterday, as a part of my project for Bury St Edmunds. Although I teach at undergraduate level, my teaching experience with sub-teenage children is quite limited, and in consequence I was quite apprehensive.
We were investigating sounds, and sound effects, so I suppose I needn't have worried, after all, playing the effect of a toilet flushing can reduce a class to hysteria for several minutes. As the project is all to do with the Theatre Royals' production of Robinson Crusoe, we were choosing the animal noises most suitable for a desert island. I was struck by the very detailed knowledge that the children had; I had slipped in a whole set of sound effects representing the sounds that Dinosaurs might make, not only did they immediately realise that they were Dinosaurs, but they were able to make educated guesses about what species the sounds represented. Thus, our island is inhabited by Tyrannosaurus Rex, which presumably feeds on the elephants, pumas and dolphins which cavort and gamble among the palm trees.
I wasn't particularly informed about the types of special needs that we were dealing with, although it was clear that some of the children were in various ways autistic, all in all they were a delight, the school was pleasant and clean and I think we all had a good time.
Rather reluctantly I had to give press interviews about the project, something that I have never been asked to do before, the questions that baffled me most, although I can see why the latter was asked, were; how old are you? and, do you have any local connections? I can't for the life of me understand why my age would be worth printing. Coming soon, a telephone interview on Radio Suffolk, I believe, better polish up my platitudes.
from hair to eternity
Well, what can I say, as a follicly challenged caucasian former-blond I was definitely in the minority on this gig. Although, having worked in theatre in the East End for a number of years it is hard not to be aware of the Afro-carribbean obsession with hair care and elaborate coiffure.
This show was that obsession taken about as far as it can go, there were competitions for beading, braiding, plaiting and anything else you could imagine you could do with hair. Not only that, but there were about 5000 people watching the proceedings. Unlike so many of these events, it actually started early, and after eleven hours was only running fifteen minutes over time, and most of that quarter hour was because the event organiser was trying to persuade her mother to come up on stage and be thanked (presumably for having her, as she had no other involvement).
It was all conducted in an atmosphere of great good humour, even the models were friendly and relatively unstressed. This was an outing for the black fashionistas, and for the prosperous middle class, much was made of 'roots' (not hair, for once) and the african diaspora. There was plenty of affirmation and casual praising, all in all it was clear that this was a social group at ease with itself and sure of its identity.
There were sisters and brothers from all over; the US, Netherlands and France were particularly well represented. Indeed, Holland gave us the appropriately named Eternity percussion band, who opened and closed the show. Think of 'Stomp' with dreadlocks and you're heading in the right direction.
Some time ago I attended the memorial celebration for a former Irish Guards piper unknown to me (try not to imagine being in a scout hut with 12 pipers giving it their best shot), and on the bill there was a fife and drum band of considerable antiquity, although little skill. They played each number with great speed and directness, any harmony was accidental and favouring the atonal, rhythmically they favoured the direct route also. I thought they were fantastic, the Portsmouth Sinfonia of marching bands, producing a sound so horrible that it tipped right over the edge into the sublimely painful.
Now the Eternity band were really quite good (although extremely well named), but their actual material was not complicated, and they used that old standby; showmanship to overcome the deficiencies in their presentation, if I were going to be bitchy, which I might as well, I'd describe it as 'Africa Lite', loud, joyous and affirming it was (and probably full of synergy, another buzzword from the day), but in a curious sort of way I felt it was rather retrograde. There are plenty of brilliant african drummers out there after all.
As a final thought, the really striking absence from the proceedings was weed, a gathering of 5000 people from all the african nations, and I didn't get a whiff of it anywhere. Especially as the previous show in the Old Trumans brewery had been devoted to hemp, hemp products and paraphenalia, and some thoughtful soul had stencilled canabis leaves all over the carpets.
it's a hard knock life?
During my invective laden spiel yesterday, I completely omitted to be unkind about am-dram stage managers, this has preyed on my conscience all day, and I feel it is only fair to make up for it now.
There are good am-dram stage managers, just as there are many professional bad ones, it's just that in the world of amateur theatre the bad out-number the good by so many. You can spot the bad ones immediately, they are usually late forties up in age and have taken early retirement, and (here we deviate globally from the professionals), they are nearly always male. To the bad stage manager every task, however basic, is a challenge, and will be undertaken with an attitude of bewildered optimism, and with a minimum of research. I tell my students repeatedly; if you don't know, find someone who does and ask them. There are few working environments where there are better opportunities to kill or maim with impunity than the theatre.
As the cliche has it; a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. In the case of amateur theatre; little knowledge, boundless enthusiasm and the dunkirk spirit frankly terrify me.
Finally (as I'm sure you'll be happy to hear), why are they always so bloody pleased with themselves? The smallest achievement is greeted with a torrent of group hugs, back slapping and mutual congratulation, while I sit glowering at the lighting desk watching the 'schedule' slipping away.
In conclusion, don't do it, just say no! The worlds' culture will not cease to exist because the Little Plimbury Players didn't do their G&S this year ('do' really is the operative word here, anything the most savage critic can say about Ayckbourn is but nothing by comparison to the wounds that a bad am-dram production can inflict on his work). I suppose the job of stage manager for an am-dram company is the male equivalent of the jam and scone function in the Women's Institute (I'm not knocking the WI), somewhere where an underemployed person can feel useful, and not actually do that much harm.
I suppose, after more than twenty years in the business, I feel slightly resentful that a job I value hugely in my fellow professionals is considered of such little import. I'm sure this is not my final word on the subject, but it'll be back to normality for the next month or so.
the sun'll come out tomorrow...
Oh my word, gentle reader; I think I may have mentioned that I was designing a production of Annie this past weekend. Probably omitted to mention that it was as a favour for a friend that I only agreed to after an extremely drunken evening (and morning) in a hotel in stirling back in March.
I haven't designed an am-dram show for years, although, in the days when I believed that the quantity of shows on ones' CV was more important than the quality, I was something of an am-dram tart, and must have done dozens. This experience brought the whole tragic experience flooding back, the world of my work is filled with Health and Safety legislation, covering all aspects from fire proofing, safe lifting and even what type of shoes you have to wear.
It was a bit of a shock to walk into the theatre (which I'll not name), and discover that the set is made of pallets and old car tyres. It was all so brutally familiar; am-drams discovered scaffolding about half a century ago, and everything has to be designed around it, so half the time is spent trying to disguise the extraneous metal bits poking up in unwanted places. The notion of making the set elements structural or self-supporting is a foreign one, especially when the construction is based around hardboard nailed onto a flimsy framework of rough sawn timber.
The major structural element of the Annie set was a railway arch, spanning about twelve feet, construction as above, this had to be flown on to a scaffolding armature. I was somewhat bemused to see that they proposed to fly it on green nylon string, practically gardening twine, and that the 'supporting' columns were simply cardboard boxes taped together, and chocked up on carpet tiles to make them fit.
They had borrowed a painted back-cloth (to replace the projected cyclorama that they suddenly discovered they couldn't afford), this cloth was of the head of the Statue of Liberty, from a production of 'Dames at Sea' at Hornchurch, and was an excellently painted cloth in very good condition, unfortunately (and some of you might have seen this coming), it measures 40' wide by 24' drop (Hornchurch is a full size flying theatre). There is no bar in the building at a height of more than 13'6", and the width needed was about 15', they were still wrestling with heavy stiff canvas when I left the building about 11.00 last night, and they're probably still fighting it now.
The other thing that I had forgotten about working with am-drams, quite apart from their astonishment if you just get on with it and don't throw any tantrums, is a total inability to deal with colour. Colour is a large part of my business; I need to know what colours are used in the scene painting, fabrics etc in order to make my own design decisions. In the am-dram world, colour is just what's in the workshop (or if you're in an upmarket theatre, the paintstore), and you go and mix together what you need from whatever is there. The myth that you can mix any colour from a selection of ochres and some half-used emulsion is one that I actually tried to puncture, way back in the days when I thought anybody at my local am-dram theatre actually cared.
The result, after the theatre's been running for a few years, is that all the paint jobs end up as a variation on a theme of brown. If the scene painter is a bit adventurous, it'll look like a dirty protest, if not, it'll look like badly painted hardboard with the joins covered in masking tape.
I can't say much about the lighting, I kept it big and simple, and still their equipment couldn't cope, I spent more time problem solving than I did actually lighting. My rig would have gone in in an hour, and focussed in forty minutes on an organised fit-up, as it was I had to work with prima donna noise boys (wearing the 'sound rigger' t-shirt you can buy on eBay, an instant signifier of a rank amateur*), musicians who wanted to set up, but couldn't work in the same room as a ladder, and finally, a dog trainer, who thought it would be a good experience to bring his malodorous semi-sheepdog in during the fit-up to get it used to the environment.
I was so grateful that I had promised them one day only, my feeling of relief as I walked away from the venue was enormous, and no guilt at all. As I write, they are doing their dress rehearsal, I've only had one phone call, and as I was in a production meeting in the East End at the time I wasn't able to be terribly helpful. I shan't be going to see it!
As a final, slightly bilious note, a while ago I had occasion to look up the website for my local am-dram theatre (at which I used to do loads of shows), and looked up the lighting department page to see what they were up to. The last I heard there'd been a little putch, and a former chairman had managed to get himself re-elected, despite having previously been ousted on a vote of no confidence. A retired local government employee, he was notable only for the startling tedium of his meetings, and an inherent inability to point lights at actors. Forgetting, I suppose, that, actors faces usually begin about five feet off the ground, he would always focus his lights on an empty stage, with the result that the performers were always brilliantly illuminated from the crotch down, but their faces tended to drift in and out of shadow.
An innovation that I spotted on their website, getting back to the point; was a new grade of lighting technician, fitting in between the novice and the supposedly more experienced board operator, called an 'improver' his/her function is to improve the lighting designer's work. Which gives you some idea of the value they place on a lighting designer down there, anybody tries to improve my work without my consent is unlikely to feel very happy at the end of it. Oh well, end of rather a long and rambling blog, back to the real world of panto and afro-caribbean hair products for the rest of the month.
* eg:
http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/T-SHIRT-DONT-ASK-ME-IM-ONLY-THE-SOUND-ENGINEER_W0QQitemZ7363952052QQcategoryZ106454QQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem
