Runs

"Pooh, pooh! Humbug!"

-- Scrooge, in A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens

--

Been Carol-ing lately: First day (Monday), we read through, blocked, AND ran--twice!--the entire show. The most productive rehearsal I've ever been a part of, certainly one of the quickest, too. Second day: We run and run and run, stop and start and run again, and tweak a bit and add some sound. Third day (today): More running, stopping and starting, more sounding and tweaking, and suddenly, I am off-book. From the revelation of Tiny Tim's death until the boy runs off to get the prize Christmas bird, it's basically a giant punctuated monologue for yours truly, and I nailed it on the first shot. Door-nailed it, you might say.

More than respecting the role, now, I enjoy it, in a far simpler and more meaningful way than I have enjoyed any role to this point. It is children's theatre--someone, please think of the children!--and so the depth is about as far as crushed ice sinks, but in the shallowest waters one can stand, run, kick (bell-kick), cavort and ad-lib as much as one wants. It is fun to say the timeless lines. I can scream at ghosts and shriek with joy within the safety of an old man's voice--no straining here. This modified prose of Dickens floats from the tongue like Shakespeare at times ("Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone" is beautiful, iambic, a glorious climax for the penitent penny-pincher).

And we are already planning a marathon movie night: the Muppets, maybe George C. Scott, and definitely Patrick Stewart. And probably food.

--

We are back at the main office for rehearsals. Second floor of an office building owned by a company that makes computer parts. Through the back hallway, past the costume and admin rooms, is a room with a low drop-ceiling, shredded ceiling tiles bordering a skylight window, a four-piece compressed-wood floor laid over ugly carpet (and spiked for Rudolph), props for mainstage shows, and director chairs and desks. We toated all our scenery (a vanful) up the treacherous steps, raising flats over banisters, and it is in this tiny, clean, well-lighted and empty space where the magic occurs. We have two more days there before we haul it all to the library.

There is also a break room. At lunch, we spend forty-five minutes elbow-to-elbow with the people who book and workshop our shows, everyone from the artistic directors to the lobby secretary. It connects us to the bosses, this hobnobbing with the higher-ups.

And our days begin at 10:30am. A busy life, with late starts all throughout, was made for man.

--

It's official: Beringer wines are my favorite wines, especially the reds. I'm sipping a Stone Cellars Merlot from last year (and Beringer owns the SC). Apparently there are hints and shades (and other obscure presences) of blackberry, blueberry and plums. Okay. I'll drink that.

--

Richard III is fantastic. I wish I had known about the murder scene in Act I; I think it would have made a stellar Irene Ryans scene--specifically, the part where the two murderers approach the sleeping body of their victim, and one of them hesitates. The Clarence monologues are also very good dream speeches.

(Come to think of it, the Richard-Anne scene is also wonderful. Is it crazy that every play I read, I want to direct?)

--

Been watching HBO's Deadwood lately; good, dirty Western plots. Wormtongue is the doctor.

And with lines like, "Should I tell you when I'm going to take a shit tomorrow, or would that be none of your fucking business?" you can't help but watch the show and think: When did people stop being so badass?