Theatre

I haven’t set foot in a theatre for eight years. It’s been a decade since I’ve entered the Blakehay. It’s different, everything looks freshly painted, walls are missing and there are smart new toilets that look like the cellophane has just been removed.
The auditorium hasn’t changed. It is still a modern amphitheatre. A sweep of curved seating steeply arcing up from the small, rubber laid, stage. I’m amazed how natural this feels. How natural it is for me to enter this space. Once, this was my life. All encompassing, all consuming, yet it’s been a very long time since I’ve been in such places and honestly speaking, I never thought I’d ever return.
I am introduced warmly, Babs exaggerates my accomplishments and I smile bashfully. The lights are appropriately dim for tonight’s rehearsal. Actors, amateur and professional, like to hide in the shadows before the work is complete. To much light will destroy the magic. The illuminated stage is a safe cocoon in which to create, but here I am, an interloper. They eye me up suspiciously.
Non-professional theatre is a strange beast. It is the best and the worst of the art. The amateur is free from all the constraints of the professional. They soldier through confidently when nerves would destroy those being paid for their work. The bar is safely low therefore they can soar high above it. Mistakes are tolerated allowing then to explore unchartered territory.
Tonight the talent on show is generally good. They can act which normally is a good start. I remind myself that I am a guest. I am not here to judge or even get involved. I am merely here to observe, to get a feel for the lay of the land should I get a chance to join the group.
I curie a little favour by helping to move some props. I have been invited into this secret little group so the least I can do is flex some muscles and show some willing, at the very least this gives me a chance to say hello to a few of the cast.
They go on stage in two weeks, I can sense the nervous tension, scripts are still held tightly for security. They are behind schedule. They are cutting it fine. I would want them off the book by now. I would want them throwing the words at each other with abandon, finding the rhythm, not delivering their performances into their laps.
Despite this there are flashes of quality. They have ability but are hampered by their lack of discipline. Every time they look at their words they lose a bit of energy. The scene drags and meaning is lost from poor sight reading.
At its core all acting is is conversation. Crack that and you are eighty percent there. If the audience believes you are talking to each other all that is left is garnish and flourish. When the lines are learnt and the conversation flows everything else, character, pace, the rhythm, all these things fall into place.
But this is amateur theatre and on stage they are trying to run before they can walk. The directors are too concerned with blocking. Worrying where the actors have to stand, premature indeed when they still have scripts in their hands. I, myself, am sat on mine. I bite my lip. At this stage they should be still playing with the words, tasting them in their mouths rather than thinking when to get up, when to sit down, when to stir their tea or take a sip. With book in hand they should be experimenting not adding finishing touches.
I am very aware that I am not directing. I am not involved. I am only a guest but eventually I crack and have to speak. I am not rude, I don’t push my point but I inquire if this or that might work, perhaps if they tried it a different way. I, personally, would like more intimacy and maybe a little less movement. Possibly. Maybe? Don’t you think?
My thoughts are taken graciously and even enthusiastically so I cut myself short, not wanting to tread on toes or hurt feelings. I make a joke and get a laugh; hopefully I haven’t offended anyone too much.
The director, the control freak in me wants to get up and snatch the script. He wants to start the scene again and play it totally differently. He wants to sit the actors down and get them to read, to speak, to actually speak the words to each other. He wants to take them back to the very start and find meaning.
The actor inside wants to take on the male part. Inject it with lava. He wants to erupt with volcanic passion and give the scene the energy, the lust it requires. But this is not my scene, this is not my rehearsal, this is not my night so I let my frustration dissipate.
It has been many, many years. Too many years. The embers of that life glow somewhere deep inside me. The energy, the passion, the flutter of excitement in my belly is still there. I thank them for their hospitality and skulk into the night.