stage management skills – Life Off Headset

Stage Management Skills in Real Life: Just move the Post It

So many Post-Its! A page from my score for the opera Radamisto.

(So I realize, after the it was written that this post got a little in the weeds about stage management life… hopefully there isn’t too much theatre lingo in it! But happy to explain if anyone is confused by the terminology. I think I take the terms for granted sometimes and assume it’s pretty clear what we are talking about.)

Sometimes, when calling a show, I would get a note from the director that something was called late. And I will look at that page in my score or script, where things are a rainbow of post its which tell me when to call the cues, and I think to myself, “Oh yes. It was. There is a sound cue and a light cue at the same time and I had to page the cast, and the rail cue right before…. I need to just practice reading those Post-Its so I say everything in time for the stage crew to execute the cue when the director wants it.” That’s the internal monologue.

To the director I’ll say, “Yes, I felt that. It will get better. Stage managers need rehearsals too.” (Because it doesn’t get said enough – Singers get three weeks of rehearsals to figure out what they are doing onstage. Stage Managers are expected to make everything happen onstage perfectly the first time when we tech show.)

And the next rehearsal the same thing will happen and the cue will be late again.

And I just keep thinking, I need to practice and do it a couple more times so that I say “go” at the right moment. Sometimes I get frustrated that I missed it and blame the conductor’s lack of downbeat, or the noise backstage, or what not…. Before the next rehearsal, I’ll listen to the recording of the opera with my score in front of me, and practice calling, so that I’ll feel prepared at the next rehearsal.

And I’ll call it late again.

And after rehearsal that night I’ll stare at that page, and there will be a moment when I look at it in defeat and confusion and frown…

… and then I’ll just move one of the Post It.

Maybe I’ll move it one bar later, or half a page sooner, but regardless – I’ve realized that one of those Post-Its has to move. Not, of course a Post It that says “Go” for when the cue is supposed to happen. But maybe a Post It for a “Standby” to warn the crew that the cue is coming up, or a “Places” call for when I ask the cast to come to stage. And amazingly, just moving that one Post-it opens up space and time and allows me to call the cues with a little more room.

In my head, I need to page the singer to Places five minutes before their entrance – this is the standard. But I can in fact page the singer five minutes and thirty seconds before their entrance. I can move that “Places” Post-it thirty seconds away from the “Light Cue – Go” Post it. And that extra thirty seconds gives me the time to call the light cue in the right place and stage magic will happen exactly when the director wants it to.

I was thinking of this lately, how shifting one thing can make everything else easier. As the weather here turns chilly and the sun is still too low at 8:45am to have dried the dew from the windows of my car so that when it is time to take the kids to the school bus the car is still covered in moisture – it feels like there is one more Post-It on the page than I am used to. There were a couple of days last week when we were almost late because I had to wipe down the car so I could see safely out the windows. And as the weather gets cooler, there will be more tasks between the school bus alarm going off and getting to the school bus on time. Right now the tasks are: Shoes on, jackets on, backpacks on, get in the car, drive. But in a few weeks, there will be frost on the car windows. There will be winter coats and boots and hats and mitts. There will be letting the car warm up. There will be shoveling of snow.

And I’m sure the first few times there will be almost misses of the school bus. And I will be frustrated and annoyed that the September “School Bus” alarm does not get us to the bus on time in December. And then I will remember that light cue that I never called right until I moved the other Post-it. And I will move the metaphorical Post-it and set the “School Bus” alarm five minutes earlier. And that will give us the space we need to get make morning magic happen. Morning magic being: arriving at the school bus without any yelling or panic.

Having a routine plan is good, but only if it gets me where I need to be. I have to remind myself – if things aren’t working, sometimes I just need to move a Post-It.

Stage Management Skills in Real Life: resetting for the top

The other day I turned my back and the baby dumped a box of Cheerios on the floor. I snapped a picture and sent it to my friend. “Cheerios are my version of Nutcracker snow, ” I wrote.

For those who don’t work backstage, let me explain. At the end of the first act of the perennial Christmas favorite The Nutcracker, there is a huge snow scene. Vast amounts of snow is dropped from above the stage, blanketing the stage, drifting into the wings, coating the dancers. So much snow also means intermission clean up. I am forever finding little white bits of Nutcracker snow somewhere backstage, even deep into spring. But it is huge part of the show. So every performance snow gets showered on the floor. And every intermission the crew sweeps it up so they can set for the next act.

(I guess the opera version of Nutcracker snow would be Madama Butterfly flower petals. And there was a recent production of Eugene Onegin that featured a leaf drop with similar pervasiveness.)

And so it is with that box of Cheerios. It starts on the table. The baby dumps it on the floor. I clean it up. It gets dumped on the floor again. The cycle begins again. And for the rest of the day, I will be finding Cheerios in all obscure corners of the dining room.

Putting up a show is often an exercise in creating and then dismantling then restoring in order to create again. A scene moves forward, props get used then discarded. Costume pieces get worn then removed. Scenery shifts. Then you get to the end of the show and then everything gets returned to it’s starting place so you can do it all over again. And the same things happen again. The same props move, the same costume pieces are put on and off, the same scenery changes position. Then the crew scrambles to put it all back together again.

We call it “Re-setting for the Top”, this act of putting everything back to where we started so that we can do it all over again.

But in reality, it’s not always the same. Particularly in rehearsal. Things change, singers find new nuances in their portrayal. Directors change traffic patterns to clarify the story they are trying to tell. Dancers, adjust a position or a movement. Even stage managers, who are supposed to be the soul of consistency, even we find subtle ways to make things better or more efficient – perhaps that prop should be preset facing the other way for ease of pick up. Or maybe this entrance order needs to be adjusted to get those who sing first onstage at the front of the line. Or maybe I need to move that post-it in my book so that I see it sooner and throw the cue on time. There are always big tweaks and little tweaks that can be made.

The second act of La Boheme, despite being one of the busiest scenes in all of opera-dome is actually quite short – usually kissing twenty minutes. In a three hour rehearsal, even with thirty minutes of chorus breaks, you can run Act Two at least five times, maybe six or seven if you’re fast at re-setting. That’s a lot of re-setting. But at the same time, it’s a lot of chances to figure out how to make things better.

There is a saying that life isn’t a dress rehearsal, the implication being that the curtain is up and we are living our one shot in front of an audience. But I think, the people who say this don’t truly understand rehearsal. Or life. I think, perhaps life is indeed like a rehearsal. Despite this being our one precious life, I don’t think that we are here to get it right on the first take; it’s a process. It’s a process of learning and trying and failing and clarifying and then trying again. Perhaps we need to be more forgiving of ourselves and of others and realize that everyone should get an opportunity to reset for the top, another chance to try things again until one arrives where one wants to be.

This includes that baby and the box of Cheerios. I’ll keep resetting that box, and perhaps one day, instead of dumping the Cheerios on the floor, she will finally figure out how to pour it into her bowl and get herself breakfast.

Stage Management Skills in Real Life: Tape, Cardboard, and Creativity

On the radio the other day, there was a discussion about recycling, and they said that cardboard recycling has gone up during COVID. We are no stranger to this phenomenon, having more than done our part to contribute to Jeff Bezos’ wealth. The real cardboard goldmine, however, came courtesy of the new fridge we bought for the basement.

“Make sure to tell them to leave the box!” I said to the Husband when he told me that the fridge was being delivered.

The day the fridge arrived, as the delivery people were trying to figure out how to take the door off the fridge, I waved them down, pointing at the box. “Can you please leave it?” They delivery guy looked at me and laughed.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and dragged it to the far end of the driveway.

Immediately the kids were entranced and set up shop inside, among the Styrofoam and packing materials. It made a shady little hideout from the 90 degree weather.

“We can’t just leave it here,” I said. “Let’s have a plan.”

The next day, I was playing in the backyard with the two younger kids when I heard scraping and thumping and heaving. I looked around the house, and saw the eight year old trying to heave this box, this very big, refrigerator box, over the front gate and into the back yard.

I wasn’t quite sure what the plan was. Just that it was a big box. When I was little, I read a book called Christina Katerina and the Box by Patricia Lee Gauch. It tells the story of a little girl’s endless adventure with a large cardboard box. Ever after, I saw cardboard boxes as full of infinite possibilities and mutations, and even now I have a hard time throwing large boxes out. “It is going to be something!” I tell myself. After all, the cardboard box was inducted into the National Toy Hall of Fame in 2005.

The eight year old decided that the refrigerator box was going to be a clubhouse/ lemonade stand. We painted it with some leftover paint from painting her bedroom (turquoise) and the dining room (yellow). Holes were cut to be the service window. The kids moved in and started to play in it, running in and out, serving lemonade, using other boxes to be a pretend counter.

Then rain was forecast and the box was brought inside, much to the Husband’s chagrin. I mean the thing is huge. We folded it up and tucked it in the play room, and the eight year old continued to plot and design. Eventually she fashioned a drink dispenser out of a smaller box and some paper and we slotted it into the side of the larger box.

Inside of a lemonade stand. Yes, our living room is impossible to navigate these days.

The cardboard creative bug was unleashed.

A few weeks later, I saw this DIY large object permanence box on a Montessori website, and decided to make one for the baby. Mine is not as neat and tidy as the one featured, but still, the baby has really gotten into dropping a ball into the hole and looking for it at the bottom where it comes out. She has actually now moved on to dropping cars in the hole and watching them come shooting out the doors. The three year old, too, has really gotten into this.

“More! More! Cardboard creations!” a Gollum-like voice inside me insisted.

Which brings me to yet another stage management skill that has been languishing during COVID: making rehearsal props out of tape and cardboard.

I remember during my first stage management internship at a regional theatre – a production of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians – the props mistress was so excited to have found a set of ten carved Indians on eBay. She was rhapsodic about the ease with which she was able to find these things, and now we just had to wait for them to be shipped to us from across the country. The idea that she could find such a specific prop without having to visit fifteen antique stores or hand make it herself was intoxicating.

The patience and wonder we had with the way the internet made propping a show much easier has worn off a little these days. Now we take it for granted sometimes that things can be clicked upon and delivered the next day. Like on those days when a director demands that the prop he added five seconds ago should have been in rehearsal yesterday.

So what is a props ASM to do when the need is immediate and the Props Master needs at least a couple hours to produce something? Well, if it isn’t readily at hand, you decide that, yes, the performers need something to put in their hands. Right. This. Minute. No, they can’t mime it. So, okay. What are we going to give them? (At one theatre I worked at, the Prop Crew had a tongue-in-cheek rehearsal prop request form. One of the questions on the form was, “Please explain why a piece of 2×4 labelled with gaff tape will not suffice in rehearsal.”)

So you root around, take stock of what there is, scavenge a little, do some magic with scissors, some origami with unpliable objects and then wrap it all in yards of tape to keep it all together.

I have crafted many a rehearsal prop in my time. Janky rehearsal prop construction out of minimal materials is definitely a job skill. You have analyze how the “improptu” is needed to function in rehearsal. Does it need to work or move in a certain way? Is it something that has to be thrown? Sat upon? Exchanged between singers? Does it need to just be the right size and shape to fit in someone’s hand?

Next, you have to balance aesthetics with the function. So you don’t want it to look so ugly that it is distracting in rehearsal, but you also don’t want it to look so good that it becomes the real prop. This is where wrapping the creation in black gaff tape is helpful.

Then you look at what is available and get to work.

Things that are helpful to have for optimal rehearsal prop creation:

Tape
Dowels
Handkerchiefs, or fabric
String or Rope
Paper
Cardstock
Wire
Scissors, or Box Cutters
Tape. Gaff Tape, Spike Tape, Clear Tape. A wide variety of tape.

With those things, I figure you can make just about any rehearsal prop you need. I mean maybe not things that are bigger than a house cat, but really most things. It won’t necessarily be pretty, but it will get you through til the real thing comes. Or until the director decides that was a bad idea after all and cut the thing.

“Improptus” I or my colleagues have constucted: jewelery, cigarettes, cigars, globes, reticules, pocket watches, wands, butterfly nets, miniatures in frames, large pictures in frames, brushes, hand mirrors… the list goes on.

So back to COVID present times and the carboard box city growing in our house – or as my husband calls it, “The Warehouse”. I asked the three year old what he wanted. And he said he wanted a UPS truck.

My friend Kristen had recently gifted us a large box. Originally I had promised this box to my husband to use as cover in the garden later this year, but I figured that there would be no shortage of cardboard in our house, and that a UPS truck was a worthy project for such a large box. So I wrestled the box inside the house and started cutting a front window.

“It needs to have a sliding door,” the three year old said.

This is when I have to start breaking things down in my head. What exactly are the essential elements of a sliding door? Well, a door. And a track. And a handle.

A door is easy – a large rectangle. I cut out a window on that as well.

And a handle is easy to fashion out of a strip of cardboard, though it does take a lot of tape to get it to stick.

Which leaves a track. And I think what is a basic track? Well it’s a groove, I guess. So I cut two long pieces of cardboard to run the back length of the box, bent them to form a place for the door to ride, and taped those to the box. I slid the door in and voila!

I drew a UPS symbol on the box… amazing how much authenticity a logo can give a confection of cardboard and tape.

Next, turning out attention to the inside – some knobs and a steering wheel, all made to turn on cylinders made of more cardboard.

“And it needs buttons,” he said.

Well, that was beyond me. But not beyond that other Stage Management magic weapon…. the Sharpie.

He is delighted with it. He sits in it and drives, “pushes” the buttons, turns the knobs. He fills it with more, yes, cardboard boxes, and delivers his packages around the house. I almost need to find him brown pants and a brown polo shirt.

I’m not sure how long these cardboard creations will last. But, as with improptus, longevity isn’t the point. Even though these things aren’t the real thing, they serve their purpose. There is joy and satisfaction in their creation and there is joy and satisfaction in seeing them put to use. They are perfect for the now. They don’t have to be perfect for the forever.