Prophetic Cole Porter

Four weeks, you rehearse and rehearse
Three weeks, and it couldn't be worse
One week, will it ever be right?

When Cole Porter opened his musical comedy, Kiss Me, Kate! in 1948, he offered one of the richest backstage tours in the history of theater: all the obsession over props, and the wardrobe racks, the demanding precision of rehearsals, the egos—many of the minutiae of how hard it is to ‘put on a show.’ But those three nail-biting lines are some of the best and truest words about the theater—the pessimism of the rehearsal process coupled with the hopes and dreams any thespian harbors.

Well, I meant to write all week and relay the progress of my play that opens tomorrow night. And it wasn’t fatigue that kept me from tap-tap-tapping away at the keyboard. I really kept thinking I was going to get past one of the biggest buggaboos I have faced in the 21 years I have been directing high school theater. I kept saying, “Well tomorrow you can tell the blogosphere how you solved the problem of getting some of the students TO SHOW UP!”

In the best of times, theater productions are never easy—rehearsal periods seemingly drop out of nowhere and consume your life. Be gone other commitments! Be gone trivial and frivolous plans! And shows are costly, and they are such a team-oriented process—if that team is not there, it simply doesn’t work. So cajoling students, helping them understand why they should come to every rehearsal is part and parcel of the game—in fact, it is one of the key things to help them learn.

But it has been raised to new levels at KA!

I won’t go through all the stories, just some of the more colorful and interesting ones that have marked this rehearsal process and caused me to hum those Cole Porter lines in my head far too often!

This bouncy, enthusiastic 9th grade girl made an impression on me as one of the convicts. Since she was the youngest actress, that of course means she is lower on the Drama Food Chain, and I told her that she would have to wait until she was older for a larger part. But playing a convict in Our Country’s Good is loads of fun anyway. Well, she had trouble remembering the rehearsal schedule (let’s see how hard it is: every day after school Sunday through Wednesday…how to remember that…hmmm…what mnemonic device should she employ????????!). Finally, after threats of expulsion (remember she was playing a convict expelled from Britain to the rough lands of 1780s Australia!) I sat this peppy freshman down and we wrote out a contract together. Wait—it’s here in my desk. It reads: I, [name withheld to protect the peppy freshman], pledge and promise to attend the remaining rehearsals for the spring play, or I will be kicked out. I am allowed to stay in the play now because Mr. John thinks I am talented although my participation has been less than perfect. I will let him know if there are any problems with my attendance at rehearsals.

She thought I was strange to write such a contract, but it worked and she came to rehearsals, albeit wondering often if we might leave just a little bit early so she could have a better seat on the bus.

Last Friday she asked me if she could leave our long rehearsal the following day an hour early to attend a graduation. I hemmed and hawed, but finally agreed. The following day, she didn’t show up at all. No voicemail, no text, no e-mail. When I saw her the following day, I showed her our contract. She was out.

But she wasn’t the only one to leave last weekend! On Friday, another student slept through rehearsal, and then didn’t come the following day, figuring I was mad. No voicemail, no text, no e-mail. She pleaded the following day how much she loved the play and she could she not please please please get another chance. But how could I—earlier that week, I had had the same thing with another actress—she missed 2, no 3, rehearsals in one week! Third verse—same as the first: No voicemail, no text, no e-mail. I informed the cast that that behavior was inexcusable. I had also said the week before I was not going to have the “attendance policy” discussion again—we should all know it for memory!

See, about 2 or 3 weeks before there was a group that didn’t show up on a Sunday afternoon (need I tell you what the fourth stanza of our song is???). I sent them a terse e-mail explaining that I would no longer need them in the play. Oh! Each of the four wrote an impassioned e-mail back, apologizing, believing that someone had told me they would be absent. See, later that week there was a fashion show, and they needed to be fitted for the show. The adult who took them for the fittings said they didn’t need an excuse—it was for the fashion show! They did seem to think that adult had informed me—5th verse—and they really wanted to stay in the play. That was when I had the last explanation of the attendance policy. I relented and they stayed in.

So, has there been a victory in any of this with the punctuality/responsibility challenged youth of the play cast??

First of all, of course this is not everyone in the once-27 member cast of the play. Many of them have never caused one of the new gray hairs in my receding beachfront-property hairline. But here is a great story of a turn-around: one young man (of the fashion show brigade too) was routinely 10-20 minutes late everyday. You know how the German planner in me feels about that! One day, shortly after the Fashion Show imbroglio, I spoke sharply to him that if he could not be on time, I did not want him at all in the play. His behavior must change immediately.

That night said late-comer e-mailed me and said he purposely planned to be late for things, he liked seeing adults squirm—“I get an adrenaline rush from it.” Okay…interesting…I wrote back and suggested that he discover new sources of adrenaline rushes, and that actually, achieving excellence in something is one of the best adrenaline rushes. The next day he was on time, and he has not been late ever since. Perhaps purely coincidentally, but his acting has improved immeasurably since.

So here we are—the week of the play…on Tuesday we did the entire play, and 90% of the lines were there—only one scene creaky and unsteady and toothless. But the play was there. I started to head back to the dorm for a night of hall duty. One young man stopped me with the nerve-jangling line, “I need to speak to you for five minutes.” This young man, and another young man, said that they wanted to do the mature thing and tell me they would not be coming to rehearsal, the technical rehearsal, the following night. They wanted to attend a graduation in Amman. They wanted to re-arrange the schedule though so we could rehearse sometime, but they were doing the “mature thing” and not just simply not showing up.

Schedules are hardly simple—we were rehearsing in the evening because of an afternoon concert in which some of our actors would play and sing. We also needed to rehearse on the set in the evening—the time of the performances—and besides, it would be beastly hot in the courtyard in the afternoon. They firmly said the graduation was unmissable.

My head said, “Kick them out!” I mean I had shed four other actors in as many days! However, those other four were “minor” characters (don’t forget the adage, "There are no small parts, just small actors!”). These young men also have had turbulent times this past year. They both had large, crucial parts, and they were on the cusp of real excellence. My heart intervened and reminded my head that if they could learn from the profound themes of the play, they would benefit more. The young men promised me 100% participation of the cast in their new schedule changes.

The next day—yes, hot as blazes outside, we could not practice on the set. Rehearsal was sluggish—exactly what I had feared. It was almost a waste of a day. I looked forward to the cool of Thursday evening to balance out the yin and yang of this rehearsal week.

Would my heart have ever thought those young men would not show up last night? While they didn’t come to school during the day, I could hardly believe with all of their oaths and promises on Tuesday, that they just would not show up. Last night, about 30 minutes into what should have been the start of the run-through the cast decided they weren’t coming. The selfish young men didn’t answer their phones, or answer text messages. You know: Nothing from them. It wasn’t even about the ‘head’ or the ‘heart’—now, how do I have a cast? What do I do?

This is to say nothing of the costumes that needed to be distressed, or finishing the painting of the ship, or lighting cues calibrated, or sound measured and balanced. Would I have actors that showed up?

I called two adult friends on campus who have acted in plays and asked them if they could join the cast. If they could step up immediately—we have an opening in 48 hours and 30 minutes. Would they stand in, nay, join the cast, read from the script, and see if we had enough of a play?

They bounded up on stage, I gave them some blocking tips, spoke to my petrified cast, and said we needed to do this play. There is no time to re-schedule or do anything else. The responsible student actors needed to help the adults out, and as the Governor of the colony says, “unexpected situations are often matched by unexpected virtues.”

We did the run-through.

I will check in with you later to continue the saga…

Did I ever mention I agreed to do this play for free?

Once, when Richard Rodgers was asked how he worked with Oscar Hammerstein, if the words or the music came first, Rodgers quipped, “the check.”

All right, Porter—what’s next??