The Run Down

It was dark out when I awoke this morning, suddenly, and for no particular reason. I woke up with Shakespeare on my lips, "...speak again, bright angel, for thou art...." After almost an hour, I gave up on getting back to sleep, and squinted at the clock hard enough to make out some numerals. 5:00. May as well get up. I take it easy, making my breakfast and lunch and showering and shaving, sparing a moment or two to check in at Google Reader, and then I'm out into the chilly air.

I should have dressed warmer. The predawn temperature is just below freezing, and it's been a few days since I've had to deal with that. I turn my back to the wind on the train platform, and when I get outside of the Actors' Equity building I nestle as well as I can manage against a deli's storefront window. Waiting in line takes on a peculiar atmosphere when it's that early in the morning. Everyone has chosen to be there, and there's nowhere to rush to, only the question of whether they'll consider the weather (or not), and let us into the building much before 8:30. Once my hands warm up a little more, I read my book, pausing here and there to run over my monologue in my mind; not just the words, but imagining it as though I were living it under ideal circumstances. I'm in Italy. I'm in Civita di Bagnoregio, under a balcony that's jutting out from a building on the outskirts of town, where the gardens are, isolated. On the balcony is the most beautiful girl I've seen in my entire life. It's

warm

.

They let us in (mercifully early) and as we initiated march by the building guard we hold out our membership cards. Once past him, I begin to return it to my wallet, then remember that I'll have to show it again once up the stairs and headed into the studios. I keep it in hand and end up walking past a great many actors who were there to sign up for free tax processing, the fifth past the monitor, the fifth in line to sign up for an audition spot, the fifth to sit, and wait some more.

It was my first audition since arriving back in town. My first, to be perfectly frank, in many months. "Shakespeare on the Sound" is doing

A Midsummer Night's Dream

and, it would seem, casting all roles. I figured it would be a popular call, and I figured right. Hence my early-morning line-waiting. I needed to get a slot of my choice, to make it work with . . . er . . . work. As the hour of nine steadily advances, they finally start signing people up, and I take 12:30. It's possibly the worst slot in terms of the receptivity of the casting director, just before the lunch break, but they don't start until 9:30 and I haven't run this one by my day job, so I can't come in late. More fool me. I take my slot and a brisk walk from 46th and Broadway to 30th and Park, arriving just in time to start the work day.

It's harried at work. It has been -- economy, lay-offs, etc. I'm making it worse. My temper is edged with a diamond crust of anxiety, but I try to be aware of it and not externalize irrationally. Instead, I channel it into things that need doing around the office that are also physical. Sitting at my desk and working is not at this point an option. I move boxes and clean areas and organize files, but I can only hold on to this for so long until something urgent and desk-related comes my way, so I hunker down. My attention is a bucking horse, as much in danger of slamming into a wall as of throwing its rider. I double- and triple-check assumptions as I work, but my work is not slowed, I'm running at such a pace. Most of my coworkers use this energy all the time. I do not know how they do it. I feel like I'm sprinting toward 12:00.

Then I'm out the door. It's my "lunch break," but that's not what has me rushing. It's a couple of avenue blocks to the N/R, and if the trains screw me I have the potential to arrive late for the call for my time slot. The trains cooperate, I walk in just as they're registering the 12:30 group. I hand over my registration card and headshot/resume, the second to do so, and so the second in line to go in. I've fifteen minutes to kill, and I do so by checking the audition notices posted on the giant bulletin wall and meandering through warm-up gestures. It's awkward to warm up at Equity. The place is a throng of people trying to look more casual than they feel, and you disrupt that when you sit on the floor and twist your spine. I try to loosen up in spite of it all, try to be warm and loose and receptive. As I do so, people from the "alternates" list are being lined up in amazing quantities. It seems this casting director is quite a firecracker; she's getting twice the people in each time slot as is expected. Before too long, the 12:30s are lined up outside the door. The first goes in, and I have 1-3 minutes to prepare.

The proctor has told us the casting director wants brief Shakespeare (check), our best piece (check), and no eye contact (this is irritating when it comes to direct-address dialogue, but standard procedure for auditions -- check). I abandon all pretense of being relaxed, and in that mystical, permissive space just outside the studio door I stretch, and twist, and breathe. It's too late to run over the lines again, but I do anyway, speedy, just for the words. I think of myself walking in and charming the pants off of a new person, easy, calm, likable. This is going to be fun, I tell myself. I get to revisit Romeo for a couple of minutes. This is going to be fun. The first auditionee opens the door and walks out, leaving it slightly ajar for me. I know not to engage her too directly. The switch from audition state back to real life is a halting one for most. I walk through and close the door behind me.

And almost immediately, I see that the hours of anticipation were not, in this case, worth it.

This poor casting director. She looked exhausted, disappointed, disengaged -- stick a fork in her, because she is done. I heave a little mental sigh whilst going straight for the first chair I lay eyes on (it has arms, I didn't anticipate that, what the H-E-double-hockey-sticks is an audition studio doing with such a fancy chair) and smiling broadly, saying "Hi, I'm Jeff Wills." I get a deflated "Hi Jeff," Pause. "And what will you be doing today?" It sounds slightly accusatory. "A little Romeo," I reply. Getting no particular response, a hand her my own pause, and begin.

It's a tiny room, and I suddenly realize that though I'm speaking perfectly well for our proximity and the context, it won't do for showing her that I have a voice that can support Shakespeare. Plus, I've overcompensated in my not looking at her, so Juliet on her balcony is to the high upper right, and the "audience" is . . . on an adjacent balcony, I suppose? (Great seats; must have cost a fortune [maybe they know someone in the cast].) The casting director must feel positively underground, which is fine by me, because it's rather how she's made me feel so far. But I haven't given up hope. I'm playing with my choices in the monologue, adapting on the fly, making it far sweeter than ever it was in our raucous production. Too sweet? I up the lust ante on "...that I were a glove on that hand..." and check in with myself to make sure I'm taking my time, in spite of instinct informing me that I have

not

hooked my audience. I'm doing fine, but not making friends and influencing people, and, dang it, not living it, not getting carried away.

Forget it,

I think, though not in those exact words, and as I round third base I rock back on my heels and crane up to the heavens, getting louder and stronger as I proclaim, "...for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white, up-turned, wondering eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him as he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and SAILS upon the bosom of the air!" I carry it through to the absolute end of the line (thanks, Simon Callow), that top it off with a little take to the balcony that says, I hope, "O . . . was that a little loud?"

"Thank you," I announce to my actual audience, who so far as I can tell hasn't looked up from the table the entire time. "Thank

you

," she replies. I can not tell if the emphasis is automatic, or if she genuinely appreciated my contribution to her day of endless verse, or if she was in fact thinking,

one down three more and some alternates to go thank you merciful God

. I move the chair back to where I found it, allowing for just the briefest second to gestate into conversation, or at least a question. Ultimately unhindered by such an obligation, I walk out, displacing the next sucker in. Just now it seems weird to me that I didn't add a "bye," but it didn't at the time. It just didn't seem welcome, somehow.

It's on with hoodie, with pea coat, and my various daily props back to my pants' pockets. I'm out the door and headed to the subway, no time now to walk back to work if I'm to get there before 1:00. I don't feel disappointed, of course. I feel only that familiar sense of relief I always have after surviving another open call. It wasn't a bad one to re-enter on.

The thing now, is to keep going.

Wrapping Up Romeo

But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!

[

The actor is silent, twitching his fingers as if to draw something out, then upping the gesture until it is a furious, full-arm coaxing.

]

Arise, fair sun! And, and and...

[

The actor looks around himself frantically, finally spotting something in the distant horizon.

]

KILL the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou her maid art far more fair than she!

[

The actor gives a take to the audience as if to say, "

Wow, did you hear me come up with that?

" The actor is never sure if this take is going to land as he intends it {that is, as a gleeful sharing of enthusiasm rather than giving the sense that he's impressed with himself} and so, sometimes, he skips it. Sometimes.

]

I'll miss my clown Romeo. Though potentially not for long, as the Italians are very encouraging about getting some part (if not all) of the production to Italy to perform, either this summer or next. Still, the curtain has fallen on this particular outing, and it's unlikely that another will be quite the same. So. To review:

The key to my take on Romeo lay in a late note from our clown director, Mark McKenna. He compared Romeo to a puppy -- all loyalty and enthusiasm, no strategy or subtext. This worked great, though I'm sure another performer could have done it better. One of the greater challenges for me in this exploration was to let go of my calculation and crispness in favor of an instinctive openness. I've never done so well at this before, yet I'm certain I didn't take it as far as it could have successfully gone. (So I'll be thankful for another chance, or two.) Romeo had big, ungainly paws and an ear-flapping energy. Part of the beauty of this puppy imagery was that it gave permission to be angry as well as cuddly, which helped me figure out how a clown Romeo could slay a commedia dell'arte Tybalt. It's funny: I used to attribute an animal to every character I played, a technique I've gotten away from in my adult career. Of course playing such a young lover would end up being nested in that work!

Prior to that image, there was a lot of struggle on my part to succeed as a clown in the role and, as I said, my success was mitigated by me just being me. I remember in college my TV/film acting teacher told the class that I shouldn't be going after non-brainy roles, that my "look" or "type" was too focused for that. I thought,

thank goodness I'll be doing theatre, where I can more easily transform

, but the personality traits she was picking up on were perfectly valid. I'm a thinker. That's not to say I'm especially intelligent, just that I work from my head first whenever I can. Bad habit for an actor, generally speaking, which is part of what I like about trying to do this amazing craft. I like the work involved in getting instinctive, getting into my heart. That didn't save me from some fury-inducing frustration during this rehearsal process (natch'), but even that was reminiscent of my teenage years, and so wasn't entirely an obstacle.

I have come to a new appreciation of the axiom that "there is no subtext in Shakespeare." This is a saying so often said that it is starting to lose letters, holes appearing like new constellations in the firmament of phraseology. (And yes, I do miss the language already.) In the little roles I've previously filled, it was apparent to me that every character says what is on his or her mind, and nothing less, but it wasn't until trying to fill out a role like Romeo that I felt how essential that no-subtext rule is. You don't just say everything as you feel it, you express it, wholly, and the whole thing is in motion the whole time. There is no stop to your internal life, there is no censorship or, ultimately, room for grand interpretation. Take, for example, the following:

"This gentleman, the Prince's near ally, my very friend, hath got this mortal hurt in my behalf. My reputation stain'd with Tybalt's slander -- Tybalt, that an hour hath been my kinsman! Ah Juliet; thy beauty hath made me effeminate, and in my temper softened valor's steel."

This ended up being the text I most had to mess with, interpretation-wise. Somehow in the clown world and with our vasty cutting of the text, it needed to be an upbeat bit, in order to more dramatically drop in the moment when Benvolio came back with Mercutio's mask in hand to tell of his demise. It's right there: mortal hurt. Romeo's upset and knows that Mercutio's at death's door, yet I felt I had to play it lightly, as though Romeo were oblivious right up to the last second. It never felt right, and it never would, because there's only so much room for interpretation. The conditions are all right there in the text, and honesty lives in living them out in their time and measure.

Apart from a few other little alterations, I feel strongly that our show was very true to the story and the characters. There was some doubt of this to begin -- we didn't know if a clown & commedia world would work at all, much less whether it could be convincingly applied to

R&J

. (Note: Next time, Jeff, read through the play a couple of times before you get super excited about your concept....) We were lucky in discovering, in my opinion, that this concept was in fact well-suited to the material. Romeo and Juliet are just as innocent and moment-to-moment as clowns, and they are surrounded by a world of connivers, and scarred fighters, and hypocrites. And all these people are lovable, even the worst of them, which makes the tragedy truly, uh, tragic. You feel bad for

everyone

. It will be a while before I'll be able to see the play as anything other than how we conceived it. Indeed, watching film versions of it I'm compelled to laugh, especially during the back-to-back "banished" scenes. You can't expect me to believe that he wrote those without some sense of the comic irrationality of teenagers.

One criticism of the show lingers for me: That it was too manic, that the tragedy was ultimately undermined by all the broad comedy preceding it, and came off as too abrupt. This sticks with me because I feel quite the opposite. To me, life is like that. Tragedy is abrupt, and I meant every emotion prior to our characters' deaths, regardless of how comic the effect was, so I feel that there was plenty of room there to believe that something truly sad was happening. This critique is also interesting to me because, technically speaking,

Romeo & Juliet

is not exactly a tragedy. The deaths are quite accidental and unnecessary, rather than inevitable. There is no return to the status quo, true (the hallmark of classical comedy), but neither are the main characters of especially high status. Furthermore, it seems to me that Shakespeare

knew

this, and spent some effort to counteract it. Of all the lines we cut, a great many were (I believe coincidentally) of a foreboding nature. Hardly a scene goes by without Romeo and/or Juliet saying something about a bad dream or sudden image of death. Methinks the playwright doth protest too much, in other words.

What we made, ultimately, was a very broad, structured comedy that aspired to inspire tragic catharsis at the end. I know we reached this aspiration for some, and not for others. Such is theatre, such is life. I feel very fulfilled, now all is said and done. It was not as I imagined it, but that's collaboration, and the show was probably better for it. I learned much, and kept learning, which I take as a sign that we were doing something right in terms of story and character. The audiences enjoyed themselves, and we achieved some measure of delight, surprise, and grief. It was funny, and it was beautiful, and if I never get to play another leading Shakespeare role again, I can happily hang my hat on this.

That's not my plan, though. I've got a taste for it now.

Juliet'n'Romeo Photo Retro

"Arise, fair sun...!"

The Very Nearly Perfect Comedy of Romeo & Juliet

has opened its three-week run, and I am on our first sincere day off (during the rehearsal/development process, no day off is truly spent "off"). I write to you now, Dear Reader, from my super-secret Astorian lair, where I will spend the next twenty-four hours in blissful avoidance of hemp rope and hard lumber. I love our set, but she is a harsh mistress.

How shall I begin to tell you of our process? Well, I'll start with the product by saying that this is the happiest I've been with a

Zuppa del Giorno

show in years. I wouldn't go so far as to say that it's as effective as

Silent Lives

, nor as consistently funny as

Legal Snarls

, but it is a good, funny, heartfelt show that audiences seem to enjoy. I've grown accustomed to Zuppa shows being very reliant upon audience -- they're all broad comedy, and if we don't grab you, then we don't have you.

TVNPCoR&J

is no exception, but this time we have the benefit of a script and we're working with a story everyone knows to one extent or another, so it's easier to keep the audience even when a couple of jokes don't land. And we've had great audiences so far! Sunday was by far our smallest (and toughest) house so far, with only twenty or so, spaced out both is seating and in energy, it seemed. The rest were great; big audiences with lots of energy to contribute to the party. May the trend continue!

As it so often happens with the Zuppa shows, our process was varied and anti-linear. So many people contribute so many things, and everything has such equitable value that we can sometimes dissolve into a bit of confusion. David calls this "committing to the chaos," and it sometimes makes me want to tear his ears off, but he has a point. To a point. Whether it's order or chaos, Zuppa's process is inclusive and positive, and I appreciate it for that. This time around was particularly zesty. We were working with three directors and a fight choreographer, essentially. One director can't hear so well, one can't communicate in English so well, the third was only there for short periods and was trained in a different style of theatre altogether, so really it's kind of an accomplishment that we got a cohesive show of any shape to its feet, much less one that runs as well as this. There were many other scary/insensible moments and factors, but this is all just to say that I didn't come here to complain -- as with any show, there were points at which I thought, "Hang it up, all of it. I'm going to be a goat farmer in the east Andes."

The script went through various revisions. David did an initial cutting that he decided was just too long for the comedy we were trying to build. He suggested we choose lines that were especially important to us and feel free to improvise around those . . . which is a cool idea, but a little complex in practice. We were already improvising scenes based on the scenario set forth in the text, and reading the scenes straight, but to do the two together in the moment takes a particular genius, the first step of which would be (in my opinion) to know the text inside and out. We didn't yet. So eventually, David did another cutting, and we modified that through petition. (I want to keep, "Then I defy you, stars"; we can lose, "The fee simple? O simple!") For a while there, I found myself feeling heretical, slicing into the scansion as such, but eventually it became clear that what we were creating was going to be mongrel Shakespeare. After all, some of the text would be improvised, and some would even be spoken in Italian. Our priorities were sense first, then humor -- the music would have to be found in the spaces between.

An early rule we set, however, plays to our advantage: Romeo and Juliet's scenes together are whole, and wholly the original text. For a stretch it seemed we might have to make cuts to the balcony scene. It is, under the most formal conditions, like a mini-play inserted into the larger (making yet another case for

Midsummer's

being a parody companion piece to

R&J

), and Shakespeare had good reasons for giving everyone an act break and a chance to buy a few walnuts just before it. We did not have such a luxury -- our one intermission was resolutely set between Tybalt's death and Juliet's "gallop apace, ye fiery steeds" -- so for a time the scene was set on the carving block. Fortunately, we gained a sense of our style just in time to save the playlet. We chose early on to have Juliet and her Romeo speak the original text, as an indicator of their love and to distinguish them from what we assumed every other character would be doing at the time (that is, improvising dialogue left and right). Though we eventually decided it was best to have everyone speak mostly from the script, this early rule was somewhat prescient. By making the lovers clowns in a world of commedia dell'arte characters, we automatically made them a different pace and energy altogether. Commedia characters address the audience, but aren't ruled by them, whereas clowns have needs to ask permission, and must take even more sensitive cues from their audiences than intuiting what will make them laugh. It's as though the commedia characters are adults, enthusiastically sharing their argument with the audience, whereas the clowns are children, checking in with their parents to make sure they are pleased and eager to share with them each new discovery.

This has been the hardest work for me: Being, as a clown. I've done clown work for a few years now, but silently, and I wouldn't say it's my forte. Heather's much, much more natural with it than I. She has only to look at the audience, and they know everything she's feeling and thinking. I'm more calculating, less open, and am easily sucked into the rampant, frenetic energy of my fellow performers -- it's what I'm used to, I'm good at it and it gets laughs. But it isn't nearly as honest, vulnerable or interesting, frankly. I can hit the rhythms precisely, and get a laugh, but there's nothing precise about the clown. He is too present, too young to be precise, and that is part of his appeal. It works beautifully for this story, but it has been throughout an effort for me to make it work. (In some ways, of course, this is appropriate -- Romeo gets sucked into his environment and its violence, and spends a lot of his time trying to "make it work.") The most helpful note to me in this regard, a rather eleventh-hour one at that, was to think of Romeo as a dog, innocent, loyal and incapable of seeing past the next moment. Since I sometimes feel like a reincarnated dog, in both helpful and less-helpful ways, this resonates for me.

As if this work to "relax" in my work (oh yes -- many's the time that "relax" was my note for a scene, and not one but three directors almost got their respective ears torn off) weren't enough, hey: IT'S SHAKESPEARE. It is, to be perfectly honest, in spite of my abiding love of it, and four Shakespeare plays on my resume, my very first lead Shakespeare role ever. In fact, prior to this, my career in Shakespeare was particularly notable for playing roles that would just barely qualify as speaking ones: Philostrate in

Midsummer's

, Ned Poins in

Henry IV 1

and

Much Ado

, the ONE messenger who speaks. So this was both great and terrible, and I've done it with no resident Shakespeare director, really. Some may be horrified by my interpretations, but I think I've done all right. I read up, and reviewed notes, and generally made the text a particular priority even at times when it seemed not to be one to others. It's beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, and I hope I'm doing it some small justice.

So through much trial-and-error, "finding the game" of the scene, improvisation, a little text analysis, collaborative gag making and general mayhem, we have made what I would describe as a very lively, very youthful cross-pollination of commedia dell'arte, clown, screwball and even a bit of Shakespeare. It's good fun and, I believe, loyal to the spirit of the original, for all we can know about it. When I read the play now, I can hardly believe it hasn't been played more comically more often. Even after the deaths of Mercutio and Tybalt, the keening is so young, so naive in its way, I can easily imagine the rabble of Shakespeare's time eating it up with spoons as they chuckled in melancholic empathy. Friend John feels that the pallet is too heavily laid with comedy to prepare the audience for any of the tragedy, but I affectionately disagree. This is how life feels to me more often than not. We're all trying to live out a joyful comedy, especially in the face of tragedy, and innocence makes us weep just as passion makes us laugh. My feelings turn on a dime as our play's do.

I'm glad to have it up at last, and I'm proud of our work for what it hoped to be, and what it became. And who knows what it will yet become?

Bus Rides and Show Business

The Very Nearly Perfect Comedy of Romeo & Juliet

has its official opening tonight, after three successful preview performances. There's an awful lot I have to write about that process and its outcome, and I will, but for the moment I'll be a bit coy about it in order to clear up another mystery. I've been writing here ever-so-occasionally, and both of my past two entries hinted at some audition process in which I was ensnared, one about which I didn't want to write too much for fear of jinxing it. Well, yesterday I had my callback for the thing, and my impression is that all that's left is for a decision to be made by the powers that be, which frees me to reflect on the work a bit and draw what conclusions I will.

There is a show opening at

Manhattan Theatre Club

called

Humor Abuse

-- a one-man show about and starring

Lorenzo Pisoni

, a performer who grew up in

The Pickle Family Circus

. It concerns his relationship with his father, predominantly, and incorporates all sorts of interesting performance sources, such as clowning, commedia dell'arte, acrobatics and even martial arts. They have had, as you might imagine, had some small difficulties in finding an appropriate understudy for Mr. Pisoni, whose star is very much on the rise and will likely miss a performance or two for other obligations.

So a couple of weeks ago (when

R&J

was yet an embryo of a show) I received an email from a casting director inquiring as to my interest in auditioning. I replied immediately, grateful that I got to check my email that day. MTC is one of my favorite theatre groups and it would be huge to even be seen by them, not to mention I felt I was well-equipped to the demands of the show . . . as I then understood them. Forces seemed to be aligning to my favor, too. A circus friend also got contacted by the casting director, looking for men who fit the bill, and she thought first of me. An old director had some small connections with both Lorenzo and the director,

Erica Schmidt

. At first I thought I had to learn a new, difficult acrobatic move for the show -- a "108" -- only to discover it was a common pratfall that I already did as part of one of my clown routines, one of the first I ever learned. So, on January 29, I rented a car and drove to New York for my audition.

I was nervous enough, but it was one of the best auditions I've had in a long while. It was just me and three other people, casting directors and representatives of MTC. They had me prepare a side from the show, which I over-built with quasi-clown elements, imagining that the style would be used in such a show. They gave me an adjustment that amounted to, "Um, yeah: Stop that. Just tell us the story." Which I did, no problem. Then they had me perform a bit of my clowning, and I did a segment of trying to "escape" my hat, which I had previously utilized both for

Friend Melissa

's

Blueprints

and my

solo (theatrical) clown debut

. It went beautifully; so much so, in fact, that it helped crystallize what I was trying to do as a clown Romeo. I felt great about the audition, but also came to realize I didn't have about half the skills under my belt that they were looking for. I am not a juggler, per se, and have not mastered face-balancing nor a standing back-tuck. I managed not to cut myself off at the knees in interview, but let them know these short-comings, as well as the fact that my final

R&J

performances conflicting with the first four days of the contract. They assured me I'd hear something soon from them. I drove back to Scranton, just a half-hour late for that evening's rehearsal.

After about five days or so, I had persuaded myself to give up hope for it. All actors do this, I'm sure. It's like waiting to hear from someone you've given your number to. It's a grieving process, really, though a bit preemptive. I was on my way to a rehearsal when I got the call from the casting director -- could I make a callback for Lorenzo and the director on Friday, the 6th, at 4:00? I told her it would be almost impossible to get back to Scranton in time for the 8:00 show, and asked if it could be even a half-hour earlier, and she said she'd check with them and call me back. I gave my phone to the company manager as I began an Italian run of the show. At a break, when we'd hit our intermission, I checked in with the company manager, who told me she had called back and they could go no earlier. I conferred with my director, and we convinced ourselves that it could be worked out, so I called back and confirmed, reminding her that I would

have

to be in and out.

And so, yesterday, I caught the 7:20 bus to New York. The theory was that a bus would be able to circumnavigate rush-hour better than I. If I could catch the 4:30, I was supposed to pull into Scranton close to 7:00. I'd miss fight call, but be there in plenty of time to prepare for curtain. The next bus was for 5:05, getting in at 7:45, which was too close for my tastes and tempted worse the gods of rush hour. I pulled into New York at 10:00, and walked to MTC to plan my best route of escape. I found a parking lot that cut through the block between 43rd and 42nd, and mapped out the twists and turns to get me to gate 25 in Port Authority. Thus prepared, all that remained was to re-read the play, which I did over coffee in a cafe in NYU-land before meeting

Wife Megan

for lunch at Two-Boots. Thence it was to Knickerbocker to catch up with Friend Geoff and Sister Virginia for a couple of hours. Then, to MTC's studios.

I signed in and started my warm-up. The casting director came out and told me she was about gathering folks to get me started on time. Another actor from the day I auditioned was there, as well as a fellow who I took to have auditioned that day that they were asking to stay for the callback session. In their lobby I stretched and balanced. I was terrified, of course, stressed for the time and convinced they would see my juggling and cut me immediately. I tried to psyche myself up and out, reminding myself over and over that I knew what I knew and couldn't magically be someone else. The important thing was to be loose and inviting, at joy in my work. I looked at my watch, which I normally remove for auditions. 4:05. %$#*!

Finally, shortly after watching Lorenzo and Erica enter the studio, I was invited in. My audience was comprised of them, the casting director and the MTC rep. I dropped my hat and backpack on the floor and twirled the cane I brought as I asked them what they'd like first -- my thought being that I could save time by demonstrating skills in between other demonstrations. They asked for the side first, which I provided in the more subdued style, though choosing to make eye contact -- a choice usually inadvisable in auditions (one generally speaks to a point somewhere above the auditioner's heads to avoid making them self-conscious), but given the material I thought it best to be open and engaging in that way. That done, they asked for my clown excerpt, which I performed much as before. It did not go over nearly as well, sadly. It's tempting to blame your audience for this, but the fact is probably that I rushed it, and put too much emphasis on tricks and not enough on connection. It was over quickly enough, however, and I had shown them my "108" on a linoleum-and-concrete floor, so there could be little doubt as to my ability to perform acrobatics safely.

After that, they interviewed me a bit, and asked about my schedule conflicts and the skills. They seemed pleasantly surprised when I replied that I felt confident that I could train up to doing a standing back-tuck. They asked about staff work, and I twirled the cane again and cited my stage combat and (limited) martial arts experience. Then: juggling. I told them honestly that the longer I was asked to do it, the worse it got, and referred to a line from the show about how you either juggle, or you drop, and don't. Lorenzo responded to that, which was gratifying, as he was mostly quiet through the process. They didn't make me juggle, and I owe some sacrifice to some clown god. Then the conversation turned to my need to depart in a hurry, and I commented that it was odd how this audition came up when I was working on a show that involved so many related aspects. They asked about it, and seemed quite interested in our regional

R&J

and its concept. I glance at my watch discretely: just time enough at a jog. They asked who I was playing, and told them, and Erica Schmidt --

Erica Schmidt

-- asked me if I could do the balcony monologue for them.

Ah. Well, yes. Of course. Of course. (In my head:

TIME! TIME!

TIME!

) I gathered myself to one corner of the room, put on my nose, then realized I hadn't decided where Juliet was. I stepped out and said, "Sorry; need to find my window." The wall behind them was all window, and as I chose a corner to address, I went back to my corner and thought, "What in the hell am I going to do?" The moment in the play is staged around various set elements, and prepped by twenty previous minutes of madcap hilarity, in comparison to which the balcony scene is quiet and innocently tender. What in the hell could I get across here, in clown style, without seeming to mug, nor to seem neutered by my lack of environment? I dove in, and mimed sneaking in to the garden. I addressed the audience of four directly, and made eye contact, as clowns must. They were neutral. I kept on. I tried out a silent joke that I had only discovered the night before, gesturing for Juliet to come out before actually saying, "Arise, fair sun..." and got a laugh. I don't know how the rest went. For some reason I interrupted myself before another sure laugh, "See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove on that hand, that I might touch that cheek!" They thanked me, and I thanked them, and I was off.

Running! Running across 43rd street, through the parking lot, across 42nd, into that entrance of the Port Authority, down the stairs, down the underground hall connecting the two wings, down more stairs, up to gate 25, where there was no one left standing but the driver. I hand my ticket, get on the crowded bus and find a seat. Almost immediately, I doze off. Twenty minutes later, I awake to find us in gridlock, and that I have pulled something in my upper back. Hard to say when exactly I did that. When we finally get to the Delaware Water Gap, I call my stage manager and let her know. The bus has very little traffic thereafter, but it's taking local roads, and time is slipping. It pulled into Scranton at 7:45, the company manager drove me to the theatre, and I had just enough time to do my presets and get into costume and make-up. It was our best show yet: Tight, funny and well-paced.

Well, I don't know how I fared. I'm grateful for all of it. You can analyze this sort of thing all to pieces. They

did

ask about my schedule. But they

weren't

willing to adjust times for my audition. They seemed to

like

the idea of the work I am doing in concept, but they

didn't

have an overwhelming response to what I showed them. What it all boils down to, as friend Geoff and I discussed in the hours leading up to the callback, is that it was worthwhile simply to be seen in that context, and by those people. I met admirable artists, they met me, and I have a good story to tell. It's wonderful, really, whatever the results may be. I love running for these dreams, and I love working to these purposes. Thank you, clown gods.

Now I just have to go through a few days of convincing myself I'm better off without the job . . .