COLUMN: BEHIND THE SCENES:
But in another two hours, the lights would go down and A Little Night Music would start. It was time to transform a dining hall into a theater.
Traditionally staged downstairs in the "Big Room," Sid Theater was out of the way, strangley proportioned and industrial-looking. So as a solution, Anneliese Davis -- this year's director -- petitioned the college council for permission to play in the commons.
My role? As a "techie" for A Little Night Music , my job was to make sure that all the major props, from topiaries to tables, were on stage when they have to be.
6:30: The actors, wearing street clothes, have shown up by now and are stacking tables and rearranging chairs into rows.
We've taken over half the commons by now. Ten minutes later, the few remaining diners are crammed into a quarter of the commons, and by 7 p.m., the headwaiter's table has been replaced by a carpet for the orchestra. The last of the tables have been stacked to support a curtain that hides the orchestra, and the chairs are all in rows in front of the stage. Transformation complete -- well, almost.
7:00 : Two carts later, we have all our props upstairs. I've made up a diagram to tell us where everything should be, but after a show and several dress rehearsals, we know it by heart. Most of the furniture for the first scene is by the orchestra, including the two bulkiest pieces, a bed which goes on and off several times during the show and a large but flimsy dining room table. We didn't figure out where to put the table until two nights before our first show. Until then, we'd simply been putting it in front of the stage. That worked -- as long as we didn't have an audience. We finally moved the orchestra a bit further toward the audience, leaving us a long, narrow slot for the table. Being a techie sometimes requires ingenuity. Mostly, it's just manual labor.
7:15 : The light crew has been setting up since seven. As lighting goes, this show is fairly low-tech, but everything has to be set up from scratch for every performance.
Sarah Newton stares at a bundle of orange extension cords and mumbles, "It makes absolutely no sense to me."
Techies, alas, don't get any time in the limelight.Once house lights are down, the narrow aisle behind the stage is dark, so I've strung up two strings of Christmas lights to liven things up. As the lighting people make final adjustments, I cross the stage. "Freeze!" they order me, and then make me pace up and down. That's about as close to the spotlight as I ever got.
7:30 : The last of the actors has left the commons and gone downstairs. They put on make-up, sing or lounge on the sofas. The mood is calm downstairs as well as upstairs.
7:45 : The pace has picked up. Tech and lighting are ready; we're letting people in. With the orchestra curtain up and a two-panel folding screen next to the windows in the commons, backstage is now cut off from the house. The orchestra comes in, the timpani is wheeled in from downstairs, and the music director whips out his glow-in-the-dark baton.
The piano is out of tune and an older, beat-up replacement is wheeled in from downstairs. "I'm told there's no money left in our wonderful budget to tune this thing," the pianist grumbles.
8:00 : Curtain time. The orchestra is in place, the lights are ready, the techies are in position, the audience is seated. "We're ready," the light board says over our radio headphone system. "Do we have actors?"
"I suggest we do the show without them," chimes in another techie.
Finally, the actors appear. "Kill the house lights!" I say. And the show commences. I hurry over to my position on the opposite side of the stage, by the big windows. We've stationed one techie on each side, and, as our props division would have it, my side is relatively quiet for the first act.
Techies don't even make it onstage. The figures the audience sees shuffling around during the scene changes are all actors
As the first act proceeds, actors drift by to see what their next task is. Some actors go out of their way to be helpful, but others ...
During the scene changes, I peek through the curtains and tell the light board when everything's in place. In one scene change, I must signal the completion of a costume change; during one dress rehearsal, a member of the chorus rushed onstage in that scene without her dress on completely -- the scene started before she was ready.
I get pieces in place for the next change, and consult my booklet of scene diagrams. Most of the time I just sit there.
It's a surreal world backstage. Most of the light comes from a music stand light dimmed with a blue cellophane gel.
One can hear the musical but cannot see it, except as flickering, backlit figures through the curtains.
The first act flows with few hitches. One can tell by the end of the first act how the performance will come out. At the final rehearsal before this show, everything was going off just a bit wrong. It only got worse as lines were dropped left and right. At the line, "I see a girl in a pink dress running across the lawn to drug me," the cast dissolved into fits of laughter ( hug not drug). Tonight seems better.
10:00 : During intermission, I rearrange props for the second act. This is the only time during the show I get to be onstage; might as well enjoy it.
But maybe from stage fright I mess up and leave a black bench on center stage. By the time a befuddled actor calls my attention to this blooper, it's too late to change anything. It doesn't bother the actors much, though. That's one mistake I'll never make again.
The second act starts hectically. My side of the stage has all the garden props: flower pots, topiaries, benches, statuary and large bases for the statues. The statues, incidentally, are all known by name: One has been dubbed Art for the description on the receipt.
10:20 : After a nasty dining room scene change, life calms down -- that is, after I slam the door behind me, ignoring the sign I had posted myself. I cringe.
Act Two now is halfway over now. It's been over four hours since I started working. There's only one minor scene change to go, and the actors are eagerly anticipating curtain call. Techies, though, get no applause; all that the end of the show means is that I will have to pack up all this stuff again, and the herds of adoring groupies just get in the way.
Chances are, I'll do this again. In retrospect, I may even regard it as an adventure; it just doesn't seem like it as I wrestle yet another cart into Sid's elevator at some ungodly hour.
This item appeared in the Arts & Entertainment section of the April 21, 1995 issue.
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