Counting the Attendants

I made a preliminary casting sheet today—that is, I attempted to chart out how many actors I would need, and how to double-cast them (or triple- or quadruple- cast, if necessary). It was preliminary because A) I haven’t even started making cuts yet, and B) I don’t know what size of cast is realistic. Basically, I just started counting characters, and doubled up anyone who didn’t seem to have a lot of stage time.

The results were eye-opening. Lear is a big, big show. I always knew that in theory, and indeed, it’s part of the reason I proposed it as a Walterdale show in the first place. The Walterdale community is large, and I knew there would be a lot of interest in a Shakespeare play (the last one they did was Taming of the Shrew, about four years ago). The last theatre company I worked with never had the budget for big casts, and when I wanted to do Shakespeare, I was always forced to creatively prune the cast size down (and I got very creative about it, as my four-person Tempest and three-person Othello will attest). So I wanted a different sort of challenge this time.

But still...Lear is big. My first attempt resulted in a cast size of about 18. Now, as I said, there’s nothing final about that. I took a lot of liberties while I was working it out—for example, when faced with a stage direction like Enter Attendants, I took the plural literally, even though one attendant often does the trick. I also tried to avoid double-casting demanding parts, so that even when a character like Edgar disappears for five or six scenes, the actor doesn’t have to worry about quick changes—he can rest up his energies for the scenes to come.

But still...18 actors? Most scholars think that Shakespeare’s company typically employed about 13 or 14, but they may also have dragged in extras to fill up the stage during ceremonial scenes and such. I’m sure that productions of Lear have been done with fewer actors. I should probably do some research on recent productions, to see how double-casting is usually handled.

Or should I? The best solution is to make this production stand on its own. I know that, over the course of my work, I will end up stealing ideas from other artists who have worked on Lear over the years. But there’s no point in putting the nimble fingers to work on something as basic and important as cast size. It should arise organically out of the production concept, not materialize magically out of thin air.

So the question is: what kind of world does Lear inhabit? Is it well-populated, like a modern-day bustling metropolis? Or is it sparse and empty? Or maybe both, at different times? If I do go with a big cast, I shall have to use it wisely—and resist the urge to throw tons of bodies onto the stage as often as I can.

I remember, now: in Act Two, King Lear butts heads with his daughters over the number of knights he keeps in retainer. He wants a hundred knights to follow him wherever he goes. Goneril (or maybe Regan) tells him to dismiss fifty of them. Then Regan (or is it Goneril?) says no, dismiss even more.

GONERIL: Hear me, my lord.
What need you five-and-twenty? Ten? Or five?
To follow in a house where twice so many
Have a command to tend you?

REGAN: What need one?

LEAR: O reason not the need!

A lot of critics feel that line, that moment, is one of the pivotal points in the play. It’s certainly a turning point for Lear, who suddenly realizes that all his command, all his former power, is slipping through his fingers. He can envision his power dwindling, the numbers of followers shrinking to zero. He feels his bald head, clutches for his crown. He looks wildly back and forth at the two daughters who have (in his mind) betrayed him, undermined him, yanked his power out from under him. And two scenes later, he’s alone—except for the Fool—completely powerless against the storm.

It would be extremely tacky to try to illustrate that dwindling effect there and then, at that moment. The language does it much more effectively than a director ever could by shuffling actors around on a stage. But it would be great to show that moment macrocosmically—to use actors’ presences on stage as a metaphor for Lear’s shrinking authority. Throughout Acts One and Two, every time he turns around, there’s one fewer attendant, or soldier...or daughter. It makes the moment of his recognition much more potent, if he’s been struggling to deny it all along.