Standing Up For Bastards

One on one with Gino tonight, working on Edmund's soliloquies while the rest of the cast took the night off to see the preview performance of "You Can't Take It With You" at Walterdale (check it out; it's running until December 10).

Gino is a director's actor; he loves to plunge into the text, he loves to experiment with different approaches to staging and characterization, and he loves to incorporate props and costumes when it suits the scene. He'd also be quite happy if we kept exploring and experimenting for another six months, or six years. I keep warning him that everything will change once there's an audience out there, but it's still too far away for either one of us to really conceive.

Here's a reprise of the work we did on Edmund's famous "Thou, nature" speech in 1.2. We'd already done some rhythm work (confirming that the scansion was completely insane), and I'd already managed to convince him that the soliloquy (and, by extension, his character) is essentially all about sex. So far so good. Next, we broke the speech into thoughts and I got him to speak them, then walk them, then "shape" them, creating physical forms that expressed each idea.

Thou Nature art my Goddess, to thy Law
My services are bound. Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom, or permit
The curiosity of Nations, to deprive me?
For that I am some twelve, or fourteen Moonshines
Lag of a Brother?

The shapes began to take on certain patterns, and some relationships began to develop between the ideas in the speech. First, we established that Edmund was obsessed with the difference between himself, as the Bastard, and his brother. Gino "shaped" Edgar as a puffed-up dandy, and he created two different shapes for himself: one "Base" (closed posture, hands clutching arms) and one related to "Nature" and sexuality (open, arms out, leading from the crotch). Finally, there's the "plague of Customs and the curiosity of Nations," which refers to the scorn and derision that he receives as an outcast in society (lots of sweeping gestures and pointing fingers--Gino's not afraid to implicate the audience in this).

With these four image clusters ("Legitimate," "Base," "Nature," and "Plague of Customs"), we were able to clarify most of the rest of the speech. I think the only new idea/shape that comes in near the end is on "I must have your land" ("land" being the same as "Our father's love").

Why Bastard? Wherefore base?
When my Dimensions are as well compact,
My mind as generous, and my shape as true
As honest Madam’s issue? Why brand they us
With Base? With baseness? Bastardy? Base, Base?

Next, we explored the shifts in the speech. Twice, Edmund gets obsessed with the language of "baseness," and then both times he shifts into language that deals with his sexuality ("my Dimensions," and later, "the lusty stealth of Nature"). We built those shifts into the blocking (he goes over and sits on Lear's throne, which is still onstage from 1.1), and used his body to reinforce the shifts in his voice (hunkered over and closed off on "Wherefore base?", then all Calvin Kleiny on "my Dimensions").

Gino had earlier suggested using a pair of panties as a prop in this soliloquy, and since I'm never one to turn away an outrageous idea, I decided we'd give it a shot. On this next transition (out of "Base, base?") he collects himself, internalizes his anger, and then brings out the knickers to show the audience what baseness is really all about: sex and power.

Who in the lusty stealth of Nature, take
More composition, and fierce quality,
Then doth, within a dull stale tired bed
Go to creating a whole tribe of Fops
Got ‘tween sleep and wake?

By now we were getting quite carried away with the sexual imagery. I won't give everything away, but suffice to say, Edmund graphically delineates the difference between "Bastard sex" (hot 'n' heavy) and "Legitimate sex" (a dull stale tired bed)--again, building on the image/shapes we identified for "Nature" and "Legitimate." I just hope Lear has somebody wash his throne for him every night.

Well then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land,
Our Fathers love, is to the Bastard Edmund,
As to th’ legitimate: fine word: Legitimate.
Well, my Legitimate, if this Letter speed,
And my invention thrive, Edmund the base
Shall top th’ Legitimate:

Here, the skivvies disappear and the focus becomes Edmund vs. Edgar. His language is obsessive; Gino had already figured out what each of those five "legitimates" mean (yup, they're all different). Since there is so much frantic shifting here between Edmund-words and Edgar-words, it became impractical to use the actor's whole body, so I suggested using his hands instead. On "Our Father's love is to the Bastard Edmund / As to th' Legitimate," he spreads his arms wide, like a balance scale. One hand is Edmund (a closed fist), and the other becomes Edgar (limp-wristed and weak).

"If this letter thrive," heralds a new prop: the letter, which will lead to Edgar's estrangement from his father, Gloster. "What does the letter represent?" I asked Gino. "Is it you or Edgar?" He said Edgar (since it is ostensibly written by him), so we use the letter to emphasize the soon-to-be-growing rift between the two brothers. On "Edmund the base / shall top th' Legitimate," Gino drops the letter, watches it drift down to the stage floor, and then towers over it, as high as the heavens. "I grow, I prosper." He thought about stomping on the letter here, but we agreed it isn't necessary, since Edgar has already been brought low (in the metaphoric little scene we've created).

That brought us to the famous final lines:

I grow, I prosper:
Now Gods, stand up for Bastards.

Gino really didn't want to do this up to the grid, like "STELLA!" I suggested a few alternatives (gleeful, ironic, or back to the old reliable sexual innuendo (get it? "Stand up"? yeah, yeah)). Finally, in rehearsing it, he chose a casual, almost plaintive delivery, as if to say, "Come on guys, I could really use a break here." We agreed immediately that, after all that pomp and circumstance (and sex), it would be a lovely, unexpected little coda. Because let's face it, no matter how much he might talk about "his Goddess," Edmund honestly isn't expecting any help from above; he knows that, if his plots are to succeed, they will do so through his own fiendish will, and not from heavenly intervention.

4.4: The Battle, Part One

There's something of the masochist in me, in that when I am directing Shakespeare, I often fixate upon tiny scenes, or even scenes that don't officially feature in the script, and elaborate upon them until they're gigantic. When I directed The Merchant of Venice, I felt compelled to choreograph a bustling opening sequence featuring all 13 actors weaving around one another up and down the Rialto to the tune of "Funiculi Funicula." All silent, all technically unnecessary.

Here we are again, in the second last scene of Lear. In this scene, Edgar brings blind Gloster on and tells him, in a nutshell, that he must sit tight while the battle rages on. Edgar exits, and then there is a simple stage direction: Alarum and retreat within. Shakespeare knew he couldn't simulate an entire battle onstage, so he just gave us the last couple of sound effects, and then Edgar comes back in to tell Gloster (and us) that the war is over, and France has lost.

Today we blocked about half of the battle that Shakespeare was too smart to include in his play. We're doing it somewhat stylistically, relying on lights and sounds to suggest most of the carnage. But the series of vignettes we blocked today tell some important stories, including the unheralded deaths of several supporting characters. It also gives Gloster something more definitive to react to (his lines after Edgar re-enter suggest that the ambient horrors of war have, once again, sent him into a funk).

I say we blocked about half of it, because we only had about half of the necessary actors there. Bodies, once again, were absent. But I'm going to try to catch us up later this week, on a night when I'd only scheduled scenes we've already blocked.

Time is getting precious; I can feel it starting to tug the rug out from under me. As Edgar says, "Ripeness is all." And logically, I know that means I should not be squandering any of it on gratuitous scenes like this one. But, hey... there's no going back now.

Second Leg

I just completed a draft of the second leg of rehearsals (from January 2nd to our previews on January 30 and 31st).

Man oh man, is it gonna be tight. I have just barely enough time to spend a couple of hours on each of the major scenes before the whirlpool that is tech week drags us in. Tech week is the great, inevitable bugbear of the rehearsal process; for directors, it represents the time when the production is torn from your arms like a child being stolen from its mother. All you can do is bite your lip and hope that it has grown enough to survive on its own.

Obviously, it isn't there yet. And presumably, it will get there in time. But...yeah. Tight.

Ready, Set...

I forgot to mention our special guest last night: John Henoch, our set designer, with a scale maquette in tow. I wasn't thinking ahead, or I would have brought along my digital camera. Next time I see him (and I think there's a production meeting in a week or so), I'll get a photo for the blog.

It looks good. There's a spiral design on the stage floor, leading into a gentle curve which rises up along the rear right wall, interrupted only by a narrow gap for entrances. In the upstage corner, the curving wall flattens out, and then plateaus across the rear left wall, forming a--well, a cliff face. John also envisions a white sheer backdrop with trees painted or projected on.

I'm not describing it very well (it's not my forte). But I like where it's headed; I think the curling floor designs, combined with the sheer face of the rear walls, will create a delightfully unsettling mixture of claustrophobia and vertigo.

Of course, as the design comes closer and closer to reality, it means making adjustments. I have been blocking with a wide open circle in mind, but now I realize it's going to end up being more like an oval, as the walls will intrude upon the x-axis quite a bit. I'm also concerned about the width of the entrances. Not only do I have a lot of actors coming and going, but I've also got broad props, like Lear's throne, being shuffled on and off the stage. Can we achieve a sense of enclosure, but still give actors and props room to make their practical "escapes"?

3.4, 4.3, 4.5: Birds i'th'cage

Cordelia's back! After an absence of weeks, tonight we worked the three scenes in which Cordelia (and France) return to England, reunite with Lear, and then, um, die.

We quickly worked and blocked 3.4, in which Cordelia meets Kent. Gargrave, the loyal Knight, has yet another lovely speech describing Lear's ongoing lunacy. But we also hear the insisent approach of war (Shakespeare is quite insistent), and these "drums and alarums" continue into the next scene, when Cordelia rouses Lear from sleep and brings him back to sanity.

We worked this scene once before, and had some blocking to fall back upon; but things changed, as they often do. Everyone in the scene (Dale, Anna-Maria, John, Keiran) did a great job, but I still felt unsatisfied. Maybe it was the sudden realization that there was simply no practical way for us to bring Lear on in a bed, or even on a chair. Nope, the king gets blankets and (as Keiran suggested) maybe a gunney sack for a pillow--sleeping like a soldier, which is a propos, with a war so close at hand.

So, I hope to revisit that scene and continue to shift things around. Ultimately, the blocking isn't critical--it will be Lear and Cordelia who sell the scene--but I want to make what could easily be an awkward set-up as comfortable and natural as possible for them both.

For the last hour, Dale, Anna-Maria, Liz and I sat on the floor of the rehearsal hall and looked at the short and painfully beautiful dialogue which occurs between father and daughter at the start of 4.5. This is the last time we see Cordelia alive. I had originally shortened Lear's speech considerably, and I owe Dave Brundage a debt for convincing me to lengthen it again, because it really works:

Cordelia.
We are not the first
Who with best meaning have incurr’d the worst:
Shall we not see these Sisters?

Lear.
No, no, no, no: come, let’s away to prison.
We two alone will sing like Birds i’th’cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down
And ask of thee forgiveness: So we’ll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded Butterflies: and hear poor Rogues
Talk of Court news, and we'll talk with them too,
Who loses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take upon's the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies: And we'll wear out
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebb and flow by th'Moon. Wipe thine eyes,
The good years shall devour them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make us weep.

Hearing them read through this more than made up for my frustrations with the last scene. I particularly like the idea that Cordelia, who is a realist, suspects that death is just around the corner, but she allows herself to buy into Lear's fantasy because it makes the old man happy, and because--in the moments that he's saying it, and she's receiving it, and we, the audience, are hearing it--it's true.

2.2, 2.7: Bed at Noon, Up at Dawn

Tonight we focused mostly upon one of my favourite scenes: the Trial, I call it. It takes place in some sort of barn or shack, into which Kent and Gloster have managed to manoeuvre all the crazies (Lear, Fool, and Edgar) in the hopes of getting warm and maybe catching some winks. Lear is still delusional, though, and he whips himself up into one last frenzy by imagining his three daughters on trial.

In my version of the script, this is the last scene before intermission. It's very important that we get it right. Fortunately, since my actors are geniuses, they tapped into the scene's exhaustion, desperation, and melancholy introspection right away. Dale pushes himself through his fatigue, convincing himself (and me) that, if he can just get everyone to stand in the right place, his authority will return, and he can regain control over his "pelican daughters."

Meanwhile, Kent is at the end of his rope, the Fool is nearly dead from exposure, and Edgar is starting to suspect that maybe Poor Tom isn't so poor after all when compared to this miserable monarch he sees before him. It's all right there. The scene just clicked.

We also worked an earlier storm scene between Kent and a Knight (whom we've dubbed Gargrave). And I blocked two "out scenes"--one of bodies struggling through the storm, and another, later bit, where Lear sneaks away from Kent and the others while they're taking a nap. It was Dale's inspired decision to have the King spot a butterfly and chase it, giggling, off the stage.

The Lear Lounge

Combat work tonight, mostly tightening some of the smaller fights (Kent vs. Oswald and Oswald vs. Edgar). It's easy for me, as a non-combatant, to forget how much energy goes into this sort of work; since I was only around to give the occasional thumbs-up, it felt like down time for me. I spent the first half of the evening working with Max on Edgar's soliloquies, then circulated a bit--dropped a bug in Peter's ear about Gloster's pre-blinding speech, chatted with Dale (who dropped in unexpectedly), and started fiddling with the rehearsal schedule for January. I was hanging out with my pals in the Lear Lounge.

Edgar is a rare challenge. Max really wants to take his first soliloquy as far as he can, transforming his persona so that the final line, "Edgar I nothing am," has a ring of truth. But he is hampered somewhat by a lack of onstage support; not only does he have nobody to talk to but the audience, but he has no literal mud to spread on his face, and I'm certainly not going to ask him to poke real thorns into his skin.

I guess, like his later speech describing Dover, this monologue resides mostly in the imagination. Edgar is transforming physically, to disguise himself from the men who are hunting him; but the most drastic and terrifying transformation is within. That's a difficult place for an actor to get to, but it's a worthy goal, and I think Max has already started to find clues and tactics in the rhythms and the imagery of the speech that will allow that to take place.

Naughty word of the day (courtesy of Keiran): whoreskin.

3.1, 3.3: The Unspoken

Most of the time, Shakespeare lays it all out for you. The language is archaic and the poetry can sometimes obscure the direct meanings, but once you get past that stuff, it's all right there on the page. Lear's storm scenes and the blinding of Gloster are like that. But once in a while, a modest little scene will present you with all sorts of possibilities for Stanislavsky's favourite pastime: subtext.

Tonight we worked on two short scenes with ample subtext, and since nobody onstage was being tortured or killed, we could afford to linger on the hidden relationships, and find ways to bring them out into the open. It's loads of fun. 3.1 is mostly occupied with Gloster's blinding, but before he gets hauled onstage, there's a half-page scene that's bristling with little exchanges like this one:

Goneril: Farewell sweet Lord, and Sister.
Regan: Edmund, farewell.

Goneril and Edmund are exiting together, and Regan (who has previously taken a tumble with the Bastard) sees her lover--and perhaps her only chance to escape from her bear of a husband-- about to fall into her sister's web. Subtext abounds: Regan longing for Edmund, Goneril smirking at her feeble sister (or examining her new prize), Cornwall watching his wife hungering for a low-life Bastard, and so on.

3.3 is more blatant, but we still found a lot of interesting sub-currents to the Goneril/Edmund and Goneril/Albany relationships. Allan and Beverly are building a lot of genuinely interesting material for their unhappy couple. I'd be surprised if there has ever been another Albany in history whose love for Goneril, and pain at watching her sink into damnation, is so palpable. The scene also pretty much blocked itself, which is a real perk these days.

1.6: Not Enough Bodies

A hard slog today, mostly because my own energy was low. I think I'm coming down with something.

Today we put Kent into the stocks. This was a difficult scene to block, because it features two big "bursts" of characters spilling onto the stage. Unfortunately, we were short several actors, including Cornwall, who is the highest-status character through most of the scene. Blocking a big scene without the right number of bodies is very hard for me; when I have, say, 10 bodies lined up in front of me, I can usually imagine how they will interact and balance one another once they start to move. But when I only have 8 out of 10 bodies in front of me, for some reason that extra imaginative step throws everything off.

My actors were very patient while I struggled to work things out; but I was not terribly happy with the final results. For one thing, I ended up blocking parts of the scene in lines. I hate lines. Especially on a stage like Walterdale (which is a "wedge" stage, shaped like a fat pizza slice, with its curved crust facing the audience), three dimensionality is the only way to go. But for some reason, in my desperation, everything kept collapsing into boring two-dimensional lines.

Ah, well. Next day will be better. And I'll probably have to revisit this scene sometime, to work the absent actors into it; so many I can make some adjustments then.

Button, Button, Who's Got the Button?

In 2.4, at the height of the storm, Lear decides that, since he is clearly no longer a King, he must be the opposite, ie. a beggar. He has just met Edgar, posing as Poor Tom, and he seems to think that this mostly naked lunatic has some wisdom to impart to him (he calls him "philosopher"). He says:

Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Here's three of us are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare animal as thou art. Off, off you Lendings: Come, unbutton here.

"Unbutton here" may be an order (to Kent or the Fool), or it may simply be a declaration of intention. Either way, he starts to disrobe, until his followers rush in to stop him. (At least, they generally stop him; in the 1997 British stage production, Ian Holm went all the way). Flash forward to the final scene of the play, when Lear is leaning over the corpse of his beloved daughter. He says:

No, no, no life?
Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never.
Pray you undo this Button. Thank you, Sir.
Do you see this? Look on her—Look—her lips,
Look there, look there.

And dies. Since nothing in this play is a coincidence, there must be something special about the button business. One comes right at the moment when Lear abandons the idea of kingship (he toys with it again later in his madness, but in a cynical, ironic way. He knows it's no longer his identity, but merely a mask). The other comes when he's lost everything. Some critics read the latter line as an indication that he feels death coming upon him. His soul is escaping, or his throat is tightening, or something like that. But that seems awfully Method-y to me.

Since I like visual symbols, and since we already have a lot of modular props and costume bits floating around, I think I'd like to give Lear a "button" which symbolizes his authority. It may not be an actual button, but rather some sort of broach or pin. Something gaudy, or seemingly valuable. Maybe it's got a Lear insignia on it (a dragon?). Before 2.4, Lear could touch it unconsciously whenever he refers to his power, or whenever he feels it becoming unstable. In the storm, when he decides he's going to become a beggar, it isn't just a gesture of disrobing. He is taking off his badge of office. He's already renounced his kingship publicly--now, he does it privately as well.

But the button is recovered. Gloster picks it up at the end of that same scene. Later (in 4.1), when (the now-blinded) Gloster meets up with Lear again, he gives it back--but now, as I said, it has no real meaning for Lear. He uses it as a prop to demonstrate the profound arbitrariness of power:

A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: See how
yond Justice rails upon yond simple thief? Hark, in thine ear: Change places, and handy-dandy, which is the Justice, which is the thief?

Maybe, in the course of that little demonstration, the button gets passed off to Edgar. He will need something at the end of the play when he grudgingly accepts responsibility for ruling the nation.

And what about "Pray you, undo this button"? I'm not sure. But in a play full of "nothings", it seems intriguing to see Lear request, and then fumble himself, for a button that isn't even there. If he thinks, even for a moment, that he might have the power to bring Cordelia back to life, this is the last tangible reminder that he is not "everything." He is not "fever-proof." He is a foolish, fond old man, and there's an end.

4.1: My Life's A Miracle

One more physically and mentally gruelling rehearsal has left me both exhausted and inspired. Great things are happening, and almost so quickly that I can't keep track. I wish I had a video camera at each rehearsal, so I could play these runs back to the actors and say, "There! Exactly like that!"

We worked 4.1 tonight: the Cliffs of Dover, I call it, although it's a cliff of the mind, an invention of Edgar's, used to trick his blind father into surviving a suicide attempt. His harsh lesson culminates with the unexpectedly sublime assertion: "Your life's a miracle!" Pity it only lasts another half hour or so.

In this scene, we also get the mad Lear back again--only this time he has what Edgar calls "Reason in madness." Then Oswald stumbles in, tries to assassinate Gloster, and gets killed for his troubles. It is a scene with many different paces, tones, and colours, and when we started working on it (backwards, as so often seems to be the case), I really had no idea how it would all fit together.

Well, I had one or two tricks up my sleeve, like having Oswald die "spinning" around in a spiral, and having Gloster return to Lear the "button of authority" he lost two acts earlier (more on the button in a bit). But mostly, I was trusting my actors--Max, Peter, Dale, and Marsha--to tap into these characters, as they undergo their extreme, surreal tribulations.

My trust has not been misplaced. Max and Peter found the right tone for Gloster's jump, and for the near-reconciliation that occurs between them later in the scene. Marsha patiently endured multiple indignities, including her rotating death speech and a fireman's carry (got to get those bodies off somehow). And Dale was full of piss and vinegar as always, bounding around the stage like a kid who has escaped from his parents at the carnival...yet modulating that with some wonderfully sober moments ("They told me I was everything; 'tis a lie; I am not fever-proof" and the beautiful "When we are born, we cry that we are come / To this great stage of fools").

And did I mention the jokes? Ye gods, we're having fun. It was hard to restrain myself from giving the green-light to Max's rendition of the Sea Captain: "Hear ye speak, Sir; / Who arrrr ye, Sir?" Alas, rehearsal humour doesn't always translate well onto the stage; but our energy will--assuming it lasts to February.

1.4, 2.5: Fools and Madmen

Another outstanding rehearsal tonight. We're getting into the meaty scenes now, and the cast seems more than willing to embrace the challenges posed for us in the text.

We started with a brief scene tonight, in which Edmund shoos his brother out into the night and then pretends that he's just had a scrap with him. We ended up playing it somewhat for laughs, although that wasn't my intention at the start. I think the cast is starting to think I'm doing something sacriligeous by seizing on all these comic moments--but let's face it, two hours of doom & gloom (and eye-pokery) is just no fun at all.

Most of the evening was devoted to 2.5, another storm scene. This is the one where everybody goes crazy: Edgar is rolling around and eating rats, the Fool is babbling as always, and Lear decides to go the Full Monty in the middle of a downpour. As Gloster (master of understatement) says: "What a night's this!"

Again, I must reiterate how utterly game my actors are. Max (Edgar) was a tumblin' fool, scrambling about the floor, clutching at invisible bugs. And when I told Dale (Lear) to "study" the "philosopher" Poor Tom, he went all the way, down there on the ground, even trying out a roll or two. The overall result was a highly active, intense scene, very keyed up, seemingly chaotic but actually quite calculated.

When I got home, I took a look at the structure of the play, and I realized that this scene is, effectively, the physical climax of the first act. Important emotional discoveries are still to come, but this is when the storm's mad energy reaches its peak. And it'll definitely get there. It's nearly there already.

On an unrelated note, visitors are encouraged to give a listen to this hilarious Monty Python sketch, sent to me by a friend and fellow director.

3.1: Out, Vile Jelly!

Something about the fierce winter chill in the air must have got our Canadian juices flowing tonight, because I think we did some amazing work. The focus was 3.1, in which Gloster is interrogated and blinded, Cornwall is fatally wounded, and a poor anonymous Servant gets her throat cut. Andrew has choreographed the violence to look unchoreographed: rough, brutal, and totally unpredictable.

Once the violence had been rehearsed, we looked at the lines. Equally brutal--insults and curses flying back and forth, and just as much unspoken tension, particularly between Cornwall and Regan. This was the first time Ron and Brittany had worked together, but they clicked into the roles of passive-agressive partners as if they'd been unhappily married for years. Ron is crafting a unique psychosis for Cornwall, and Brittany is starting to uncover the pressures under which Regan has suffered for so long--and the exultant, violent thrill that comes from escaping those pressures and seizing control.

You know, it's been a long, long time since I've done a show with this much violence. Ten years ago, my pals and I did a show called Superculture, which was essentially a theatrical excuse to wallow in sex and violence for two hours. I have long since chalked that impulse up to adolescent angst...but here I am again, at 31, watching my actors cut each others' throats and crush each others' eyeballs.

As Edmund might say, "the wheel has come full circle."

Brother Vs. Brother

Another combat rehearsal tonight. Andrew was a real trooper, working hard on several fights in spite of lot of exhaustion and stress. The Oswald/Kent fights were tightened up, and then much time was spent expanding the climactic fight between Edgar and Edmund. This is going to be a real roller-coaster: a prim and proper fencing match which quickly deteriorates into a knock-down, drag-out brawl. Nothing quite like the sight of two "brothers" rolling around on the floor together for 45 minutes.

Amidst such distractions, we also managed to do some monologue work, focusing mostly on Edmund's opening speech and Edgar's transformation into Poor Tom. Edmund, as I suggested earlier, is all about sex. It's his weapon, his privilege, his Goddess. Edgar is trickier; I told Max he has to decide whether Edgar is merely putting on a disguise, to be discarded later (once he regains his status), or whether he actually believes that this is his new life: a barking mad naked beggar. Is it a tactic, or a surrender? It's too early to say.

Finally, I had a great, wide-ranging chat with Helen (SM) and Keiran (Kent) about Shakespearean acting techniques, the Globe theatre, and why the Queen of England is so bloody hard to spot.

1.1: Father Knows Best

The first scene is blocked! Well, mostly blocked; we were a few bodies short this afternoon, so those who were absent will have to catch up, especially to figure out where they belong in the grand entrance and exit. But everything else appears to be in place.

The daughters and their husbands/suitors are all spread out along the circumference of the stage, so that Lear has a great big space to move around in. He pretty much leads the movement, until Cordelia drops the first bomb on him, invading his space and making him retreat. From there, the pretty, balanced tableau begins to crumble, until the characters are either splayed out along the back walls or clustered desperately around the throne, clutching at straws of power.

I had a lot of fun blocking the tail end of the scene, between the bitter sisters (and I think I will throw Edmund into the mix as well, just to heat things up). Liz blocked the first unit, between Kent, Gloster, Edmund, and Emilia (the servant whom Edmund is shagging behind the throne before the lights come up). I think it will be a most arresting opening for our play, letting the audience know nice and early that A) this Lear will not be like other Lears, and B) they can laugh if they want to.

2.3: A Rhymin' Fool

After rehearsal, I had a thought about the Fool's rhymes in 2.3. In our version of the text, he has three. First, while trying to persuade Lear to come in out of the storm, he sings:

The Codpiece that will house
Before the head has any
The Head and he shall Louse
So Beggars marry many.

And then, two lines later, another verse:

The man that makes his Toe
What he his Heart should make
Should of a Corn cry woe
And turn his sleep to wake.

Soon, Kent enters and manages to steer Lear towards shelter. Lear starts to exhibit signs of recognition and (uncharacteristically) sympathy for the Fool's plight. The Fool sings:

He that has and a tiny little wit
With heigh-ho, the Wind and the Rain
Must make content with his Fortunes fit
For the Rain it raineth every day.

It seems to be that the first two are both cautionary in nature--that is, they are designed to teach lessons (in this case, when you strip away the metaphors, the lesson is: don't go looking for trouble). So far so good; the Fool has been chastising and instructing Lear since his earliest entrance.

But the last rhyme, delivered after Kent has entered, and after Lear has made his remarkable lurch towards empathy ("I have one part in my heart that's sorry yet for thee"), seems to have the opposite message. It says: there's no avoiding trouble. And Lear says, "True, Boy--bring, let us to this Hovel." Which now sounds like a paradox (as in: "I agree, there's no avoiding trouble. Come on, let's go hide from trouble.")

I don't know what this says about Lear just yet (hmm...maybe...that he's insane?), but I do think the third rhyme indicates a shift in the Fool's direction in the scene.

Once Kent arrives, the Fool stops actively trying to coax Lear out of the storm. Is there something that Lear says or does that makes the Fool see the situation in a new light? Perhaps he looks in Lear's eyes and sees his madness emerging, and he realizes that Kent has arrived too late, in a sense--the damage has already been done.

4.3, 2.3, 1.5: A Foolish Fond Old Man

Working backwards through Lear's arc tonight. We started by blocking 4.3, the scene we're calling "The Reconciliation" (I gave names to all the scenes, so that we can refer to them using the same language). Cordelia and Kent help Lear to awake, and ease him out of his madness. It's a touching scene, filled with heavy pauses, but with great payoffs for the actors--and they will keep getting greater, as they invest more emotional energy in their characters.

Then, from that quiet little scene, we went right into the noisy heart of darkness: the storm. "Blow, winds, crack your cheeks." This was also easy to block, in a way, since it's mostly just Lear yelling up towards the grid, and the Fool huddling at his feet. No need for anything more elaborate than that, really. We spent most of our time puzzling through the lines, trying to figure out why Lear was bellowing, and why the Fool was singing doggerel. ("Why are the seven stars no more than seven?" "Because they are not eight.")

By now, Dale and I were starting to make a few tentative connections about Lear's insanity...but no real light bulbs had gone off. Then Keiran (Kent) suggested that part of Lear's rationale for exposing himself to the thunderstorm was suicidal ideation. That led us to talk about Lear's repressed guilt over Cordelia's banishment. Suddenly the key line in the scene was no longer "I am a man / more sinned against than sinning," but rather, "Then let fall / Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, / A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man."

Finally, Dale and Tatyana read through 1.5, another quizzical little scene that seems like an eye in the middle of a hurricane. Lear is waiting for his horses to be ready...the Fool is baiting him with riddles, maybe testing him to see whether he's all there...and the old man keeps flashing back to Cordelia. "I did her wrong." Is this where the suicidal guilt begins? Is this the moment that anticipates his bitter line to Cordelia in 4.3: "If you have poison for me, I will drink it"? Do I really want to direct a tragedy starring a suicidal old coot?

Not sure. Many possibilities. Long week.

1.3: Stew and Spaghetti

After spending the evening blocking 1.3, I must confess I'm actually glad I didn't have the knights to contend with as well. Even without them, it's a huge scene, exploding with quickie entrances and exits and bristling with status wars.

The first struggle, between Oswald and Lear, was smooth and relatively simple. By now, Marsha (as Oswald) is more than accustomed to being shoved, tripped, insulted and threatened. Lear spends the first page and a half shouting for dinner, so I thought maybe we'd give him some stew or something, for his troubles. And then, when he gets really mad at Oswald, he can chuck it onto the floor. (Protracted groaning from my stage manager)

Then Oswald is hustled out and the Fool dances in. This is the first time I've really had a chance to work with Tatyana (as the Fool). She's super, radiating bouncy energy and a twinkly-eyed mischeviousness as she pushes Lear's buttons. But we had to hustle through the blocking a bit, because I wanted to get to the next big confrontation: Lear vs. Goneril.

Beverly knows what she's doing. I still want to see more of what's at stake for this daughter--the terror and maybe the exhiliration of standing up to her patriarchal father for the first time in her life--but she's definitely got the "standing up" part down. She's a tower of authority onstage, and Dale (as Lear) is working like a dog to keep up with her. But he does, and the scene is positively electric. We didn't finish blocking this unit either, but we did discover some marvellous multi-cross moments that look like spaghetti tangles but flow like quicksilver.

At the tail end of the scene, there's a momentary struggle between Albany and Goneril. Here, Allan chose a surprising tactic, giving Albany a bit of an aggressive edge. It's kind of neat to see Goneril, who has gone up against "the dragon" Lear and won, be momentarily disarmed by her "milk-livered" husband. Just goes to show you, you never know where the next challenge will come from.

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy?

I think I've cursed myself. After last Sunday's rehearsal, I resolved to make sure I was using my actors' time productively; I didn't want people to feel like they were giving up their evenings or weekends just to stand around and hold an imaginary spear. I went back to the schedule and took a good hard, look at when characters were actually needed; then I asked Helen to call the ones who weren't and let them off the hook.

The problem was, I wasn't thinking very clearly (I was doing this at the same time as I was trying to watch the fights being blocked). When the smoke cleared (ie. this morning), I realized that, between actors' prior conflicts and my recent bout of phone calls, I now had a grand total of one (1) knight for the scene where Lear's knights are supposed to flood the stage. Irony abounds.

"What need you five and twenty? Ten? Or five...?"
"What need one?"

My anxiety dream about disappearing actors seems to be coming true, albeit through my own sloppy scheduling. Something must be done, and probably the first step is for me to just calm the heck down.

Dover Knights Starring Jackie Chan

More fight choreography tonight, starting with the climactic Edgar/Edmund fight (looking good, but lots more work ahead of us), then working backwards to the fight between Edgar and Oswald.

I told Andrew and the actors that this was the one fight in the play where I felt humour could help us. Gloster has just attempted suicide by jumping off an imaginary cliff (which has the potential for black humour itself). Now, just as he's starting to regain some joie de vivre, along comes Oswald (of all people), ready to off Gloster for no good reason. The ensuing fight is between a coward (Oswald) and an only recently-recovered madman, with a blind man hanging about on the periphery. How can that not be a recipe for slapstick?

Alas, as hard as we tried to make it funny, it didn't quite seem to get there. I kept urging Andrew to incorporate Gloster in the fight (blind man wanders inadvertantly into the fray), but he kept worrying that the fight was turning into a Jackie Chan-style brawl. I told him I didn't mind, but he still refrained.

Well, he's worked on a lot more fights than I have (and even on another production of Lear), and his instincts for all the other fights seem to be bang on. I'm prepared to bow to his aesthetic. And if we can wring a chuckle or two at the outset, before the fight turns deadly (a line like Edgar's "I'll pick your teeth, sir" can't not get a laugh), then we'll both be satisfied. And compromise is at the heart of any collaboration.

The Cast, Version 2

We finalized the cast list last weekend, but for some reason I still had an anxiety dream last night where I kept turning around to find cast members vanished into air (kind of like Lear with his knights in 1.3). To allay my fears (and tempt the fates), I'll post the final cast list. It's a phenomenal group, and, I realize now, one of the most multicultural casts I've ever worked with.

Gino Akbari: Edmund
Marsha Amanova: Oswald
Ron Gleason: Burgundy/Old Man
Igor Gorelik: Knight 1/Soldier 2
Kassia Haynes: Servant 1
Anna-Maria Lemaistre: Cordelia
Tim Marriot: Gargrave/Gentleman
Peter McNab: Gloster
Brittany Morrie: Regan
Keiran O'Callaghan: Kent
Skye Perry: Knight 2/Soldier 3/Messenger
Tatyana Rac: The Fool
Ron Sannachan: Cornwall/Captain
Allan Stoski: Albany
Andrew Torry: Curan/Knight 4/Soldier 1
Dale Wilson: Lear
Max Wood: Edgar
Beverly Wright: Goneril
John Younie: France

Sword Canes and Eyeballs

Tonight and tomorrow, I hand the rehearsal conch to Andrew Gummer, our fight director. He came in tonight with tremendous energy and a lot of great ideas, and managed to get three different fights blocked (or at least sketched out) in three hours' time. We did a basic trip for Kent & Oswald; a more elaborate chase scene between the same characters (culminating in a near-riot, as Edmund and Soldiers spill onto the stage); and finally, we blocked the violence which surrounds Gloster's blinding.

The other day in the Playhouse, I stumbled across a wicked sword-cane, and I immediately started thinking of ways to work it into Lear. I've always loved the idea that a perfectly normal, functional stage prop can suddenly transform into a deadly weapon. The most logical character to wield such a weapon is Cornwall, who is himself a sort of time bomb. But he only uses it to threaten people--it is his servant (played by Kassia, her name is now Emilia) who picks it up and uses it (against him)--and then dies by it as well. Finally, I imagine the sword-cane falling into Oswald's hands, and then being once again turned on its owner (this time by Edgar).

Is that over-kill?

In between fights, I was able to work one-on-one a bit with Edmund (is it "legitimate" or "legit'mate"?), with Regan (such a passionate character...but where does that passion come from, and to whom is it directed?), with Gloster (going from vexed codger to resolute revolutionary) and with Cornwall (it's not his fault...none of it is...God told him to step on the eyeball...). A very productive night, all in all.

Long Day; Many Bodies

I'm writing this on a quick break in the middle of my long Sunday. This morning we had a production meeting; then I had lunch with Lear (Dale); then we rehearsed from 1-5pm; and soon I'm off to a Walterdale board meeting. I'd like to be able to say I'm not going to have a lot of days like this, but I suspect the opposite is more likely to be true.

The production meeting was mostly just to confirm that various departments are on schedule and on budget. The Lear lunch was to address some of the character-related questions that have been floating about the air for the past week. We talked in particular about the tension between Lear's two primary roles--King and Father--and about the different "identities" which he ends up trying on when those two roles both implode: Lear the Judge, Lear the Philosopher, Lear the Flower Arranger... and finally Lear the Foolish, Fond Old Man.

Rehearsal was focused on Act 1, Scene 1: the grand entrances and exits, and finding and conveying status within them. It was by turns hectic and stultifying; at times, I had 15 bodies scrambling around the stage, trying not to crash into each other; at other times, while we were scrutinizing lines, many of the Knights and Servants (and Husbands and Wives) found themselves standing around with nothing to do for ages. I think it was useful in some respects (establishing status and public space), but in the future I want to work to avoid making so many actors so bored and so stiff.

The rehearsal highlight was, I think, when Dale took a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie (brought in courtesy of Igor) and split it three ways, to share with his "daughters."

Cordelia? Nun Other!

While doing status work on Thursday, Anna-Maria casually dropped the comment that she thought of her character, Cordelia, as rather nun-like. As it happens, in past productions Cordelia has often been associated with Christ (or with martyrdom in general); but she wasn't basing her observation on other productions, merely upon the text.

Is Cordelia nun-like? She isn't overtly religious, but she often extols the virtues one associates with Christianity (love, in particular). She seems hesitant to marry at the outset, although she does choose to wed France--although her only alternative at that point would be exile, destitution, and death. And, like Cordelia, nuns are known for their forthrightness in speech (this was Anna-Maria's point, not mine).

But Anna-Maria also spoke of Cordelia as being somewhat withdrawn from secular affairs, and having a higher duty (ie. to God instead of to King). True, she isn't power-hungry like her sisters; but does that mean she is uninterested in politics? Far from it; she leads an invasion of England in order to restore her father to the throne. So at some point, spirituality breaks off, and real-world politics intrude.

After some email discussion with Anna-Maria, I realized that she was using the nun image as a metaphor, not an explanation of motivation. Cordelia does not literally want to join a convent, recite Hail Marys, and teach Austrian children to sing; rather, her devotion to duty and honesty are thematic equivalents for a sister's devotion to God.

Things Take Shape

Better tonight; more focused, fewer distractions. And Gino has arranged an alternative rehearsal space for us, so I'm hoping it will stay that way.

Tonight we worked on status in dialogues, figuring ways to reflect conflicts over status through blocking as well as voice. Some scenes worked very well. Everyone seemed to click immediately into the notion of physical status, which is fantastic, since I think it's really the glue which holds Lear's world together.

We also looked at "objective" lines. I had everyone choose a line that illustrated something important about their character, then had them scan them, walk them, and "shape" them. Again, some lines yielded interesting shapes which we could then incorporate into the characters' movements, gestures, and physical demeanours. I'm impressed by how quickly the cast has zeroed in on the crucial concepts and moments in the play.

Tonight was the last "workshop" rehearsal. On Sunday, we start in on scene work. In past processes, I would have made sure the whole play got read at least one more time before diving in; but in this case, I don't think it's a good use of our time. For one thing, we'll never have everyone in the same room at once; and for another, the play will remain huge no matter how many times we read it. We're better off scrutinizing individual moments, and letting the big picture take shape on its own.

(And, for Marsha, here's my Pun of the Day: "When an actor's arches fall, their arc tends to fall as well.")

Status vs. Power

Tonight's rehearsal felt a bit hectic. We continued the verse work and walked the lines, then talked about status and power in the play. I tried to tie issues of status into the rhythm and movement work we'd been doing, but I don't think I was very coherent. One thing that did seem to work quite well was an improvised stab at blocking Act 1, Scene 3--the power struggle between Goneril and Lear. It now looks as if my crazy walkin'-blockin' scheme might work after all.

Melissa and Mark came by and talked about costumes and music, respectively. Melissa also got measurements for most of the actors. Dave was onhand to help with blocking; Liz was around for a bit. The cast is shifting slightly--as I suspected, there has been a bit of attrition--but I'm confident that things will stabilize shortly.

Actually, the biggest frustration is the power struggle we seem to be having with our rehearsal space, as we were plagued with delays, interruptions, distractions, and one very shrill broad who didn't like the way Anna-Maria had parked her car. I'm talking to Gino about possibly obtaining a different rehearsal venue, until we get to move into the Walterdale in January.

"Da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum."

Second rehearsal tonight, in the Walterdale space (a rare treat). The schedule is still in flux, but most of the actors were able to make it tonight--pretty much all of those who weren't there on Sunday were there tonight, which means that some people still haven't met yet, but at least I've met them all. I'm still a bit overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Tonight we looked at verse and scansion. Iambic pentameter, smooth vs. rough, feminine endings, elisions, etc. All stuff I'm pretty comfortable with--but all the same, it's nice to revisit the basics. Dave B. very thoughtfully photocopied a large booklent on versification for everyone in the cast, compared to which my measly "Shakespearean Secrets" handout seemed pretty flimsy!

I had the actors find asides, and then used them as samples for scansion and line-walking. I suspect it all came across as rather like a college lecture, but hopefully the cast can translate it into active terms. At the very least, they'll know what the hell I'm doing when I stop mid-sentence and start counting on my fingers while muttering "Da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum."