Post-Script

The most gratifying comment about this production came after the fact, when a patron whose opinion I value highly told me that he found the play both briskly paced and highly accessible.

We got a smattering of criticism about a lack of "tragic depth"--ie. not going far enough with the emotions of the piece. I've received this criticism for previous productions also. Personally, I think most people's idea of "tragic depth" stands in direct opposition to the "fast and accessible" approach; when they think of Shakespeare in the grandiloquent RSC style, they imagine slow, leaden productions where actors emote their lines into ponderous oblivion.

I'm sorry, but give me fast and accessible any day of the week. Isn't that a greater accomplishment than "tragic depth": to deliver a Shakespeare play--especially one as complex and as bleak as Lear--in a way that doesn't make the audience feel like they've been through a comparable ordeal? To make them feel like they've understood the story and the themes, and to send them out of the theatre feeling like their time has not been wasted?

I don't mean to pat myself on the back here--at least, not too much--but I think I chose the more sensible, and more fulfilling, road.

OK, now I'm really done. Come visit me at Stage Whispers!

Last Performance Tonight

I'm wrapping this up. I may end up adding one or two final thoughts, if they occur to me; but having made it through most of the run without feeling any serious misgivings, I think I'd rather end this journal on a positive note, instead of labouring to come up with lessons learned, etc.

Thanks, everyone who participated in what has been an amazingly smooth and completely fulfilling process. And thanks as well to those who participated in this electronic experiment; I don't know whether it helped the show or not, but it sure did help to keep me sane. Next time, I hope I can encourage both show participants and curious observers to contribute more to the discussion-- because, as much as I love the sound of my own voice (or the shape of my own pixels), I enjoy your feedback even more.

And, speaking of next time...the Walterdale adventure continues at the end of March, with Alex Hawkins' production of Thornton Wilder's Skin of our Teeth. And the blog adventure continues right next door, where you'll find a sneak peek at Walterdale's next season, and my next directing project. It's all up in the air right now, and very hush-hush, of course, which is why I've chosen to call it Stage Whispers. See you there!

The Little Things

Saw the show again on Wednesday night. It was a strong, solid run; the audience was very quiet at the start, but the cast seemed to know what was needed to light a fire under them, and they were much more animated, laughing and squirming and gasping on cue, in Act Two. Good for them; that's the sort of finessing that many professional casts can't even manage.

Getting to see the show for the first time in a while, as well as seeing it without my director's hat firmly attached to my head, I was able to notice details that had either evolved in my absence, or else which had always been there but I just didn't spot them. I didn't take notes, but here's what I remember:

• Introducing the love test, just before "Goneril, our eldest born, speak first," Lear's gaze lingers on Regan--and then his index finger points away from his gaze, taking Goneril by surprise. Keepin' the kids off-balance.
• Kent has a prop ring which he gives to Gargrave during the storm. I knew that Kieran was using this ring to signify his rank, and that he was going to remove it during his soliloquy ("Now, banished Kent..."). This time I also saw Kent fingering it unconsciously in 1.1, while he was summoning up the nerve to confront Lear; and again, once he'd been banished.
• And then, on his "Now, banished Kent" soliloquy, he put a finger to his lips, as if to beseech the audience not to give his true identity away. That's awesome; audiences love to be complicit in secrets, and there are so many of them in this play, I lose track.
• Albany kneels to Lear ("My lord, I am ignorant of what hath moved you"), but Lear stalks off without seeming to acknowledge him. Goneril is upstage, rolling her eyes--now, as soon as Lear is off, she slips downstage and hauls Albany up onto his feet. Her embarrassment in having to associate with this "milk-liver'd man" is already palpable.
• Cornwall's repressed rage at his own wife erupts in slightly different ways each night. Now he's taken to cutting off her lines in 1.6, which probably drives Brittany crazy, but which does the right thing in keeping Regan powerless and unsure.
• Gloster re-enters after following Lear out into the storm. "The king is in high rage," he says, and then attempts to convince Cornwall and the daughters to relieve him. Up till now, Peter has delivered these lines with the same slightly befuddled consternation that typifies Gloster at this point in the play. This time, the lines had a real edge to them, and I realized that the near-sighted old man was actually starting to clue in; he could see the parallels growing between Edgar, his own allegedly unfaithful son, and these "unnatural hags" who didn't care a whit if their old man got washed away.
• Out at Dover, Lear enters giggling with a wreath of flowers, berries and ribbons on his head. Tonight, by choice or accident, he came out with the wreath on backwards, so the red ribbons hung in front of his eyes. Gloster is already onstage at this point, with a blood-stained bandage covering his own "bleeding rings." What a lovely visual parallel, intentional or otherwise!
• At the end, when Lear enters carrying Cordelia, Allan as Albany does some outstanding physical acting (actually, everyone onstage is great, but most of them have been instructed to stay very still). When he sees Lear, he is facing upstage. He bends over, almost double, with the shock of what he sees (which conveniently allows us to see it also). Then he stumbles backwards, averting his eyes and remaning closed off to the audience. He ends up standing stage left, still hunkered over, and he looks for all the world like a blasted tree or an ancient statue worn down by the elements. The other actors, also "men of stone" have similar postures of distress. Lear is surrounded by corpses and broken men--no one has the strength, or the power, to alleviate, or even share, his pain, and so he cries alone.

There's lots of other great bits. And then there are the bits which, I'm told, change every night, like the Knights' shenanigans in 1.3, or Kent's visual illustration of the infamous Lipsbury Pinfold (I'm a bit anxious to see where these improvised bits go on closing night; things could get ugly).

As I've said before, I enjoy seeing new things occur onstage. When I think of being in a four-month-long production run at Stratford (or--god help us--Cats), where nothing is supposed to change, nothing seems more dull, more untheatrical. And Lear, of course, is the sort of play on could do for ages, and constantly discover new things that work.

For better or worse, theatre is ephemeral (although we will be video recording the final show). Our work on this show must stop after 12 performances. But I certainly have lots of tricks and lessons to take with me into the next grand enterprise...about which topic, more anon.

Lunch in France

Sunday the cast had a 2pm matinee. I met them briefly for brunch, then stayed behind at the bistro to meet a couple of potential directors for next season. Half-way through my first coffee meeting, I look up and see a familiar face at the bistro counter, ordering soup. Anna-Maria...Cordelia. I look at my watch. 2:30pm.

Panic, followed by irrational anger. What is she doing here? Was the play cancelled? Did she forget about her call? Is the cast back at the Playhouse, struggling to re-invent the play sans Cordelia? I suppress the urge to stuff her under my arm and race back to the theatre.

Then it dawns on me. 2:30 is a half hour into the show...which means they're on about Act 2, Scene 1...which means that Cordelia is in France. Anna-Maria got banished fifteen minutes ago, and won't be needed onstage again for at least another hour. She's getting soup in France. She smiles and waves, and I wave back, abashed.

I'm glad I'm not in charge of things anymore.

Evolution

I wasn't at Thursday's show, and I came late to Friday's, so I only saw the second half (I heard the first half on the sound monitor in the lobby--man, those thunderclaps are loud!). What I saw was great; the energy was high and the audience seemed thoroughly involved. Once again, I marvelled at how easily and honestly they laughed; but I also enjoyed watching them squirm during the blinding, and watching their still silence when Lear carries on Cordelia's body at the end ("O, you are men of stones!")

After the show, Keiran said something that made my heart soar. He observed that the cast had reached the point where they were willing to try new things onstage, making little discoveries about their characters and scenes within the moment, rather than trying to work it all out in advance. This is great, because it means the actors really trusts each other. When you try something different, you are running the risk that it might fail--but they trust that the other people on stage will help them to recover if an experiment goes wrong. Similarly, they trust the rest of the cast to react appropriately and believably to their new tricks.

For example: a couple of nights ago, Gino added something to the top of 4.5, when Edmund has captured Lear and Cordelia. Before he says "Take them away," to the guards, he steps forward and touches Cordelia's chin. We can see, in this moment, Edmund the power-hungry general debating silently with Edmund the lecherous bastard; he is thinking, "I had both of her sisters; what a shame it will be to kill off the third without having her too."

Last night, Gino went to make the same gesture--but this time, Dale stopped him, putting his hand out (quite gently, I thought), and wordlessly informing him that there was no way in hell Edmund was getting anywhere near his beloved daughter. This, of course, made Edmund's decision much easier, and gave his "Take them away" line an extra layer of nastiness, as he now relishes his revenge against Lear the chaperone.

Simple moments, but watching them evolve is precious. Because--and I have no way to prove this, but I know it's true--the audience can sense the difference between a pre-blocked and rehearsed gesture, and something which passes organically between characters for the first time in front of their very eyes. What a privilege! That's the energy that can make theatre infinitely superior to recorded media like film: witnessing something happen for the first time, and sensing that has changed everything forever.

Or, at least, until the next performance.

First Night

A good opening. Apart from one inexplicably late entrance and an almost imperceptible lighting/sound mixup, everything flowed like clockwork.

The audience reactions were very positive, and wonderfully varied. I heard praise for a number of different cast members, including some who were playing smaller parts. A couple of patrons said they were impressed with the fight direction. Several enthused about the set--but none of this in a way which suggested to me that they were overlooking the play itself.

I think what gratified me most was the laughter. It came early (even before Edmund pulled the knickers out of his coat), and returned often. The scene at Dover between Gloster and Edgar had a wonderfully varied tone; people started laughing at G's early line "Methinks the ground is level," then got serious for Edgar's description of the cliff; they chuckled when Edgar said "Fare you well good sir" as if from a distance; then they sobered up for G's "As flies to wanton boys" speech. The jump itself received a titter--as if people weren't sure whether this was serious or comic--and then, of course, G's line "Away, and let me die" (pulling his blanket back over his head) got a laugh, as did "Alack, I have no eyes."

This gratifies me because it is honest laughter. They're not mocking the characters, or the production; they know that Gloster has been through hell, and so I think they are looking for opportunities to redeem his story through joy. It means that they are one short step ahead of Gloster himself, when he says, "I do remember now. You gentle gods..." and abandons his plans for suicide.

I also remember hearing a wonderfully gratifying gasp when Edgar inadvertantly reveals himself to his father, near the end of the same scene. I wasn't sure if anyone would catch that; but it really strengthens the next moment, which is a veiled reconciliation between father and son. (And then, of course, Oswald enters, humour returns, then seriousness, then humour...it really is a roller coaster)

I wish I could see every show of the run, to observe how these reactions change. But the cast needs to know that I'm no longer out there, watching them. They need ownership over what they've created, or what they continue to create, together with their audiences. It really is a magical process: you get a bunch of strangers together in a bare room with a bunch of people speaking words they didn't write, and pretending to be someplace else entirely...and somehow, a thoroughly unique and intimate experience results. As I have often said, the thing I love most about the theatre is that, when it works, the whole is always much, much greater than the sum of its parts.