Tech Quotes

My two favorite tech quotes. Tech used to be my favorite time, when I was a stage manager. Now, as an actor, I can’t imagine what’s taking them so long.

Dan Sullivan was directing a production of Romeo and Juliet at Seattle Repertory Theatre. This was a long time ago and smack dab in the early days of electronic hoo-haw making it’s way on stage. One of the scenic elements were these large white sheer fabric panels of various widths. They were hung on bars above the stage which traveled on tracks. The idea was that they track onstage to a fixed point, a micro switch would then trip and they would stop. The same was true for rotation. So, in theory these puppies could float onstage while turning, perhaps pass each other, and land at preset positions which would create ‘rooms’ or whatever.

Well, we were deep into techs and these things were acting up like crazy. The set designer kept explaining, “ Well, you see, the micro switch didn’t trip that time. We think we know why…” and again, “The micro switch that tripped was set in a previous cue and we’re working out how to trip and un-tripped micro switch, should that happen again…”. Finally, after yet another failed attempt at a ‘magic’ scene shift, Dan stands up in the middle of the house and loud enough for everyone to hear says, “Will someone tell me, without using the word micro-switch, what the hell is supposed to happen here!”

Flash forward a decade. Des McAnuff was directing the first production of “The Who’s Tommy” in La Jolla before it made it’s way to Broadway. Yours truly was in the ensemble. The first five minutes of the show is a crazy amount of staging while the ‘overture’ plays. The prologue consisted of images of the war effort at home, soldiers in a jump plane actually leaping through a trap in the stage as if from the air craft, parachuting soldiers being lowered from the flies, an injury, a hospital room, a birth, and on and on. It took two eight-hour days to tech the first five minutes of the musical. At some point during the second day we found ourselves repeating this 30 second sequence over and over again. Nerves were fraying. Des recognized this and offered this up after stopping yet once again, “All right everybody, just one more time and then we’ll go back.” It sounded good, until you thought about it.

Pete and I

Thinking back to ‘Tommy’ reminds me of my run in with Pete Townsend. I was in the ensemble, it’s true, but I had been assigned a key small part. The fact is, that I had the very first line in the whole musical, SOLO! For anybody who knows the album, it’s famous, “Caaaptin Walker didn’t come home, his unborn child will never knooow him”. In the imagination of hundreds of millions, Roger Daltry’s voice is forever attached to that lyric. In the musical I was a soldier bringing the bad news to the front door of Mrs. Walker. The guy I was with played soldier number two. He had the second sung line. He was this big black guy from LA with a rough, wide voice. I’m sort of, well, an Irish tenor.

Pete Townsend showed up two weeks before we opened. Within 48 hours of his arrival, a big black smokey voice was singing “Caaaptin Walker didn’t come home, his unborn child will never knooow him” and a bright clear tenor, with choir-boy diction chimed in, “believe him missin’ with a number of men, don’t expect to see him again’nnn”

Homey ain’t rock and roll enough for the Townsend, su’up wid dat?

Theatre 280

I have a problem with authority. I don’t have any. This fact is painfully in evidence each and every time I attempt to teach my Theatre 280 class here at Cornell. The minute I walk into the room I am bombarded by sixteen Ivey League minds in heavy negotiation mode. Sometimes in interest groups, sometimes individually, but everything is always on the table: what they want to do today, when they want to take the quiz, how long the upcoming paper should be, should there be a paper, if we have to do our monologues, so do you! They love me (that’s what I tell myself) but they trample me.

Occasionally in the middle of class I find myself longing to miter a corner, or apply a thin bead of caulk to something, anything. The dialogue between me and an inanimate object is a peaceful give and take in comparison to the harangue of sixteen sharp-minded over-privileged youths. I don’t have the skills to stand my ground. “Yes, that does sound like a good idea, having the rest of class at College Town Bagels, chit-chatting” or “Your right. Writing clear, well constructed sentences is over-rated, even…what you said, obsolete!”

What am I talking about! They overwhelm me and I begin agreeing with anything in order to make it stop. I know the CIA has condoned these tactics but to find it on a campus! Anyway, quite by accident I stumbled upon a sure fire way to silence the cacophony and gain their attention in an instant. Allow a tooth to fall from your mouth. No, seriously. If you happen to have crowns or posts or veneers or bridges or any other construction in you face, arrange to have it loose one class and then, while trying to make a point, just let it slip into your lap.

Instantly, the class was galvanized. Like magic, I had the undivided attention of sixteen Cornellians. I plan to use this tactic sparingly but it’s nice to know it’s there, in my arsenel.

Class was dismissed. Tooth was re-cemented. True story.