1: THINGS FALL APART
“Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.”
PART ONE
There wasn’t even a whisper about what was coming, so we carried on with rehearsals for Troilus & Cressida as if tomorrow would arrive on time. I’d spent almost two years working on production music as Khonsu Samurai, so I’d learned some tricks I could apply to a music score. Technical rehearsals were in March and I was way ahead of my usual schedule. Yeah, I’d say things were going pretty well.
I can watch a rehearsal in it’s sparest form and imagine sound and music into the performance. Temporary props and partial costume pieces; harsh office lights; a set defined by gaffer tape and spike marks; mix-n-match furniture standing in for beds and chairs—all of it was enough to inspire the possibilities once we moved to the theater. And this time, when the cast performed a final run-through in the rehearsal space, I had a huge chunk of the music in listenable form. I played music cues from my laptop in real time and it seemed to be landing exactly as I’d hoped.
Suddenly it was tech week, the time where the lights, set, props, costumes, and sound all come together and everyone feels re-energized and inspired by an influx of the new. Sure, it gets monotonous—plenty of “hurry up and wait” or “imagine what this will look/sound/feel like…once it’s available”—and the days are long. The cast and crew spend 10 out of 12 hours working through the play, cue by cue and beat by beat, and the technical staff typically arrive hours before the cast and stay late for notes. But the clock is ticking; we all know an audience is going to be in those seats soon enough. This is where I do my best work, totally immersed in my job. I thrive in this pressure cooker, solving problems and navigating sudden changes—sometimes crankily, but always rising to the task—in creative ways that didn’t seem possible before we started. I do my part to make this the best show the whole company can create, then leave it in capable hands after opening night.
But this time, things went to hell before it could truly begin.
***
COVID had been in the news, but in these ludicrous times, there was no consensus on how dangerous it could be (or would be). Every step to contain it was taken out of an abundance of caution, but the strain was too much for the world. It’s hard to say which was the worst plague: the pandemic or rampant misinformation. In 2020, reality finally split in two; you had truth and you had lies, but it became harder to tell which was which. Since critical thinking (especially in America) was nearing extinction, charlatans were held in higher regard than experts and the “you can’t tell me what to do!” crowd defied every attempt to fight the pandemic. Five years on, some of the advice offered by experts was overbearing and relied on the population surrendering to the greater good, but…I’m getting ahead of my own story.
On March 10th, our state governor announced a ban on gatherings of 250 people or more, lasting until March 31st. The Seattle Shakespeare Company was moving forward with the tech process, even if the show could not be performed safely in front of an audience until April 1st (which turned out to be an epic April Fools joke), but at least we could film the play for archival purposes and press pause until we got back to business as usual.
“Everyone: let’s stop what were doing and meet in the front of the house.” That was our production manager with a foreboding announcement some thirty minutes before the cast was due to arrive. I was in the middle of a soundcheck, lights were being adjusted, ladders on the stage, props being sorted—it was the usual buzz of activity before tech could begin. But it wouldn’t begin. We were to pack it all up (set pieces, props, costumes, etc.) and strike all the equipment until further notice. Someday the play would see the light at the end of the tunnel and, if you’re reading these words, you probably already know about the train attached to that light.
TO BE CONTINUED…
