The Disgruntled Players
A member of the Chorus walks around the stage, flapping his arms in a disinterested way, attempting to pass off his silent mouthing as delivering lines while the rest of the Chorus members actually do their job.
“He looks like he’s jerking off two guys,” the Stage Manager observes.
“He still doesn’t know his lines,” an Assistant Stage Manager pipes in.
The Stage Manager shakes his head. He glances at the Director, who is ostensibly taking notes on her smartphone. He sighs as she briefly looks at the cast, then buries her face in her phone again.
Aristophanes’ The Birds is an ancient Greek Comedy that is just over 400 years older than Jesus. There are many roles that have to be cast, and the Director has chosen to utilize everyone cast for a bit part in Act 2 as a Chorus member for Act 1 resulting in a rather large cast. It contains many references to the politicians and artists of its time. There are scripts that have attempted to modernize the play and make it more relevant to the average person. The Director has chosen, for good or ill, to keep the original play as in tact and unmodified as possible.
“There are other versions of the play out there that replace characters and places with modern references, but I think that’s just cheesy,” she explains to the cast as they struggle through their very first read through.
The next day, the edited scripts are passed out. Nobody seems to be happy with it.
“I hate those fucking lines,” or some variation thereof is often heard by most of the actors as they exit the stage at the end of Act 1. The Chorus has two monologues that require them to interject birdcalls in between specific sentences and sometimes even mid-sentence. Without fail, after each birdcall, the Chorus as a whole pauses for a moment as their brains search for where they should be in their speech.
“My brain goes blank after those stupid birdcalls,” a Chorus member states. After the act is completed, one of the actors asks the Director if they could please, please cut the birdcalls from the script.
“No.” the Director replies, voice flat, emotionless.
Later, after the first rehearsal where the actors are supposed to be off-book, meaning they must rehearse without their scripts in hand, the Stage Manager and a few members of the company retreat to one of the local chain restaurants with decent beer on tap to have an old fashioned bull session.
“Can we play the Priest scene over to the other side of the stage?” asks the dude playing Pisthetairos.
“I don’t care. Direct yourself,” the Stage manager replies.
“Yeah, man, the fucking Director isn’t even directing,” chimes in another actor. The statement is greeted with plenty of knowing nods and long pulls from the frosty mugs scattered across the table.
Before a rehearsal, the Chorus Leader paces the stage, wrinkled script in her hands, her eyes darting from left to right. She lowers the script and launches in to one of her lengthier monologues that spans at least two whole pages of the script. She confidently recites several lines in character. Then, she gets hung up on a word. She closes her eyes, purses her lips, and lets out a loud sigh as she brings the wrinkled paper up to her eyes again.
“Okay,” the Director begins, “this is how we’re going to block the orgy scene.”
The Director thinks to herself for a minute in silence. While others may use the phrase “for a minute” figuratively, in this instance, it is quite literal. It gives one an appreciation for just how long 60 whole seconds can crawl by.
Suddenly, the light bulb turns on and the Director proceeds to choreograph an elaborate dance sequence utilizing every member of the Chorus on stage. Each action must happen in unison, according to her. When the perfect unison fails to happen, the Director attempts to time out each move of the dance to the Chorus Leader’s lines, trying to pick out a rhythm based on their rough iambic pentameter. The problem with this is obvious to everyone but her. The Chorus Leader does not deliver her lines rhythmically. She delivers them like an actress playing a character. One of the Chorus asks if this routine can be accompanied by music instead. You know, to help keep the beat? The Director merely shakes her head and goes quiet again as gears grind to churn out yet more choreography.
By the time the first dress rehearsal rolls around, the players are finally confident in their lines. Unfortunately, the attitude really hasn’t changed for the better.
“I’m so tired of this show,” the Priest muses.
“I’ve been tired of this show since week one, since finding out the direction we were heading,” Poseidon replies.
“Turn in your phones,” an Assistant Stage Manager calls out, carrying an empty toolbox.
“I didn’t bring my phone,” the Chorus member who can’t remember his lines quickly says as he attempts to hide his phone. The ASM corners him, opens the toolbox, and waits impatiently.
“But what am I going to do?” he whines, “I don’t come out ‘til the second Act!”
The ASM narrows her eyes. The irresponsible Chorus kid surrenders his phone. The rest of the players hand over their phones without incident.
“Warm-ups in the studio,” the Stage Manager calls over the intercom. The actors file in. The show must go on.
