The Bastard Edmund waves his hands in the air and breaks into a light dance. His lines come easy and other actors join in calling out their lines in song. Off to the sidelines, The Earl of Gloucester is reading a thick black book, oblivious yet content. A Servant Girl on her way to the dressing room catches the eye of The Fool and extends her hand in a longing fashion, her red curls playfully hopping around. The Fool reciprocates her impromptu gesture. She laughs. Over the loudspeakers, the stage manager sounds the call. “Ladies and gentlemen, the house is now closed. Places for the top of the show. Break a leg, everybody!”

Every semester, the University of Texas Pan American Theatre Department puts on at least two shows. The first show of the 2011 Fall season is King Lear.

Hours before the lights dim and the show begins, the actors file in to the makeup room, some with smiles large enough to light up everything around them, some with weary eyes from the revelries of the previous night. Conversations come easy. Food, in various states of health and otherwise, is consumed, sometimes neatly, more often messily.

Each actor is in charge of his or her own makeup for this show. Some take to this task with ease and aplomb, others with an indifference that is often reserved for menial house chores. This is the first show in recent years that this responsibility was placed upon the actors and some are not taking too kindly to the decision. Still, everyone does what is required of them, despite their misgivings. Men apply eyeliner, unsteadily at first, but by the show’s last day are near pros.

A bit player in the show, Guard/Servant #Whatever, prepares his mind for the task ahead by sitting at the old black upright piano and noodling notes. Some songs he knows by heart. Others, he takes his time picking out the correct keys. Another bit player, Servant Girl #2 comes up to the bench, sits down and insists that they play “Chopsticks” in unison. The results are less than melodic.

In the hallway that connects the makeup room to the costume shop, the scene workshop, and the stage itself, Assistant Stage Managers, also known as ASMs, bustle to and fro, looking for actors, props, costume accessories, other ASMs; their headsets linked together to the Stage Manager, or SM, in the control booth.

The SM hisses, “Where the fuck is Lear?!”

The reply from an ASM, “Five seconds. He’s still changing.”

Three and a half seconds later, “Okay, he’s going.”

Silence from the radio as Lear walks onto the scene. Then, without skipping a beat, from the SM, “Light cue 49… go!”

During the climactic thunderstorm of the first half of the show, the Sound Runners hunch over the Effects Shortcut Consoles and the mixing board. There is a tension in the air that lifts their shoulders ever so slightly.

The SM calls, “Thunder clap, stand by.”

One of them calls back, “Standing by.”

“Cues go!”

A giant thunderclap is heard as the Light Runners punctuate the scene with lightning effects. Almost immediately, the SM calls again, “Thunder clap, stand by.”

“Standing by.”

Before the intermission is over, a servant to the Duke of Cornwall unsheathes his prop sword, takes a place in front of the large mirror wall in the studio adjacent to the main theatre, and rehearses his big sword fight. He swings his sword confidently. His lines and blocking are fluid. It’s his big moment. When it comes time for him to get in place, he sheathes his sword, nods once to the mirror, and strides away confident, assured.

As the sad notes of a violin punctuate the final scene, there is a palpable feeling of relief from the tech crew. Everything has gone as it must to complete that day’s show. When the house lights come back up to let the patrons out, the SM makes one last call over the radio.

“Good show, everybody.”

The radio is shut down with the flip of a switch, the sound consoles with the turn of a key, and the lighting console with the click of a mouse. The players and crew file out at their own pace once the house is clear. Before the last person leaves, one solitary light, called the ghost light, is placed in the center of the stage and turned on, to keep the lonely theater company until it is populated once again with the sights, lights and sounds of men and women playing pretend to entertain and delight all who attend.

“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.