Play language

April 3, 1995

Play practice has increased my vocabulary.

First it was “I want as many of you here Saturday for work call as possible.” I thought they said work hall. It seems a better description for what we did.

Then the director made the heart-stopping announcement: “I want you ‘off book’ by next Monday. If you forget your lines, you are to stay in character and ask for a line.” Eric Mann, the play’s alleged murderer, was the first major character “off book” for a scene. My competitive spirit and fear of not being prepared kicked in. After a morning by myself in a quiet room, I thought being “off book” was a piece of cake – then I went to practice. I forgot words, I forgot props, I forgot my blocking (where the script told me to be on stage at specific points).

I forgot I had to wait for witnesses’ answers when I, as the prosecutor, was supposed to be cross examining them.
My neatly memorized lines flew out the window. With that sinking feeling “I’ve forgotten my lines,” I tipped my head back and looked up at the ceiling for lines that weren’t there either.
I went home and began studying the other actors’ lines for cues.
“Acting is simply having a conversation on stage,” director Donna said.

“Listen to what the person is saying. Their response gives clues to what you are to say.” But I am the one who introduces the new subjects. “Now about this matter of the blood on the jacket sleeve …”
“How much did you know about the prisoner?”

“Where did you find this knife?”
About the time that I had my lines right, I was told to “cheat” toward the audience. Me cheat! Never!

At least not until I understood that it meant I was to hold my head so that I looked like I was talking to one person, while directing my voice towards the audience. I’m still not comfortable with either kind of cheating, but I am quite comfortably “in char
acter.” I can think, feel, react like the person I am pretending to be – a dignified English barrister.
In England, the judge and barristers (lawyers who argue cases in court) wear black graduation gowns and white wigs reminiscent of George Washington. Through the weeks of practice, I have been wearing a red curly “Little Orphan Annie” wig to develop my character’s habit of yanking the wig. I had no problem learning the habit. Wigs are itchy, irritating and downright inconvenient.

Before we were through practice, I made up my own phrase: ‘Off wig.’
The Ronald McDonald wig hardly suited my dignified personality.
For the play, fortunately, I replaced the red wig with the white formal black robe. When I don’t step on the hem of the robe and fall on the table as I stand, I look quite dignified.

This week I add one more phrase, “closing night,” which is Tuesday.
It’s sad. All the learning, the fun, the Saturday work calls will end.
However, I will be “off wig.” Too bad I have to give back that dignified robe though.


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