In an old cavern of a theater on East Fourth Street.
Yes, there's something romantic about it.
I got to the theater last night with torturously cold, wet shoes and socks.
After four hours of tech, they'd gotten through one of eighteen scenes.
Final dress is tomorrow.
My fearless director was showing fear for the first time.
The actors looked exhausted.
The designers were stressed.
Tech...maybe it's somebody's idea of a good time, but it's not mine.
I think the process of a show...the experience of a show is the experience of watching it appear (at the second read-through)...the rhythms, the jokes, the moments of gravity. You say "yes, we're gonna have a play," and "Oh God, let's get on our feet, I can SEE it, I can SEE it."
Then you get on your feet, start working through it...and it disappears. The actors haven't found it in their bodies yet, the director hasn't found it in space, or only has a fraction of the design elements in place. It looks like grown-ups playing dress-up in an abandoned dance room or classroom.
Then it appears again, if you're lucky, for a day or two before you go into tech. The actors, the director, the play start cooking with gas again, find their rhythm, find the meaning behind the words. You breath a sigh of relief.
Then tech, and it disappears all over again. And you despair. Will they ever find the show again? Will the audience see the gorgeous play in your head, in the director's head, in the designer's head? Can reality match the dream?
We shall see.
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