Season Two: Week 31

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Tuesday / January 22 / 2019
Written by Matt

Last week, our Lear wrote a letter, in character, to Gloucester. Not to be outdone, Gloucester wrote two letters to Lear!

“What?!” exclaimed Lear, feeling one-upped. “You can’t write two!”

One of the letters was a “bro-y” (his words) six-pager that the author declined to read to spare us all. But the other was from Gloucester’s perspective shortly after his blinding. “I was base,” he wrote. “Base--deeply--to him who I thought of as base.” There was hope and grace in this letter: “Even without my eyes, I can see the radiant light--the true light--that surrounds me.” And Gloucester tried to impart the lesson he had learned too late: “Love your daughters,” he implored Lear, “even if you have favorites, love them evenly. I made the mistake of loving unevenly.”

When he had finished, one of the guys asked what we were supposed to take from the letter. Gloucester replied, “There are things unspoken that go beyond what’s written.” He talked about searching for the character in the text, “as Shakespeare wrote him, not as we wrote him. And I wrote Gloucester,” he chuckled, recalling his first letter, which was insightful but also judgmental, creating a caricature of Gloucester that was funny but not true. A newcomer said, “Some of us have smaller roles, but they’re in there because Shakespeare wanted to convey a message.” Frannie nodded along and added that actors often develop backstories and intimate relationships with their characters, “If you wanted to know what you do when you are training to be an actor, this is what you do,” she said, referring to Gloucester’s letter.

“That’s pretty good,” our Lear allowed. “Now I gotta write another one.”

Cut to… one of the most difficult scenes in all of Shakespeare! Having worked on the beginning of Act IV, scene vi last week--from Gloucester’s entrance with Edgar to after the “suicide” attempt--we were set to start with Lear’s entrance, mad, crowned with flowers. Our Lear was pumping himself up in one of the “wings,” and I asked Gloucester if he needed a little bit of a running start, if he wanted to go back to the beginning of the scene or somewhere else to get in character. He thought for a second, then shook his head. He’d be fine with a quick acting exercise, he told me, and then started doing one of the Michael Chekhov exercises we learned a few months ago.

Then, we were off! Lear had clearly done a lot of work on this scene over the weekend. He was off-book, and he had identified each of the mad king’s transitions throughout the scene and even created an action or gesture to go along with each one. He made a coaxing kissy-sound when trying to lure an imagined mouse with a piece of cheese, which led him to his gauntlet, which he put on before realizing that he had just accepted a duel with a giant, whom he leapt in the air to punch at. It was a great start. Throughout, he was adjusting his relationship to Gloucester--sometimes connected, sometimes completely disconnected.

And Gloucester, who looked hopeful for the first time in a few scenes upon recognizing Lear, quickly sank into even deeper despair. When Lear ordered him to “read,” Gloucester broke down, howling “I have. No. Eyes!” at the space where Lear used to be. When Lear moved to comfort Gloucester, the gesture was too little, too late. On “I see it feelingly,” Gloucester collapsed into Lear’s chest, and the two men held each other for a time. “If thou wilt weep my fortunes,” Lear said, “take my eyes.” As he said it, I realized that I had never heard that line as a genuine (if impossible) offer. But the way our Lear said it was totally earnest, a literal offer of his eyes to his friend, whom he positively identifies for the first time in the next line (“I know thee well enough. Thy name is Gloucester”). The offer and the naming--the “knowing”!!--were so clearly connected and translated so beautifully that we were all jarred a bit when Cordelia’s minions entered to break up the scene. We paused before Oswald’s entrance--that was enough to digest.

“As soon as I hear Lear’s voice,” our Gloucester reflected afterwards, “I forget about the ‘servant,’” referring to Edgar. “I just want to go to that voice.” Lear immediately piped up: “You should do that!” Gloucester agreed, then reflected: “It’s a bittersweet thing, for him to see me in this wretched state.” One of the guys who was watching commented that the scene had been funny, but that “[Gloucester] just brought it down to this core of emotion, so we couldn’t laugh too long.”

After a second run, which was even better, Gloucester wondered what he was supposed to do after the entrance of the “gentlemen” from Cordelia sent to fetch Lear. “I’m hearing all this,” he said, but didn’t know what his actions should be. A few people offered ideas on that and also on how to make Lear’s exit tighter. After a few minutes, our Lear offered his Theory of Rehearsal: “You’re kinda nervous the first time you do it. The second time, not so much. The third time is great. The fourth… not so much!” Point taken! From the top!

On the third run, things fell into place. Lear was disarmingly direct with all of his lines after “every inch a king,” directing them to Gloucester and drawing himself up, as if holding court. This led to even more intimacy between Gloucester and Lear near the end of this segment. Unlike the last two times, we didn’t stop at Oswald’s entrance. Frannie told our Oswald just to jump in from where he was sitting, and he did. Maybe he caught himself off-guard, because it worked! Oswald, who struggles with stage fright, was menacing and direct in his aggressiveness--he was working really hard!

Despite our Lear’s Theory of Rehearsal, we decided to give it another run, this time from start to finish. And it was really good. I actually don’t have a lot of notes on why it was so good--just a few lines I write down with expletives next to them. This time through, the intimacy between Lear and Gloucester seemed almost to frighten or frustrate Gloucester. He pushed Lear away on “What? With the case of eyes?” and then pulled him close on “Oh, are you there with me?” and then pushed him away again on “Alack the day!”

Most touchingly (and tragicomically), Gloucester got up to fight against the gentlemen on their entrance. He did not know where they were, so he kicked and punched in the wrong direction until an overzealous kick toppled him to the ground, where he sobbed. It was a heartbreaking piece of totally organic blocking--a pointless fury, directed at no one, to no end at all. Oof. These guys get this play.

Friday / January 25 / 2018
Written by Matt

“BLOW, WINDS, AND CRACK YOUR CHEEKS! RAGE! BLOW!” … is now our code-word for “speak up.” Like most good things, it came about organically, as one of the guys started his check-in too quietly to be heard, and a bunch of guys hollered Lear’s line at him to get him to project his voice. Amazing.

We had two guests today! One was a (semi-) frequent visitor, Curt Tofteland, founder of Shakespeare Behind Bars and inspiration for many Prison Shakespeare programs—including ours. The other was Niels Herold, professor of English at Oakland University.

Our Gloucester is really on a roll. He wrote yet another letter, in character, to Lear, although he declined to read it, worrying that he was taking everyone’s time. He has also been digging deep with his acting. “I’ve been working on emoting emotions faster,” he said. “I took a couple of scenes in the play, and I worked on the emotions,” he explained, adding that he wanted to be better at getting quickly to the desired emotion, and on transitioning smoothly from one emotional state to another. Our Lear agreed. “Me, connecting with Lear,” he said, “was just making a past for him. When I did that, I started to understand the words better.”

Our Regan also had a play-related check-in. “[The line] ‘You are my guests’ stuck in my head. Holy crap, they put out this guy’s eyes in his own house! Where were his servants at?” Without missing a beat, our Edmund solved the mystery: “Edmund did that,” he said. “I turned them out of the house!”

We spent the rest of the day working on a tough scene (there are a lot of those in this play!): Act IV, scene vii. In it, Lear and Cordelia reunite. The old king has finally been able to sleep, and his youngest daughter has returned to England with an army from France. But the reunion is hardly triumphant--Lear is confused and weak, and Cordelia struggles to connect with her father.

Our Lear seemed a little bit lost before we got started, so I went up and asked if he needed a minute “No,” he said firmly. “The first run is always just a rough draft.” One of the guys got a wheeled office chair from another part of the gym, to serve as Lear’s “wheelchair.” The tiny office chair, however, was dwarfed by our Lear, who’s a big guy, and everyone started giggling when he rode in, his feet raised up like a little kid on a snow tube. The laughter threw Lear off, but everyone stumbled through the scene to the end.

“How’d it feel?” asked one of the guys, who has become the king of that question. “Disconnected,” replied Lear. Our Kent asked the man who wheeled Lear on why he left in the middle of the scene. “I dunno,” he said, “I just felt awkward, and I heard, ‘Leave me alone,’ and I felt like it was the perfect time to leave.” Another man said they didn’t need to kneel for so long. Lear nodded, but pushed back: “It says, ‘Don’t kneel.’ Like, [Cordelia] says, ‘Don’t kneel.’ But I think I kneel anyway.” He went on to say that he never felt an instinct to rise once he was down. At last, Cordelia suggested running it again.

We didn’t get far into the second round, though, when we had to stop. Cordelia was freaking out a little (mostly because the visitors made him so nervous; he’s battling a lot of stage fright), so Frannie went to talk that through with him. Lear was still feeling disconnected, so I went over to talk him through it. “This is hard!” he confessed. “This is the hardest one. Way harder than ‘Blow, wind.’ Way harder than going crazy in the last scene. Way harder than, ‘Howl.’” We talked about how it’s hardest sometimes to play low-energy than high-energy; there’s less to hide behind, less action to drive you. “It’s easier to rage around on stage than to be beaten down,” he agreed. Then he talked through his understanding of Lear’s progression: he wakes, thinks he’s in hell, then that he’s in purgatory, then he doesn’t know where he is--and only then, after a few minutes, does he begin to put it together. Meanwhile, Frannie was talking an overwhelmed Cordelia through taking care of himself onstage by focusing on the other actors and letting them draw him along. Holy sidebars, Batman!

When they went back and did it again, it was much improved. “I put more emotion in it,” said Cordelia, “I felt better in the end. … I was taking my time with it.” A little while later, he added, “It’s an emotional roller-coaster, and I feel like I go from feeling to feeling.” Our Lear was still frustrated with his own performance. “That’s a hard-ass scene,” he said. “I don’t know if people realize how hard that scene is.”

Our Kent mused aloud that he felt superfluous in the scene, and suggested cutting all of his lines. The way he said it wasn’t crystal-clear, so a lot of guys reacted to his suggestion as if he’d advocated cutting Kent completely from the scene. “I like seeing Lear’s right-hand man there,” said one of the guys. “But I feel like this is a moment between a father and his daughter,” Kent pushed back, but a few guys agreed that Kent’s presence was important. “This is about the fact that [Kent and Cordelia] share a bond that no one else does,” offered our Lear. “They were the most loyal, and they got banished.” A few minutes later, another man echoed that sentiment, and said that Kent’s presence is less about Lear and more about Cordelia. “[Kent] is there for Cordelia. He got banished defending her. He’s there for moral support!”

Frannie asked if we could maybe tell this part of the story more clearly by changing the staging of the scene, which sent a few of the guys digging through their scripts, trying to work it out. “Is this the first time Kent is acknowledged as Kent?” asked one. Throughout, Kent was sitting on a chair onstage and watching attentively but silently as we discussed. “[Do] what you’re doing there!” exclaimed one of the guys, “That’s perfect! Have you ever been in the hospital, and been there with someone and you’re just sitting and watching?” He talked about how you can be “with” someone without directly engaging with them, even if they’re not conscious. Lear perked up at this. “That was a good analogy right there!” he said, “with the hospital. Like when you’re in the hospital and someone closer to the [patient] arrives--you stand to the side, but you’re still there for him.”

The room divided into a few different sub-conversations, but the one right next to me went straight to Kent. “That’s the ultimate loyalty,” said one of the guys in awe. “To work so hard, to make the connection between these people and save the man you serve, then to step back and not only not want acknowledgement, but to want not to be acknowledged. He could have done his big reveal, but he knows that what’s happening is more important.” I reminded him that Kent’s “big reveal” in the final scene comes too late. “Oh god,” said another one of the guys, “I hadn’t remembered that.” He exchanged a look with me and the first man. “Fuck!” he said, “that’s so depressing.” The first man shook his head slowly. “Man, my heart is breaking a little bit right now, just thinking about that.”

As for Cordelia and Lear, they really connected, and that made both of them feel better about their work. One of the guys in the audience said that the back-and-forth connection--the mutual reinforcement of their bond--had sold him on Lear and Cordelia’s dynamic in the scene.

Our Lear pointed to a line he had written in the margin of his script: “Lear realizes for a moment that his humanity replaces his obsession with power.”

As usual, our guests had sat quietly throughout the session. And, as usual, the guys wanted to hear their comments near the end. “This is one of the richest scenes in the play,” began Niels, the Shakespeare scholar from Oakland University. He mentioned that our conversation about Kent had reminded him that Cordelia admires Kent in the first scene. “He speaks truth to power, while she says nothing.” Then he focused on the kneeling in the scene. “I wonder if you guys could do more with this gesture of kneeling. What is kneeling?” He ran through a few possibilities: supplication, respect, acknowledgement. “Is she acknowledging him as king?”

“The word that comes to my mind is ‘reverence,’” replied one of the guys. “Absolute reverence for him as a king and as a father.” Another added, “And for him to kneel back, making sure they’re on the same level… that’s his daughter, and that’s what really matters.” A new member observed, “When Lear kneeled, it was the first time in the play when he really gave up his power.”

Finally, we had a casting issue to work out. Our Oswald recently left the ensemble, so we needed someone to fill in. A new member was interested, but some of the guys had already suggested to a veteran member that he might fill in, partly as a way of reconnecting him to the group after some time spent at a remove. Having both of them interested, especially since the veteran wasn’t there, briefly caused some tension, and another veteran explained why exactly he had tried to fill a vacancy in between sessions--nothing nefarious, just poorly communicated.

In the end, it was the new guy who resolved the issue, asking simply, “Does he want the part?” The answer, “Yes,” came back from several guys at once. “It’s his,” said the new member with finality, and the conflict was settled.

As we were getting ready to wrap up with a rousing game of tapeball (high score: 68!), our Fool leaned over to the new guy who had given up his interest in Oswald for the sake of another man he barely knew. “Dude, that was really noble,” he said, and then he continued by inviting him in. “Hey, do you want to be my understudy? I’ve got this job that might take me away at any time, and I’d feel a whole lot better about it if I knew someone had my back. What do you think? It ain’t but 33 lines.” The new guy accepted. That’s the kind of ensemble we have--they take care of each other.

Season Two: Week 30

Check out this article in American Theatre

A Role for Theatre in Criminal Justice?

So much great information about this work, its impact…
And Shakespeare in Prison is honored to be a part of it!

---

Oh, and while you’re at it…

Why not click here to donate to SIP?

Tuesday / January 15 / 2019
Written by Matt

“Why is Cornwall so vicious, even after he’s mortally wounded? Why does he take the other eye?” asked one of the guys in check-in--once we get going, there is little interest in small-talk with this crew. After the amazing work they did on the eye-gouging scene last week, a few of the guys wanted to check in about it. The man who started the conversation continued, saying that he read over the scene a bunch of times, and he felt that the servant’s outburst provided a hint: “Cornwall isn’t like that, usually. That servant has been with him a long time, and says he doesn’t recognize these actions.” He continued, “Edmund did not have to work hard on Cornwall to get him to do this.”

Our Cornwall, in reply, agreed: “It did not take much to push Cornwall over the edge… He’s a puppet, and Edmund is manipulating his mind.” Another man summed up: “This is the scene where everybody gets their hands dirty. Instead of having everyone else do their dirty work, they’re doing it themselves.”

“Violence doesn’t just happen,” the man who had started the conversation pushed back. “Why is Cornwall feeling this way?”

At last, our Gloucester revealed that he had written 12 pages in a notebook about the eye-gouging. This would be shocking from anyone but him--he’s the one who wrote letters to Gloucester! He said he wouldn’t subject us to a full reading, but he did read out one part: Regan and Cornwall, he read, “represent the worst of his old persona. Regan represents the cruelty toward Edmund. Cornwall represents the selfishness.” Brilliant!

On to Act IV, scene ii. With Albany, our Goneril was abrasive, dismissive, and hard. And Albany… man, is he ever a good listener! He allowed his reactions to Goneril and others to drive everything he was saying--until near the end of the scene, when he seemed almost listless. When we recapped after the scene, he explained that Albany zones out halfway through the scene. He said that he’s in shock at first, after hearing about Gloucester’s blinding, then he’s planning--how will he deal with this new and cruel situation? “I really felt the tension,” said one of the guys, approvingly. He’s never even seen the scene before, and still it translated.

Another of the guys suggested that Goneril be “more feminine,” but, after he suggested that one of the female facilitators might be able to give him a few pointers, Maria jumped in. “I’m gonna respond to that,” she said. “I loved how he did that.” She talked about how Goneril’s reaction to Edmund’s exit was perfect (“Oh my god, I am so in love with this guy!”), and how he played Goneril as a woman, not as a feminine stereotype. As facilitators, we try to never to be proscriptive or shut people down, but Maria’s comment was far from that--it was an insight into Goneril’s performance that could only have come from a woman. “She doesn’t need to be a girly-girl,” added one of the guys. “I don’t see her as a girly-girl,” Goneril assured him. Case closed.

Before the next run, Frannie had suggested (nay, ordered!) the guys to stop ceding ground to each other. Our Albany, though, immediately started instinctively backing up. Frannie leapt up to correct him, then started looking around for an instrument. Physical contact is not allowed, so she settled on a folding chair, which she held up like a shield, to keep Albany from retreating. It looked pretty silly, but it worked like a charm!

Afterwards, Albany said it had been hard for him to stand his ground. “I wanted to pivot back,” he told us. Frannie asked what he usually does, and he pantomimed dismissively turning away. “What happens when you actually engage with someone in the real world?” Frannie asked. “I take it on my shoulders,” he said. Another man praised Albany for his performance: “You do a lot of the little things people do when they talk. It makes it believable.” But another man pushed on him a bit, wondering why he was so impassive when learning about Gloucester’s blinding. Albany explained that he was shocked by the news, then planning what to do about it. The man giving the note struggled a little to put his critique into constructive language, but it was a good note, and eventually we were able to get everybody on the same page.

The third try at the scene had really great energy from the beginning--so great that the guys kept going up on their lines because they were so connected to their scene partners that they’d forget to look at the script! Albany, in particular, really upped his game. He took the final note to heart, and made sure that his inner turmoil was really translating to the audience, without overdoing it. He was heavy when he heard the news about Gloucester, and looked nauseated when he heard that it was Edmund who had informed on his father. “That really worked,” said the man who had given the critical note to Albany. “I felt your emotions immediately.”

Then we ran through the next scene, Act IV, scene iv. It is a brief scene intended to set up the final conflict--most importantly, it is Cordelia’s return. For us, that meant it was the debut of our Cordelia, who stepped in after we lost an ensemble member. Cordelia was really nervous before running through the scene, but he seemed to take courage from the energetic “army” that entered with him. From the second our Cordelia opened his mouth, everyone was riveted. “Cordelia!” exclaimed one of the other guys, enraptured, “You have a Really! Awesome! Voice!” He was leaned back in his chair, arms outstretched to show his excitement. “Savor the words!” he suggested.

Quickly, we regrouped to run the scene again. As always, the second run saw a refinement of blocking and delivery. There were some great, instinctual crosses, and moments of connection and purposefulness that translated instantly. Time was short, but one of our most vocal members was hurrying us along, reminding us that the less we talk about it and the more we do it, the better the acting. After the third run, our Cordelia was feeling a little overwhelmed by all the notes and direction from the audience, even though the questions and comments were valid and important. “He’s overloading,” one of the guys whispered to me. “He’s overloading like I did in my first scene.” Then he stood up. “Okay! Ratatouille!” he shouted, using our code word for too much talking/off-topic. “Let’s do it again!”

The fourth run was great. “That was a lot better,” the man who had been hurrying things along told Cordelia. “You had that confidence.” Cordelia nodded along, saying, “I felt it! I felt it.”

“See that? He felt it!” announced one of the guys. “Don’t nothing else matter.”

Another member specifically called out a brand-new member for his performance as messenger. “You bring importance to the messenger,” he said. “You made it important, what you were saying!” It was a reminder that, in SIP as well as in any theatre, the commentary and notes sometimes focus exclusively on the main characters. That’s natural, but our ensemble right now is uncommonly good at giving positive feedback and critical notes to even the messengers and servants. They understand how important those roles are to telling the story, and it’s really great that they’re always taking care of the minor characters on stage.

We had a little bit of time after finishing this scene, but the next one is a bear (Gloucester’s “suicide,” Lear’s madness, Oswald’s death). When I asked what the guys wanted to do next, Gloucester, Edgar, and Lear exchanged a look, and said, “Um, NOT the next scene!” Point taken!

Actually, I reminded everyone, we hadn’t played a game in a long time, and as nice as it is to be so productive in staging the show, it’s sometimes nice to let loose. So we played two of the goofiest of our circle games: Wah! and Animal Noises. By the time we had to go, everyone was smiling and laughing and sorry to see the session end.

Friday / January 18 / 2019
Written by Frannie

When we arrived at the gym today, we were excited to see one of the backdrops-in-progress spread out on the floor. It already looks so awesome! During check-in, one of the guys who’s painting it explained the concept in detail and asked if anyone wanted to help construct the accent pieces (gears, banners, etc.). “When the viewers come in, we want them to get the whole concept,” he said. “We don’t want it to be a bunch of negative space.” A brief brainstorming session ensued. Everyone is very excited.

Then our Lear cleared his throat and said, “Lear wrote a letter to Gloucester.” I kind of vocally exploded—what is all this letter-writing??? It’s amazing!!! He proceeded to read a rambling epistle detailing his character’s and Gloucester’s history (right down to invented names for their wives) and musing on their current circumstances. “It seems like just yesterday that we were young roosters raising hell,” the letter went, exploring how wild the two had been, particularly in their behavior with women. “Come to think of it, some of the assassination attempts and threats on my life were probably meant for you!” Moving on to the present time, the letter reflected, “I know it’s time to take a backseat, but damn, it’s hard.” When Lear finished his reading, I turned to Gloucester, who had been grinning and blushing throughout. “Would you like to respond now, or in writing?” I asked with mock formality. He gave Lear some serious side-eye and said, “How dare you expose my secrets!” We laughed as he continued, also with mock formality, “I will definitely respond in writing.”

Our Fool said he had some bad news—it seems he won’t be able to stay in the ensemble, and he asked a man who’d been interested in the character before if he wanted to play it now. There was general consternation about the whole thing. “It’s just my luck, right?” our Fool said sadly. “Does anybody know a way outta this?” No, was the emphatic reply. There would apparently be some pretty onerous consequences if he turned down the job. One of the guys suggested that he could just sort of pop in toward the end of the process and take the role back, but our Fool shook his head. “That would be great,” he said, “but I think the show needs to be the best it’s gonna be, and whoever plays the Fool needs to be able to be here to practice… We should get an understudy, is all I’m saying.” There was a glum silence, and we decided to table the whole thing until he knew for certain that he couldn’t play the part.

The ensemble recovered after a few moments and began to set up for Act IV, scene v. I took a seat, quietly observing as some folks ran lines individually, while others chatted in small groups. To my left, I realized that our Lear and Gloucester were having an extremely animated conversation, spurred on, no doubt, by that fabulous letter. I couldn’t hear much of what they were saying, but it was obvious that Lear had worked out his interpretation in extreme detail, and that Gloucester was fully engaged in exploring what he’d found. They were literally walking in circles together at one point.

The clock kept ticking, and the scene still had not started. No one seemed to mind, though, which is unusual for this group—they tend to be quite anxious to be productive. Matt asked if we were ready to get started, and everyone agreed that we were, but the chatting continued. They were just having a really good time together.

Finally, we ran the scene. The guys collaborated well and made a ton of progress in just three tries! I’m eliding this process a bit because what happened with the following scene was so intense, but I don’t want to move on without noting a few things: Oswald referred to himself as “the golden retriever of the whole story,” Regan said “it’s like a chess match of violence between the two sisters,” and a whole bunch of guys worked hard to make sure their feedback was constructive, though one of them gave a note that was so assertive, I jokingly asked whether he was suggesting or dictating.

We’d run the scene our usual three times, when Regan mentioned that he’d had an instinct to go with a Kill Bill-style energy but thought it wouldn’t be appropriate for the scene. The image he painted, though, was so arresting that, from where I was standing beside the bleachers, I yelled, “Why not?!”

“Really?” he said, taken aback. “Yes! How is that not appropriate for this scene? DO IT AGAIN!” I shouted… Then, realizing how loud I’d been, I sheepishly grabbed my notepad and pen and said, “I mean, we can do whatever you want.” Without missing a beat, the man I’d teased before asked, “Are you dictating now?” Everyone laughed as I rephrased my feedback, saying, “I suggest that you do it again.”

They did, it worked, and, in one of those unplanned moments of theatrical symmetry, somehow Oswald and Regan ended up in the exact same positions as the servant and Regan had been when she stabbed him!

As our Gloucester, Old Man, and Edgar prepared for the first part of Act IV, scene vi, Matt and I noticed that many of the ensemble members were scattered around the room in small groups—all working, but definitely not all together. Matt asked them all to join us in the bleachers, and I reminded everyone that, while acting can make us feel vulnerable, period, emotionally charged scenes like this can make that even more intense. At such times, it’s vital that we come together as an ensemble to support the folks doing their best with this very challenging work.

It was clear that these three actors felt supported as they worked through the scene for the first time. Many moments were quite touching, and a few were something more, including Gloucester’s looking up before remembering that he had no eyes. “I was so there emotionally with what you were feeling,” one of the men said to Gloucester, and two of the others said they’d gotten chills.

Our Edgar was struggling to “decide” on what his character feels during this scene, and, after hashing it out a bit, we simplified the feeling to be one of “horror.” I walked him through some ways he could allow the horror to “enter” him and push him back, rather than trying to manufacture something from within. He is always game, even when he thinks I’m full of shit (which he kind of did), and he said he’d give it a go.

This time, more than mere moments of the scene rang true, as the actors began to sink into their roles, knowing the ensemble was with them. Afterward, one of the men asked our favorite question: “How that that feel for y’all?” Our Gloucester responded, “I’m facing the duality of it. I’m facing my death—not only am I bearing the weight of my life on my shoulders, but this man is so kind in bearing it with me that I want to be with him for comfort. But then again—what does it matter?... I just want Edgar. I just want my beloved Edgar. And this man is the closest I’m gonna get.”

Another man, referring to the moments after Gloucester’s “fall,” said, “I feel like he doesn’t even know if he’s alive. He doesn’t know whether he’s dead or alive.” He paused and made sure we all knew that this was his interpretation, not a directive for the actors. (I pulled him aside before we left to make sure he knew how awesome that was!)

I asked if the actors wanted to run the scene again, and, because they were beginning to go so deep with their performances, I made sure they (and everyone else) knew that it is always okay for an actor to say they’re emotionally spent and need to take the rest of the day off. The guys said they were cool, though, so they prepped for the top of the scene.

And, man, did it go places.

Letting his latest epiphany drive his actions, our Gloucester leaned much more heavily on Edgar than he had before. When he asked Edgar to leave him, before handing him his purse, he weakly embraced him and rested his forehead for a moment on his shoulder. Our Edgar received this and returned it as much as he could bear, fully embodying his character’s intense inner conflict, the pain flitting vividly across his face. As Edgar walked away—but not very far away—Gloucester turned out toward the audience, his voice fully connected, resonant, and raw, coming forth in something that wasn’t quite a moan, wasn’t quite a yell, and wasn’t quite a sob. It was a sound I don’t have words for, but that we all recognized. As Gloucester knelt, so did Edgar, just a few feet away, speaking low to the audience in his asides. Somehow this moment, even without a physical cliff, was rife with suspense.

As he called on the gods to bless his son Edgar, Gloucester rose to his knees, his voice full of agony, his body and energy in a full expansion—and then he choked, and then he fell to the ground. I don’t know what the choking was, exactly—I was so taken by all of this that I completely forgot about it till I looked at my notes days later.

As Gloucester lay motionless, Edgar rose, shaking with fury, bringing the audience in to his disbelief that his father would actually have killed himself—and that he would have played a part in that. Shaking it off as much as he could, he assumed a new posture and approached his father as if he were a different person, asking if he was alive or dead.

Picking his head up, angry, bewildered, Gloucester pulled himself backward on his elbows as he sobbed, “Away, and let me die.” He continued to drag himself haltingly backward, along the floor, his anguish steadily increasing. Edgar rushed to him. Kneeling just upstage of his father, he cradled and tried to calm him (a moment one of the men would call “a reverse parent” a little later).

They reached the end of the scene, and there was silence. Our Gloucester sat back on his heels, eyes closed, and was motionless for a few seconds. “Are you okay? Do you need a minute?” I asked gently. Gloucester wiped tears from his eyes and said, “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Yeah, I need just a minute.” After a few more seconds, he stood up, took some deep breaths, crossed an imaginary threshold out of the emotion (a tool I shared with him months ago), and jogged in a little circle before returning to the playing area. We were, of course, waiting eagerly to hear what he’d experienced.

It came forth in a veritable torrent. “It’s more than just an emotional journey,” he said. “I think we spoke about this before… Think of the deepest depths of loss in your life… I think many of us have lost one of the greatest things in life. That’s our self-knowledge. And knowing that we can’t get that back, ever, never see it again—it’s so hard… It’s a cauldron of despair—the grief just keeps bubbling up… [Gloucester] doesn’t know if there’s anything after this or not, so that makes it worse... There may be nothing else left for him… Has anyone ever passed out before, and woke up, and you don’t know where you are?... That’s what I really want to do, is: is my pain over yet? It keeps on re-occuring because it’s still not over yet. It’s like, you’re not dead. The worst part of your life is not over. It keeps punching you in the gut.”

After a brief silence, Edgar added, “For me, it’s like I’m not seeking to give him comfort. I’m seeking comfort.” Gloucester nodded, “It’s reconciliation for both of us.” There was silence again.

And then our Lear said, “You mean, I gotta follow this?” I replied, “Yeah, you better blow us out of the water.” He shook his head, exhaling and flipping through his script.

“This scene is like a rebirth for you… everything is different about you now,” said another man to Gloucester. “It’s suicide, but you didn’t actually die. You were reborn… Now you get a spark for life.” A second man agreed, to a point: the whole play is about redemption, he said. Our Gloucester said there is something to that: “Even in the darkest of times, there’s still a glimmer of hope if you search for it. If you search for it.” I said that they weren’t necessarily wrong about any of that, but they also needed to consider that Gloucester continues to long for death, even asking other people to kill him. The man who’d spoken of “rebirth” said he didn’t remember any of that; that Gloucester has renewed joy for life after this. I replied that I could be wrong and asked if he could find that for me in the text.

Meanwhile, though, one of our ensemble members hadn’t moved on. “The moment you knelt down, I felt the despair,” the man said. “Being here for 22 years, there was times I felt like that—I felt alone, I was at the edge of that fake cliff. I felt like I wanted to fall off the cliff… Angry when I woke up… All alone, just me and my wretchedness, alone. I was betrayed. I was left behind—everything else has left me alone, just used and abused me, and there was times I felt just like that.”

How do you move on from a moment like that? But he had said what he needed to say, and he was calm. So I thanked him for sharing, and we found our way forward as an ensemble.

Season Two: Week 29

Put money in thy—er, our—purse!

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Tuesday / January 8 / 2019
Written by Frannie

Today during check-in, a couple of the guys shared that they’ve begun putting together the backdrops for performances! These will be made from sewn-together sheets, painted to represent a few generic settings, with pieces to add for specificity.

Our Lear said that he wanted to clarify his response to some of the feedback he’d gotten last week because he felt he might have been misinterpreted. When he talked about “not caring” about what other people did onstage, he was talking about the elements of the scene, not about the feedback. “I didn’t mean to hurt nobody’s feelings—I just can’t take it all in.” He apologized for wording that poorly, though everyone assured him they hadn’t taken it that way. We all admire how sensitive he is about things like this; he puts a lot of thought into his words or actions even after the fact and always owns any mistakes he feels he made. The result is that no one ever seems upset with him—about anything. He’s definitely a role model for all of us.

Our Gloucester shared a series of epiphanies he’d had while musing about storms. “You don’t know the strength of your foundation till it’s tested… Storms form and destroy things,” he said, “and if you don’t prepare yourself, you get swept away. Lear and Gloucester didn’t really build themselves for that.” Our Lear disagreed, at least about his character. “Lear is the storm,” he said. “It was inside him from the beginning.” He returned to his dominant image for Lear: a tattered battle flag. “It’s like the flag on the moon,” he said, “flapping even when there’s no wind.”

Gloucester continued, “Storms represent situations in life that reveal truth… It’s inevitable. It’s gonna happen.” He asked if we’d ever noticed how people get quiet during a storm. Even in the loudest storms, he said, we listen carefully for signs of imminent danger. “Oh, you’re so right,” I said, excited. “Lear yells at the storm, right?” He nodded, smiling. “And the others yell at each other through the storm—but no one is actively listening.” He broke in, “But hearing Lear is how Gloucester recognizes him!” We’ve talked so much about blindness, but we haven’t thought about the play in terms of listening. This was so thrilling!

We jumped back into scene work with Act III scene v, in which Cornwall learns of Gloucester’s helping Lear, and Edmund continues to manipulate him. Even in its current form, which is significantly cut down, it’s a great scene for these two guys. They’re perfect fits for these roles, and our Edmund in particular is doing a lot of hard work sussing out the “multiple personalities” he uses. His pandering to Cornwall rang so true that I couldn’t help but chuckle.

It was a good run, but there was definitely building to do. Several members asked for “more scheming” and gave a whole bunch of rapid-fire notes that were more “should” than “could.” I could see our Cornwall beginning to get frustrated, and I broke in to ask simply what his objective is in this scene. Relieved, he replied that he actually wasn’t sure because the beginning of the scene didn’t make sense to him—on whom does Cornwall want revenge? On Gloucester, we said, and he lit up, exclaiming that now it made sense! One man also pointed out that this is the first time we’ve seen Cornwall without Regan, and that got the actor even more excited.

Before we ran the scene again, though, one of the men spoke up to remind everyone not to “tell people how to act a role”—rather, to give them helpful hints. He turned to Cornwall, saying, “It seems like you feel like a lot of people were telling you how to do that part, and you started to kinda put up a wall.” Cornwall nodded. The man continued, “Can’t nobody tell you how to do your part for you.” Cornwall explained that he just can’t take so many notes in at once, particularly if he feels they’re being dictated. This has always been a challenge in SIP, not just in this ensemble: it truly takes practice to give constructive criticism, and we work with a lot of folks who haven’t had opportunities to learn. I reminded the group that people tend to respond better to questions, and that the best one to start with is almost always, “What does your character want?”

From the moment he burst into the playing space for the next run, our Cornwall’s energy was far more urgent, his lines rang much truer, and Edmund responded in kind, swept right along. “That was dope!” one of the guys who’d given the “should” feedback exclaimed. Then, in a show of his desire to be more helpful, he asked, “How did it feel? Did you feel like you were all the way into your character just now?” Beaming, Cornwall replied, “Yeah. I felt like I was Cornwall.” Another man praised Edmund’s performance and asked, “How can you say you’re not a bad dude?” Edmund replied, “They made me this way.” The other man nodded. “They made you a bad dude!” Another man said, “It’s all perception. Genghis Khan’s grandkids didn’t think he was a bad dude! He was just Papa Khan!” He then turned to Cornwall, saying, “You got a great voice, man, a great voice.” Cornwall, who is African American, grinned and replied, “You know what that comes from? The Angry Black Man.”

We ran the scene again, and it was even better—this time, both actors relaxed into the scene and found its pacing, resulting in a more complex performance that was urgent but not too fast. Edmund, who’d been asked to try taking a little more time with his aside, said that he’d really liked “lingering” on it. And Cornwall shared an epiphany: “It’s about not rushing through the scene—giving the scene the time it needs to do what it needs to do.”

We moved on to Act III, scene vi, in which Gloucester brings Lear, Kent, the Fool, and Edgar to some shelter, leaves briefly, and returns to tell them they need to flee immediately. This scene is radically different from Quarto to Folio: the Quarto includes a “mock trial” that is completely left out of the Folio, and, in the interest of cutting as much as we can (Lear in 90 minutes—gulp!), we’d taken almost all of it out. Still, there’s enough to get across Lear’s exhaustion and increasing remove from reality, and for the audience to see how the others deal with that.

This first run didn’t work all that well, though there was one truly beautiful moment: when Lear saw dogs that weren’t actually there, the Fool kneeled and acted as if he were beckoning and playing with them, making his love and care for Lear crystal clear. But, “I didn’t like it at all,” said our Lear, explaining that he wasn’t clear on where they were or what they should be doing. Another man said he wasn’t “clear on what the scene even is.” Lear explained the plot points, and the man nodded, saying, “So this is when we see the big change in your mindset.”

Part of what’s happening, a few people reminded us as we worked out some possible blocking, is that Lear’s extremely sleep-deprived. The Fool piped up, “You gotta remember, we ain’t had no sleep, either.” Yes, we do!

As Gloucester and Kent entered, the former mimed shaking water off his cloak (he wore his coat on his shoulders), which was awesome. Our Edgar, off-book (as usual) and fully committed (as usual), helped propel the scene forward, taking everyone along with him. Still, some of the action was muddled, and they set about problem-solving the moment the scene ended. Some solutions were quickly agreed on, while others had several possibilities that merited trying out. We chose one of each to begin with.

The third run of the scene got off to a powerful start, and I noted how riveted the ensemble always is by our Gloucester. His dedication to the work, willingness to throw himself into whatever needs doing on stage, openness to criticism, and the insight he so generously shares have resulted in his commanding a level of respect that I’m not sure he had when the season began. It seems to be steadily increasing, and it’s very cool to observe.

The scene was powerful throughout. As Lear lay down toward the scene’s end, everyone else kneeled there with him, which was a beautiful visual. Afterward, our Lear said, “We all took our time, and spaced it out. The Fool was listening well.” One man, who usually follows along in his script, said, “You guys actually painted the picture without words. I put down the script and just watched… I didn’t want to miss anything.”

Our Fool asked me how he should feel about Kent and Edgar, who are both in disguise. I said I’d actually been meaning to ask him about that. Warning the ensemble that this was a point of debate only for our Fool, not for the group (because it’s truly his decision, and this ensemble could debate it for weeks!), I shared that there are several ways to interpret what’s going on with these three. “One interpretation is that the Fool knows who these guys actually are,” I said, “but you can absolutely play it the other way. Do you have any thoughts on that?” He grinned and said that he’d already been thinking about it and was leaning towards “yes.” Some of his lines make more sense that way, he said, and it also clears up the question he’d asked. “If I do know who they are, I don’t think I resent them. I love them for what they’re doing,” he said.

He then suggested that we run those two scenes in a row with the time we had left, and that turned out to be a great idea. The high energy from the first scene carried over to the second, with everyone firmly engaged and making sure to connect with each other as much as possible. We left on a high note, enthused by the solid work we’d done—and very excited that we’d finally arrived at the “eye-gouging scene.” Till Friday!

Friday / January 11 / 2019
Written by Matt

Out, vile jelly! Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself, but it was a big day today.

Actually, some of the guys got a head-start on eye-gouging. A few of them had been working on the staging of it on their own, and they were eager to get to that. “Dude, you better prepare yourself for this,” one man shouted to our Gloucester, “I’ve been filling in for you, and I’m really feeling it today!” “Oh, man,” Gloucester replied, grinning, “Now you got me all scared!” The work this small group had done was mainly to determine which way the chair (complete with bound Gloucester) should face, and how it could be lowered safely to the ground while preserving the scene’s brutality. It needed some work, but it was an awesome start, and it’s what we went with for our first try at the scene.

“Now I see my chance to be king!” exclaimed our Cornwall when the scene ended, but everyone else was focused on Regan. “Which one is top dog,” mused our Lear, “Regan or Goneril?” Cornwall was having none of it. “In this scene, it’s me!” he said. “I’m the nastiest.” But then he nodded at Regan and ceded, “but she’s in control.” Our Goneril nodded, “[Cornwall]’s like a marionette.”

Round two was stronger, and it allowed us to identify some specific problems. The man who plays the heroic servant pinpointed a blocking issue: everyone was crowded around Gloucester, and there was no space for the fight to happen between him and Cornwall. We tried a few options before Frannie helped him decide to slowly back away in disgust at the eye-gouging before rushing back in. One of the guys also reminded him, “Your objective is not just disgust. It’s to protect [Cornwall]!”

The third attempt was chilling. “Ohhhhhhhh by the kind gods!” snarled Gloucester when he saw that he had been betrayed, which gave Regan the perfect impetus to spit back, “so white, and such a traitor,” then, with mock patience, “Where-. Fore. to DOVER?” Cornwall leaned in close to Gloucester as he said, “See it, shalt thou never,” and Gloucester mimed literally spitting in his face.

What happened next was shocking even for those of us who know the play well. After the first eye-gouging--which was fittingly grotesque--and Cornwall’s receiving his mortal wound from the servant, things got really intense. The servant wound up downstage center, facing the audience directly--and Regan strode up behind him with a sword, running him through from behind. Not only was it a beautifully cruel image, but Regan’s movement was so quick that no one realized it was happening until it had happened. Nearly everyone gasped. My pulse quickened!

The servant fell to his right, in front of Gloucester, who had rolled on his side to face the audience and was wailing. The servant haltingly assured Gloucester that he had one eye left, at least, then died. There was a split-second of silence as the characters assessed the scene, then a spasm of violent energy shot through Cornwall. “Lest it see more, prevent it!” he growled and bent over Gloucester’s shivering body, which was still facing the audience. “Out, vile jelly!” Cornwall pronounced with relish as he “dug into” Gloucester’s eye sockets. When the “eye” was out, Cornwall stood and spat, “Where’s thy lustre now?”

It was beautifully done--ugly and truly shocking, as it needs to be, and it created an amazing tableau: the dead servant in front of blind Gloucester, both on the floor, with Regan and the other servants looming over them. The injured Cornwall staggered backwards after the deed was done. Everyone was bunched up near the downstage right corner, leaving a vast and empty expanse of stage that made the image even scarier.

Afterwards, we all applauded and commented on how intense the scene had been. Regan said, “As soon as you said, ‘amp up the cruelty,’ we got it. It’s less of a police interrogation and more you’re kidnapped by terrorists.”

There wasn’t much more to say. It was amazing. I’ve never seen a crueler staging of the second eye-gouge, with Gloucester only a few feet from some of the audience members and Cornwall not angry so much as unhinged. “We can see that you guys enjoy acting with each other,” said one of the guys.

Gloucester wasn’t done yet, though. The next scene begins with him being led onstage by an Old Man, then handed off to Edgar, who is still in disguise as Poor Tom.

Gloucester said he was still trying to find his way into the lines. “These are complete contrasts: rage and suicidal depression. You need to downshift. I didn’t downshift.” Frannie agreed and asked him if he could maybe speak his lines with “less on them.” Instantly, Gloucester got a certain look on his face--just like when Frannie told him that he was judging Gloucester. Frannie stopped and asked, “Did I tell you something that’s making sense?” Gloucester nodded, “Yeah.” “Then I’m gonna shut up,” she said.

Sure enough, the next round was better. The three characters began to find the balance of connection and disconnect. Still, there was something missing. In the final moments, Frannie asked the three men in the scene to gather together and just read it, not worrying about acting or projection or anything but connecting to the characters and each other.

What happened was a little magical. Our Gloucester is amazing but has a tendency to use a breathy, put-on voice. Frannie gently coached him to “do less” and “even less” as he read, but he struggled. Finally, when he read the line, “‘Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind,” with an upward inflection at the end, Frannie spoke more firmly. “It’s not a question. Tell him,” she said. Still, there was an upward inflection at the end. Frannie told him to try it again, and, with a look to her for reassurance, he did. But it still didn’t work.

“This is not a question. You know this. Make him understand it,” she said, and this time Gloucester spoke the line powerfully, even aggressively—he dropped into his full voice, which resonated like nothing we’d heard yet. From the back row of the bleachers, I could hear every word. The rest of the men reacted audibly, some gasping, others grunting, and a few reflexively saying, “Yes.” Coffey commented on it when the reading was done, saying, “I couldn’t connect to Gloucester until you spoke in your natural voice.”

In the minute or two we had left, we thought about what to do. The man who had been so gung-ho about Act IV, scene iii had left early. A wicked grin spread across the face of the one of the guys. “Let’s do IV.iii while [name] isn’t here!” We agreed to tell him that we had done it, and that it had been so good it couldn’t be repeated--just out of (silly) spite.

In a facilitator’s notes, today’s session ended: “4.3... So good. We can’t do it again.” Work on, my medicine!

Season Two: Week 28

Nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal…

Click here to donate to SIP

Friday / January 4 / 2019
Written by Frannie

“Welcome to 2019,” said an ensemble member as we called an “orange” for check-in. “Let’s do this thing!”

We welcomed three new members to the ensemble today! After intros, we had some trouble-shooting to do. The man who’d been cast as Cordelia is no longer in the group, and we needed to figure out the best way to move forward. Immediately, one man raised his hand, saying emphatically that Cordelia is a serious role and needs to be played by someone who is truly dedicated.

As a second man began to speak, another said, “Hold on, hold on, hold on. We got somebody over here, wants to play Cordelia.” Smiling broadly, he pointed a finger at a very shy ensemble member, who gave us a sheepish grin. “Really?!” I exclaimed. Only two weeks ago, this man had told me that he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to set foot on stage, let alone speak any lines—and now he was volunteering to play a major role! He nodded his head and said, “Yeah, I think so. Yeah… I wanna do it.” A number of people cheered, clapped, or simply voiced their enthusiasm. I tried to contain my own excitement, merely getting into a contest with Matt over which of us could write the most exclamation points in our notes. (In case you’re wondering, I won. Because I wrote “infinity”. And there’s no beating that!)

As the ensemble settled in to work Act III, scene i (the first storm scene), I pulled aside the newbies and a veteran ensemble member to do a quick orientation. Before long, two other ensemble members joined us, making their own contributions to the conversation. The new guys listened attentively and asked questions as we described the practical and philosophical aspects of SIP: the season timeline, the need for a safe space, nudging without pushing, and all that jazz.

The veteran, who pretty much led the orientation, joined the group last fall, when he hadn’t been in general population for long and had a difficult time even making eye contact with others. Now, as we talked about our best practices in conflict management, he encouraged these guys to call on him to mediate any disagreements. “I’m actually kind of awesome at it,” he said earnestly. “I’ve got good people skills.” Quickly, I said, “Would you have said that last fall?” “No,” he said, clearly surprising himself. A huge smile spread over his face as he beamed at me, and then at the others. They were smiling, too. “That’s the kind of thing we’re hoping to do here,” I said.

Throughout the orientation, as the rest of the ensemble worked, the vet and I kept having to pause and regroup because we’d get distracted—by the sheer power of our Lear’s voice as he raged at the storm. After the third or fourth time, the vet apologized to the newbies, “I’m sorry we keep interrupting ourselves, but… it’s his voice.” I added, “I can’t even apologize… This is too amazing. I mean, listen to him.” And we did for a few moments. “You have to understand,” I said to the little group, “He didn’t speak for the first few weeks he was in this group. And now he’s playing Lear—and he’s so loud!”

I rejoined the ensemble as they were beginning an animated debate about how to balance the tragedy in the play with heightened acting that sometimes veers toward the comedic at this point in the process. There was a whole lotta miscommunication going on—there often is in a group where we’re making theatre without all knowing the “lingo” of the craft. The discussion had begun with Kent’s acting as if he were being physically pummeled and blown about by the wind, which I guess came off funnier than he intended. The instinct was great, though, I said to the group: without all the technical elements of a more traditional performance space, our physicality is what will convey the physical environment. Perhaps the scene got too windy this time around—but that doesn’t mean the idea need be rejected. It just means it needs refining. And that’s what rehearsal is for!

We moved on to Act III, scene iv, in which Edgar emerges as Tom o’Bedlam and Gloucester leads Lear, Kent, the Fool, and Edgar to shelter. It’s a complicated scene, and, since we launched into it without any planning, it was predictably awkward. No one knew if they should move; if so, where they should go; and, if they went somewhere, what to do when they got there.

“Who am I even talking to at the end here?” asked Kent. As we guided him (his final lines are divided among three people), he interrupted to say, “This is ridiculous! Why is he talking to so many people at once?” I acknowledged that there’s a lot of chaos in the text and asked the group what that meant. “The blocking needs to be on point,” Lear replied. “What does that mean?” I asked. “I have no idea,” he said without a pause, and we all cracked up.

One of the newbies asked me some questions about the text and the rehearsal process, and, as I answered him, I lost track of what the rest of the group was doing. I could tell they were problem-solving, but I had no idea what was going on. So it was tough for me to tell what adjustments they were trying to incorporate as they ran the scene a second time. I honestly couldn’t see much of a difference.

I don’t think they felt much of a difference, either. When I asked how it had gone, they mostly just shook their heads and grimaced at their scripts. I asked if maybe part of the issue was that folks were still holding back when they had impulses to move. The scene definitely calls for movement, and they’d spent the bulk of it standing in a straight line.

They still seemed a little lost, so I asked them to describe the physical setting. Together, we detailed a terrible storm, so loud with wind and thunder that the characters have trouble hearing each other, and a night so dark that they can hardly see each other. “So if you drift too far apart, you could lose them—you could get lost out there,” I said, and we experimented with ways we could use the environment to drive the staging toward the scene’s end. It didn’t work 100%, but it sparked some good ideas.

With the little time we had left, we ran the scene again, encouraging the actors to allow the storm to influence their actions, to follow their instincts—and to be bold. And they did! Gloucester, especially, allowed himself to try some wildly different things, mostly driven by imaginary wind, and all to great effect. We didn’t even need words to know where he was and what was going on—he told the story beautifully just with his physicality.

We circled up to raise the ring, pleased with how the day had gone. It was a solid welcome for our new ensemble members, and a great way to start off the year.

Season Two: Week 27

For saying so, there’s gold!

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Friday / December 28 / 2018
Written by Frannie

During today’s check-in, our Gloucester continued his practice of updating us on the character work he’s been doing. “What does Gloucester’s soul look like—or feel like?” he pondered. “As I explore and play, I’ll find that I discover the very heartbeat—the essence—of Gloucester.” He mused on the etymology of words like “train”, which he said used to mean “to exercise naked.” He expanded that definition, metaphorically, to include his approach to the play—and to Shakespeare’s as he wrote it. He imaginined the playwright removing layers of artifice and mistakes from the text as part of his process. “I’m sure Shakespeare didn’t write a first draft that was the final masterpiece,” he said. “He wrote draft after draft—a literary powerhouse.” He challenged himself to do the same.

“Shit,” said one man, clearly impressed and awestruck. Another shook his head, saying, “I gotta give you kudos, man. You’re doing real work.” A third man said, “Yeah, dude—how do you find the time to do all this? You’re so busy in so many groups and stuff!” A fourth, who is also very active in a number of programs, laughed and said, “Aw, he’s worried how we find the time. The time!” Everyone laughed. Our Gloucester replied that he muses on these things throughout the day and then journals about them in the evening.

Before we moved on to scenework, one of the guys asked if it might be time to add new people to the ensemble. It’s something we’ve talked about along the way, and, if we stick more or less to the timetable of the women’s ensemble, early January would be the final time to do that—but if it doesn’t seem necessary, we don’t have to. There are currently 19 men in the ensemble, and we max out at 25, though all of the major characters are cast and we have enough people to cover the minor ones as well. Still, though: is now the time?

“Yes,” said one man emphatically, thinking ahead to next season, when these new members could take on larger roles; he thought joining now would give them a good head start. “I’m all in on it, as long as they understand that there are things going on in here that they weren’t a part of,” he concluded. Another, who joined during the homestretch of our Tempest workshop, reminded us that “there was a lot of hesitation, but it worked out well.” (Actually, it worked out AWESOME—he and another person who joined then have turned out to be incredibly dedicated and insightful ensemble members.) He added that new members could round out the roles with few lines, and that they could also be very involved in “crew” tasks.

Another man reminded us that, though we have ample coverage now, that could very well change in the next few months, or even in the last few days, and he wanted to know for sure that “the show would go on” if core members left for any reason. “I’d feel more secure if we had understudies, and right now we don’t have any,” he said. “I’m always open to bringing new people in.”

The next man to speak offered a “dissenting opinion,” even though he didn’t dissent, just to make sure we’d covered all our bases. He voiced the concern (likely felt by some) that each time we add new members, it alters the group’s dynamic—that that could potentially be negative, particularly given the complications we’ve been navigating over the past month or so. Another man said that the dynamic is altered every time someone joins, and that, though he (and I!) have been apprehensive in the past, it’s always been good. “We shouldn’t be so selfish with what we’ve all grown to love that we don’t want to share it,” he said, “but we should also protect what we’ve grown to love.” In the end, we decided to add six people and see how it goes.

We began rehearsal with Act II, scene ii, in which Kent attacks Oswald and is ultimately put in the stocks by Cornwall because of it. We left off after only two runs of this scene last week and decided it deserved a third attempt. The initial confrontation between Oswald and Kent was pretty subdued—they’re still puzzling it out—but our Cornwall brought such amazing energy in with him that all the actors rose to the occasion and matched it. He knows exactly what he’s saying, and it comes through beautifully in his delivery. Our Regan was a delight to watch as well, truly listening to the others and reacting spontaneously to what they said.

Though, as I noted, the first part of the scene sort of dragged, the first praise anyone offered afterward was for our Oswald. He has been working really hard—this is a huge departure from the norm for him—and it shows. “You got the flow right!” said a friend of his who’s been working with him outside regular sessions. Everybody did, we agreed. “You can tell everybody’s getting comfortable with each other,” said one man. “It’s just flowing together. The words are part of y’all now… It just comes together like a nice, warm quilt.”

More feedback—all of it constructive—kept coming. The group did particularly well regarding the actors’ vocal projection: they hammer on this all the time, but they’re getting steadily better at doing so in a helpful, rather than insensitive, way. Regan suggested to Cornwall that he give more of his lines to the others onstage, rather than to the audience. Cornwall replied that that’s what he’d been doing, and Regan, recognizing that all Cornwall needed to do was to make that clearer, suggested ways in which he could do that. This was all rooted in moving more from person to person—something we talked about last week. Cornwall has already made strides in this area, which we acknowledged and appreciated—he just needs to go further now!

We began talking through entrances and exits a bit, beginning with the logistics one man worked out and wrote in a couple of scripts that he’s been leaving open for everyone during sessions. The discussion started to get really involved and complicated, which has been the main issue impeding our progress. What was different this time was that several of the guys who are most vocal in these situations cut the conversation off themselves, imploring us to “just try” what we had.

And what we had was great. Our Edgar entered for his first soliloquy, believably harried and completely off-book. The room fell silent as we absorbed his work, and after his exit, we were too impressed even to applaud. “I liked it, dude,” said one man. I asked Edgar how the updated entrance had worked. He shrugged and said, “I’m an artist. I roll with it.” Our only suggestion for how to build on what he’d done was for him to come further downstage, allowing him to connect more with the audience. He did that during his second attempt, and it paid off in a big way. “Boy, you better stop it, man,” grinned one of the men, literally dancing with glee. “It was simple,” smiled Edgar. “I forgot the entrance and exit, and I just went… ‘Blam!’” The work he’s doing is absolutely stunning, and he has no ego about it. He’s setting a great example for everyone else—myself included!

Act II, scene iv, is the last before the storm, and it’s a doozy. Lear finds Kent stocked and, after the final confrontation with Regan and Goneril, stalks off into the night and the elements, much to Gloucester’s dismay. We worked the scene unit-by-unit, with our first pause being just before Lear’s return with Gloucester.

As this first part of the scene stumbled along, a man who is making a huge effort to balance his (very vocal) enthusiasm with the ensemble’s needs sat beside me and told me his ideas for making the blocking less of a jumble, particularly as regarded the Fool’s actions. When we paused and asked the actors how the scene had gone, our Lear replied that it had felt crowded, and I asked the guy next to me to share his ideas. He jumped up to walk through some of them. This proved a little complicated, but our Kent caught on immediately and joined the demonstration.

We started getting hung up, again, on the placement of the upstage wall. Because we’re in the gym, the set-up is very flexible, and, while that’s generally a positive thing, it comes with some challenges for this highly analytical ensemble. Some folks noticed that actors seemed to be hovering close to that wall and suggested shrinking the playing space to force them further downstage. I countered that that would be a problem no matter what, that shrinking the space might actually make it worse, and that the best thing for us to do would likely be to regularly remind each other not to be afraid of the audience. Though there was some more back and forth, we ultimately decided to leave the set-up alone, at least for now, and see if we could make it work.

The group onstage was now ready for another shot at the first part of the scene. The new blocking ideas definitely helped, but our Lear was still frustrated. “I need more emotion,” he said, and we talked a bit about where he could find the fuel for that in the text—namely, in the huge caesuras between his and Kent’s lines. We encouraged him to use those pauses however he needed to, probably with movement, to rev himself up. When we tried it again, it definitely worked better; we’re just going to need more rehearsal to fully absorb everything.

We kept going with the scene. When Lear and Gloucester re-entered, they were silent until they’d reached center stage. The man who’d had all the blocking ideas leaned over to me and said, “Do they have to wait to speak till they get onstage?” I replied quietly that they didn’t. “Maybe you should let them know that, Frannie,” he said, adding that he’d given “too much feedback already today.” I thanked him for being so cognizant of the need to leave room for others’ ideas. I said I’d probably sit on it and see if they’d make the adjustment themselves later—that often happens as actors gain comfort with a scene. (And, before I forget: that’s exactly what happened the next time we ran the entrance!)

As the scene progressed, I was struck by how increasingly connected everyone became. The Fool listened carefully to each person and allowed himself to react spontaneously to everything he heard. Meanwhile, Lear became more and more vocally grounded, embracing his building frustration on the line, “WHO. STOCKED. MY. SERVANT,” and practically spitting “my child” at his daughter—it was so perfect that it made one of the men giggle with delight. Regan’s reaction to Lear’s “I can stay with Regan” was so truthful that I started laughing hysterically and had to put down my notes for a minute. It’s not that it was funny—it wasn’t—this was one of those moments when the moment’s honesty was so instantly relatable that all I could do was laugh in recognition. It’s something we talk about a lot, as regards our audience, and I’m glad that now I can serve as a first-hand example!

We ran through to the end of the scene, talked about all the good stuff, and encouraged everyone (especially Lear) to give themselves permission to really move through the space as we ran it one last time. Lear took this “permission” to heart, still holding back a bit, but easing into what I can tell will be some huge strides pretty soon. His adjustments were dramatic enough that the others had a tough time making their own in response. Sometimes their movement worked; mostly it didn’t, but the entire scene is moving in such a clear direction now that, after we finished, they voiced their excitement about working to find new ways of approaching the scene.

We were really firing on all cylinders today, and I checked in with a few individuals as we left to make sure they knew how much they’d contributed to that. It was a great way to close out 2018 together. Onward to 2019!