Friday, August 11, 2006
24: A day in the life of the Black Hills Playhouse
by Thomas Allen Heald
8 a.m.
The day begins for several at the Playhouse with a staff meeting sharing concerns of the show the night before, and a rundown of the work day ahead. Coffee is percolating, as are the employees. News of state fairs, the latest on the Wolf Party motorcycle camp just down the road, and details of past and future lives the rest of the year -- horse farms or engineering degrees.
Being added to the bulletin board, accompanying the crew assignments and emailed well-wishing (to BHPHQ@aol.com) is a fresh CNN report of "escaped penguins," mimicking a fictional plot in the current show.
"He's arrived!," someone announces. Not a boyfriend or husband, but a lumber deliveryman. It's a cry of passion when the set builders have a mere four days to assemble "a country home for Bohemian eccentrics." The pallets of lumber offer a fresh opportunity for some of the performers to begin kidding around for the day.
8:30 a.m.
Hurricane Breakfast sweeps through, leaving muffin wrappers and hard-boiled eggshells in its wake. Conversation turns to shared books and the latest on a son or daughter's love life. In announcements, it's the annual "Open Mic" night after the show in the pit, and a cast member has found a few loose compact discs, which are not to their musical taste. (Nobody will admit to owning "ABBA's Greatest Hits").
9 a.m.
The ticket office begins taking reservations. "At about $20," says actor/dancer/choreographer Marissa Kennedy, "it's a bargain for any of these shows when you take into account the amount of work (you're probably not seeing behind the scenes). There's also the practical USD theatre and vo-tech education being earned by some." It's not just the beauty of the hills but the standards of excellence that bring together a cast from Los Angeles to Vermont and New York to Seattle. (Some are here for their first seasons; others are in their twelfth). All are at home alongside the Mom and Pop stewardship of Jill and Jan Swank, who've watched over the last quarter century of controlled chaos here.
Motorcyclists do rush by a few times an hour, on their way either to or from The Rally. And, more and more are stopping in for tickets as the T-shirt crowd is used to seeing theater back home.
9:05 a.m.
Saw blades spin, paint dries, bills for safety equipment are turned in ,and the seamstresses are already hard at work designing gowns and suits (though some cast prefer to be restitched and fitted during show time.) As the carpenters hammer a few barracks over, they almost drown out the sound of an earth mover the groundskeeper is using to repave the sides of the entryway with a new layer of gravel.
9:30 p.m.
Rehearsals for Act I of the last show of the season, Noel Coward's "Hay Fever" (August 17-27) begin in the Old Theatre, (whose weather-beaten roof "usually keeps the rain out.")
9:43 a.m.
Haberman Hall, seen mostly by ticket holders as a picnic shelter and waiting area, is transformed by the Scenery Department into a makeshift lumber mill. Reporting for duty, a militia arrives armed for battle with wood glue, and both staple and nail guns at the ready. The Hall is one of the few flat spots outside they can set up compressors and complete large set pieces. "For show tunes, try the costume shop," it's a mix of bluegrass, alternative rock and Johnny Cash (but not the Carpenters) for the carpenters.
10 a.m.
The flower garden in front of the theater consumes the attention for one hard worker, who's tending to the Buttercups.
10:30 a.m.
The props department tries not to tear out their hair over two pressing dilemmas. Finding "new" period 1920's dishes (or reasonable facsimiles) and creating a specific antique prop that will be able to reliably break over the course of a dozen performances.
11:13 a.m.
Taking a momentary break from sewing and sawing, cast members call loved ones from the patio of the Café.
11:20 p.m.
'20s era fashion is a rarity for the Playhouse, but "thankfully, the next show is a small cast, compared to 'The Man Who Came to Dinner,'" according to the seamstress / actresses. (An easy statement to make compared to four dozen outfits for "Man.")
Noon
The company comes through the doors for lunch as though piling out or a clown car. Professional singers, dancers, acrobats, actors, costumers, jack-of-all-trades technicians -- it is like joining the circus, albeit one with a dozen rings.
12:30 p.m.
While some head into town running errands or ready themselves for the afternoon rehearsal, the rest gather in the courtyard for volleyball (possibly teams of "Lite Snack" or "The Bouncing Buddhas" vs. "Two Champs and a Chump").
1:30 p.m.
First craftsman back to any of the shops picks the music. For the lumberjacks and lumberjills, it's the timeless folk of Simon & Garfunkel. An archway fits together perfectly. "I am a rock. I am an i-i-island."
3:30 p.m.
Things pick up in the reservation office, with inquiries for the night, praise from prior ticket holders, and the rare condemnation. This season's most intriguing call came in from a patron, who left with his family partway through a performance, offended by some of the maturity of the material presented (but posted beforehand) with "A Chorus Line." The ticket agent politely registered the complaint, hoped they would enjoy future productions, and even when the thorny conversation ended with a hangup, never let on that the main cast member they were berating, Aaron Libby, was actually on the phone with them.
5:30 p.m.
The dinner bell clangs and it's a mad rush for the entire crew to the mess hall. As they make their way through the modest buffet line, some of the future Players are reminded that, "Popularity is nice, but can only do so much for you in a lifetime. In ten years, when you're in high school, you'll learn that lesson all too well." There are special treats for the company who, after chow time announcements, are thrilled by both flan and tonight's sweet corn on the cob brought back from town by a cast member (a delicacy which receives a special thanks and blessing in addition to prior sentiments for the meal). As forks and plates clink and clank, families, both biological and chosen, reap the rewards of another day's hard work. Stories are exchanged and legendary playhouse romances remembered with hearty cackles and fellow raconteurs helping pass down the oral history of sixty years’ worth of comedy and drama on stage and off. Within ten minutes, most of the actors have deserted the place as the children make sure everyone's grabbed their last portion of salad, or hamburger as cleanup has commenced.
5:55 p.m.
On a hillside just up from both the dining hall and Haberman Hall picnic shelter, it's time to take the yearly company photo. They've the option to dress in costume, but really, it's just to remind them of the bond they've forged at "summer camp." After two serious poses, members of the cast demand one more shot so they may officially be captured making rabbit ears behind one another’s heads, blowing a kiss or dancing as the sun decides whether or not so stay up for another hour. After posing it's either back to the kitchen for some (as our wait staff, janitors, cooks, and busboys are all a rotation of the cast and production crew), walking of company pets (mascots), a turn at a nearby piano in the rehearsal hall, back to bunkhouses for a pre-show respite, or just sitting back admiring the summer sky and exchanging descriptions of the rainbows seen after a morning hail storm.
7 p.m.
Headlights sparkle as the parking lot begins to fill, accompanied by the roar of Harleys. Sturgis Rally shirts pepper a mid-week crowd who are, for the most part, dressed in their Sunday best. Theatergoers have already begun a steady stream into the box office to claim their tickets and reclaim a bench outside from chipmunks (scurrying around the Oriental lilies), to dance or twirl, or chase a sibling with a cap gun.
7:13 p.m.
The crew begins assembling for wardrobe, makeup, and performance of their own individual pre-show superstitions and rituals. Some are method actors, others gargle and stretch.
8 p.m.
The golden curtain opens once again.
10:35 p.m.
While the crew would normally be over at the Playhouse Café winding down out of costume, it's time for more pictures, as the official still photography is taken for the show. An hour and a half farce's greatest bits reduced to a dozen photographs taking another half hour as a Christmas tree, wooden crate, wheelchair, and cast and crew are put through their paces and in some cases three period costume changes.
11:15 p.m.
Snack time begins for the perky (if occasionally punch-drunk) cast. One of the younger cast members reveals her grand plan of taking the group on a national tour of her favorite movie musical. The group on the patio begins to dissipate as they trickle over the footbridge (each ringing a with a bell "to scare the troll underneath" and/or just relieving tensions) as they head back to their respective cabins, perchance to dream.
by Thomas Allen Heald
8 a.m.
The day begins for several at the Playhouse with a staff meeting sharing concerns of the show the night before, and a rundown of the work day ahead. Coffee is percolating, as are the employees. News of state fairs, the latest on the Wolf Party motorcycle camp just down the road, and details of past and future lives the rest of the year -- horse farms or engineering degrees.
Being added to the bulletin board, accompanying the crew assignments and emailed well-wishing (to BHPHQ@aol.com) is a fresh CNN report of "escaped penguins," mimicking a fictional plot in the current show.
"He's arrived!," someone announces. Not a boyfriend or husband, but a lumber deliveryman. It's a cry of passion when the set builders have a mere four days to assemble "a country home for Bohemian eccentrics." The pallets of lumber offer a fresh opportunity for some of the performers to begin kidding around for the day.
8:30 a.m.
Hurricane Breakfast sweeps through, leaving muffin wrappers and hard-boiled eggshells in its wake. Conversation turns to shared books and the latest on a son or daughter's love life. In announcements, it's the annual "Open Mic" night after the show in the pit, and a cast member has found a few loose compact discs, which are not to their musical taste. (Nobody will admit to owning "ABBA's Greatest Hits").
9 a.m.
The ticket office begins taking reservations. "At about $20," says actor/dancer/choreographer Marissa Kennedy, "it's a bargain for any of these shows when you take into account the amount of work (you're probably not seeing behind the scenes). There's also the practical USD theatre and vo-tech education being earned by some." It's not just the beauty of the hills but the standards of excellence that bring together a cast from Los Angeles to Vermont and New York to Seattle. (Some are here for their first seasons; others are in their twelfth). All are at home alongside the Mom and Pop stewardship of Jill and Jan Swank, who've watched over the last quarter century of controlled chaos here.
Motorcyclists do rush by a few times an hour, on their way either to or from The Rally. And, more and more are stopping in for tickets as the T-shirt crowd is used to seeing theater back home.
9:05 a.m.
Saw blades spin, paint dries, bills for safety equipment are turned in ,and the seamstresses are already hard at work designing gowns and suits (though some cast prefer to be restitched and fitted during show time.) As the carpenters hammer a few barracks over, they almost drown out the sound of an earth mover the groundskeeper is using to repave the sides of the entryway with a new layer of gravel.
9:30 p.m.
Rehearsals for Act I of the last show of the season, Noel Coward's "Hay Fever" (August 17-27) begin in the Old Theatre, (whose weather-beaten roof "usually keeps the rain out.")
9:43 a.m.
Haberman Hall, seen mostly by ticket holders as a picnic shelter and waiting area, is transformed by the Scenery Department into a makeshift lumber mill. Reporting for duty, a militia arrives armed for battle with wood glue, and both staple and nail guns at the ready. The Hall is one of the few flat spots outside they can set up compressors and complete large set pieces. "For show tunes, try the costume shop," it's a mix of bluegrass, alternative rock and Johnny Cash (but not the Carpenters) for the carpenters.
10 a.m.
The flower garden in front of the theater consumes the attention for one hard worker, who's tending to the Buttercups.
10:30 a.m.
The props department tries not to tear out their hair over two pressing dilemmas. Finding "new" period 1920's dishes (or reasonable facsimiles) and creating a specific antique prop that will be able to reliably break over the course of a dozen performances.
11:13 a.m.
Taking a momentary break from sewing and sawing, cast members call loved ones from the patio of the Café.
11:20 p.m.
'20s era fashion is a rarity for the Playhouse, but "thankfully, the next show is a small cast, compared to 'The Man Who Came to Dinner,'" according to the seamstress / actresses. (An easy statement to make compared to four dozen outfits for "Man.")
Noon
The company comes through the doors for lunch as though piling out or a clown car. Professional singers, dancers, acrobats, actors, costumers, jack-of-all-trades technicians -- it is like joining the circus, albeit one with a dozen rings.
12:30 p.m.
While some head into town running errands or ready themselves for the afternoon rehearsal, the rest gather in the courtyard for volleyball (possibly teams of "Lite Snack" or "The Bouncing Buddhas" vs. "Two Champs and a Chump").
1:30 p.m.
First craftsman back to any of the shops picks the music. For the lumberjacks and lumberjills, it's the timeless folk of Simon & Garfunkel. An archway fits together perfectly. "I am a rock. I am an i-i-island."
3:30 p.m.
Things pick up in the reservation office, with inquiries for the night, praise from prior ticket holders, and the rare condemnation. This season's most intriguing call came in from a patron, who left with his family partway through a performance, offended by some of the maturity of the material presented (but posted beforehand) with "A Chorus Line." The ticket agent politely registered the complaint, hoped they would enjoy future productions, and even when the thorny conversation ended with a hangup, never let on that the main cast member they were berating, Aaron Libby, was actually on the phone with them.
5:30 p.m.
The dinner bell clangs and it's a mad rush for the entire crew to the mess hall. As they make their way through the modest buffet line, some of the future Players are reminded that, "Popularity is nice, but can only do so much for you in a lifetime. In ten years, when you're in high school, you'll learn that lesson all too well." There are special treats for the company who, after chow time announcements, are thrilled by both flan and tonight's sweet corn on the cob brought back from town by a cast member (a delicacy which receives a special thanks and blessing in addition to prior sentiments for the meal). As forks and plates clink and clank, families, both biological and chosen, reap the rewards of another day's hard work. Stories are exchanged and legendary playhouse romances remembered with hearty cackles and fellow raconteurs helping pass down the oral history of sixty years’ worth of comedy and drama on stage and off. Within ten minutes, most of the actors have deserted the place as the children make sure everyone's grabbed their last portion of salad, or hamburger as cleanup has commenced.
5:55 p.m.
On a hillside just up from both the dining hall and Haberman Hall picnic shelter, it's time to take the yearly company photo. They've the option to dress in costume, but really, it's just to remind them of the bond they've forged at "summer camp." After two serious poses, members of the cast demand one more shot so they may officially be captured making rabbit ears behind one another’s heads, blowing a kiss or dancing as the sun decides whether or not so stay up for another hour. After posing it's either back to the kitchen for some (as our wait staff, janitors, cooks, and busboys are all a rotation of the cast and production crew), walking of company pets (mascots), a turn at a nearby piano in the rehearsal hall, back to bunkhouses for a pre-show respite, or just sitting back admiring the summer sky and exchanging descriptions of the rainbows seen after a morning hail storm.
7 p.m.
Headlights sparkle as the parking lot begins to fill, accompanied by the roar of Harleys. Sturgis Rally shirts pepper a mid-week crowd who are, for the most part, dressed in their Sunday best. Theatergoers have already begun a steady stream into the box office to claim their tickets and reclaim a bench outside from chipmunks (scurrying around the Oriental lilies), to dance or twirl, or chase a sibling with a cap gun.
7:13 p.m.
The crew begins assembling for wardrobe, makeup, and performance of their own individual pre-show superstitions and rituals. Some are method actors, others gargle and stretch.
8 p.m.
The golden curtain opens once again.
10:35 p.m.
While the crew would normally be over at the Playhouse Café winding down out of costume, it's time for more pictures, as the official still photography is taken for the show. An hour and a half farce's greatest bits reduced to a dozen photographs taking another half hour as a Christmas tree, wooden crate, wheelchair, and cast and crew are put through their paces and in some cases three period costume changes.
11:15 p.m.
Snack time begins for the perky (if occasionally punch-drunk) cast. One of the younger cast members reveals her grand plan of taking the group on a national tour of her favorite movie musical. The group on the patio begins to dissipate as they trickle over the footbridge (each ringing a with a bell "to scare the troll underneath" and/or just relieving tensions) as they head back to their respective cabins, perchance to dream.
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