So. The first night.
Well. It would be fair to say that by the time the time approached, I was terrified. All the usual symptoms.
My hair had been burnt by my hairdresser into some semblance of a 1988 style. Crimping irons were applied - I had no idea that such things existed. I used to have to create tens of tiny plaits "in my day" - to the under the top layer of hair roots to give them 'body' so the overall hair achieved that slightly helmety look. A round the circumference snip to make an overall fairly even coarse blunt length. Inches off. Some (in my head at least) sharp burns to the scalp. And a sharper intake of breath in front of the mirror in a rare not obsessing about the impending show moment when I spy new shortie(ish) style.
But anyway, this was a distraction. Running through my script was a kind of a distraction except unfortunately I couldn't seem to get the lines out in remotely the right order. A kind of odd impending performance paralysis. Though - dressing room talk - this seemed to be a common problem.
And at the theatre, all sorts of panicy technical problems created a bit of a diversion. But time inconsiderately passed and suddenly the doors were open and the People were pouring in and there I was sat concentrating hard on my 'dead' father.
For what I haven't mentioned here to date is that I begin the show sat on the stage. Which means that when the People come pouring in, there I am. Sitting, gently hyperventilating. I haven't ever had to do this before. Lovely idea. Lovely director's vision. Lovely tableau for the audience as they pour in so the scene is charmingly set. Horrific as the actor in question.
But wonderfully, moaning about this to last year's last minute Antigone, she laughed derisively and retorted " 'is that girl down there alright??' " for this last year, had been her fate as she crouched atop the stairs of the venue before the play started, cast out of the technical people's spaceless strip as she awaited her dramatic entrance. Easy for me to say. And now, pay back.
So anyway, the play begins. And despite my catclysmic predictions (though I still can't quite work out exactly what cataclysmia (??) I expected), it all went fine. Some of the lines were wrong. Some of the technical bits didn't quite work. There was a bit of excitement, I find out later thanks to the medium of twitter, that the gun almost wasn't retrieved from safety in time to play its part. But all in all, I think we did pretty respectably. Oh, apart from the one thing which I did which actually ruined everything but the less said about that, here, the better.
And now night two is almost upon us. I feel less categorically scared. Though perhaps this is foolish as we have Mr Adjudicator in tonight. But then again, all I need to do is remember my lines and try and act a bit. Easy, right?
Well. It would be fair to say that by the time the time approached, I was terrified. All the usual symptoms.
My hair had been burnt by my hairdresser into some semblance of a 1988 style. Crimping irons were applied - I had no idea that such things existed. I used to have to create tens of tiny plaits "in my day" - to the under the top layer of hair roots to give them 'body' so the overall hair achieved that slightly helmety look. A round the circumference snip to make an overall fairly even coarse blunt length. Inches off. Some (in my head at least) sharp burns to the scalp. And a sharper intake of breath in front of the mirror in a rare not obsessing about the impending show moment when I spy new shortie(ish) style.
But anyway, this was a distraction. Running through my script was a kind of a distraction except unfortunately I couldn't seem to get the lines out in remotely the right order. A kind of odd impending performance paralysis. Though - dressing room talk - this seemed to be a common problem.
And at the theatre, all sorts of panicy technical problems created a bit of a diversion. But time inconsiderately passed and suddenly the doors were open and the People were pouring in and there I was sat concentrating hard on my 'dead' father.
For what I haven't mentioned here to date is that I begin the show sat on the stage. Which means that when the People come pouring in, there I am. Sitting, gently hyperventilating. I haven't ever had to do this before. Lovely idea. Lovely director's vision. Lovely tableau for the audience as they pour in so the scene is charmingly set. Horrific as the actor in question.
But wonderfully, moaning about this to last year's last minute Antigone, she laughed derisively and retorted " 'is that girl down there alright??' " for this last year, had been her fate as she crouched atop the stairs of the venue before the play started, cast out of the technical people's spaceless strip as she awaited her dramatic entrance. Easy for me to say. And now, pay back.
So anyway, the play begins. And despite my catclysmic predictions (though I still can't quite work out exactly what cataclysmia (??) I expected), it all went fine. Some of the lines were wrong. Some of the technical bits didn't quite work. There was a bit of excitement, I find out later thanks to the medium of twitter, that the gun almost wasn't retrieved from safety in time to play its part. But all in all, I think we did pretty respectably. Oh, apart from the one thing which I did which actually ruined everything but the less said about that, here, the better.
And now night two is almost upon us. I feel less categorically scared. Though perhaps this is foolish as we have Mr Adjudicator in tonight. But then again, all I need to do is remember my lines and try and act a bit. Easy, right?
posted by Claire at 4:15 pm
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