Month: March 2019

If you’ve ever been to a sports camp (I haven’t, but I have enough family who has to know), then you’re probably familiar with the concept of “fundamentals.” When someone teaches fundamentals, they’re covering the basics, the core, the gist, the essential details, and important matters, of whatever it is they’re talking to you about. And just like there are fundamentals important to learn when playing a sport, you need to know how to handle the stuff you will frequently encounter as a director in theater. Needless to say, this post is all about that. So, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, shall we?

Editing the Script / Score

An opinion widely backed up by respected textbooks is that to make cuts and rewrites in a script is to demonstrate a lack of understanding of the work. Usually, a director isn’t the same person as the author. Someone else added or cut songs, dialogue, and scenes, moved the music into different keys, moved moments into different positions, and put thought and care into every decision in the show that a director would be lucky to get a glimpse of (unless they were involved from the beginning). At a community or amateur level, the main reason a director is approaching a show, to begin with, is that there have been highly successful productions of the script with which they are working. Among the many responsibilities and hats a director wears, they are an interpretive artist; if the original companies could figure out the difficult moments, and remain true to the author’s intentions in doing so, then a good director can also arrive at solutions, without needing to cut or rewrite because they lack insight.

Having said that, it’s not a black-and-white issue. Many directors have to routinely cut down Shakespeare to achieve reasonable playing time, for example. (Especially important in this day and age when one has the audience’s attention spans, and consequently the producers’ wallets, to consider.) And while one’s contract with the rights organization often says no additions or deletions, if they don’t expect us to cut anything, why do they instruct us how to mark cuts in pencil, the better to erase them for the next group, in literally every piece of licensed material from script to band parts? In reality, I’ve never done a show that cut nothing, and I’ve never seen a show anywhere in my life that didn’t have cuts somewhere when compared to the actual score or recordings. Truth is, that legal language in the contract is only there in case somebody makes really big changes that are bad. It protects the agency so they can say they didn’t sign off on it if the authors come knocking, and gives them legal recourse to stop your production if you do violence to the conception of the show.

So treat it on a case-by-case basis. If, after much consideration and even agonizing, the only solution you can come up with is to cut something, do it (and to cover your ass, be damn sure everything is discussed with the licensing agency so there are no surprises). But in so doing, take special care; one can never forget that this may be an audience member’s first — or only — time seeing the show. Do you want them to think the show is bad because of poor planning on your part? When making an edit that may significantly alter the shape of a scene or create a plot hole later in the show, try to leave an audience unaware that anything is missing, and aim to be as true to the authors’ intention as you can. Any cuts you make should be “of a piece” and unnoticeable to a first-timer. Nothing should seem lost. The authors’ conception and intentions are not an artistic straitjacket. They are the foundation and framing that hold up a show. Changes can be made so long as they are made intelligently.

Before I move on from this topic, top tip for amateur directors: if you’re looking for the safest possible place to make cuts in a musical production, check out the dance breaks first. People can watch professional dancers do their thing for a significant amount of time because they’re very good at what they do, and dance breaks do have a dramatic function, even if that’s adding a jolt when the plot engine idles, but unless it’s a performing arts academy, the kids in your high school musical aren’t professional dancers, won’t be particularly inspiring, and don’t need long dance sequences that strain the audience’s attention span. As long as the cuts are discussed with the choreographer, they make musical sense, and cutting within the dance (or cutting it entirely) doesn’t take out major plot points, chop away — only die-hard fans will notice anything’s missing.

“Line Readings”

Sometimes a director or a playwright (with or without good reason) doesn’t trust the performer they hired to do their job; namely, figuring out exactly how to say a line of dialogue. And sometimes they’ll feed that actor or actress a specific way of saying it, or a “line reading.” There are few things artists hate more.

Every honest director will admit that “line readings” are sometimes impossible to avoid, but every good director ideally feels having an actor parrot back a “line reading” should only be a last resort. Sometimes an actor will miss the meaning of a line, and in those cases, pointing out key words — the ones to stress — may be needed to help clarify it and guide the actor to the line’s intention. But if you’re gonna require an instant replay of the way you say a line, why don’t you play the part?

This applies to more than just “line readings.” If you sense that you’re giving an actor more direction and suggestions than they’re comfortable with in general, back off. That completely undercuts the actor’s imagination and potential. If you rely on “puppeteering” their performance, you’re not asking the actor to act; you’re asking them to perform the role the way you would. For them to even attempt that is just as false and hopeless as trying to copy another actor’s performance, for instance, from a film or major stage version. While I’m on that subject…

Watching the Show (Or Film) Beforehand

Sometimes a show is big enough that it’s frequently produced, professionally or otherwise. Maybe it’s even been made into a movie. And actors, especially if they are inexperienced, can have the mistaken notion that to play a particular role, they need to remind the audience of the actor who did a film (or recent major stage) version. (For example, in the case of Cabaret, community theaters all over America are currently filled with bad imitations of Alan Cumming or Liza Minnelli, or sometimes both, depending on the production’s sensibility.) If you ask them to do research, one of the things they might do is build a second-rate impression of someone else instead of presenting a first-rate version of themselves.

Directors need to strongly discourage that sort of thing. I wouldn’t let the cast watch the film — or any major live — version of a show I’m doing. All that can accomplish is limiting one’s creative abilities, either as a performer or as a director forced to deal with said performer’s self-imposed strictures.

The only instance in which this might be okay is when a director discovers that they’ve cast a solid performer, who isn’t given to replicating what they see on film or onstage, but for some reason, they simply can’t grasp what the show is really about. If they’re talented, enthusiastic, and right for how the director sees the part, but just don’t have a feel for the show’s atmosphere, period, style, etc., and a film or live stage production adequately reflects it, then that director should let the actor see it. There have been rare occasions when a strong light bulb was turned on for lost actors by watching the movie or seeing another production of the show, and they managed to create unique individual performances unlike what they’d seen. But it’s a tricky business, so a director must be careful when taking this step.

Don’t Sweat the Pacing

Generally, directors are nervous by nature; of necessity, they think in terms of the final result and see the scene in terms of what it “should” be like in its polished form. Consequently, pressure — self-imposed or otherwise — develops to get results and get them fast. (In fact, I’d say the biggest source of friction between actors and directors is the former’s need to honestly justify every second they are on stage and the latter’s need for “results.” That’s always the underlying dynamic, but with the use of caution, the friction can be minimized.) This will often lead to mistakes like driving actors to have a performance pace early on.

Picking up cues and maintaining a brisk pace is important. But what is also important is to remember that actors have a process (whether we understand it or not) that they go through to get the deepest and most real “meat” of the scene into their heads and hearts. Sometimes they need to take their time more than usual; sometimes they need to more fully feel out the situation, without splitting their focus into technical considerations such as pacing. Discoveries are made in experimentation, and to make discoveries, scenes are not always rehearsed in a way that will resemble anything like the final performance.

A director needs to aid the actors in approaching their work sequentially, without trying to do everything at once. To demand early in rehearsals that actors focus on technical aspects such as pacing is to guarantee suppression of their honest discovery of character — the actor’s first task. So give the emotions and character development room to breathe, without demanding a faster pace too early. Save an emphasis on pacing for the final stages of rehearsals.

Being “Off Book”

I was the observer on a project where its director told his cast to have the script memorized before rehearsals began. “Seeing actors carrying around their scripts for weeks on end is frustrating,” he confided in me. While recognizing the importance of having a cast “off book” by a set point in the rehearsal calendar, I’d never seen early memorization attempted before, so I was intrigued to see how it would turn out. This practice was ultimately very counterproductive. Not only were most not memorized before rehearsals, but in the case of those who were, they came up with canned, uninspired approaches and became set in their ways about things like how they delivered dialogue, which proved difficult to change later. (And don’t get me started on how one reacted with a near-meltdown to shifting the position of a chair on the set, in which they were sitting, by a couple of inches…)

It’s the same as with pacing. Actors need to be encouraged to go to the character and situation first, and to the words last. Directors must allow actors time to explore the characters and to absorb what is going on in the play and each scene. All of that can only be discovered when the pressure for memorization is taken away. Actors will memorize much more easily if they’ve been given the chance to explore the script in an un-pressured, un-rushed manner first. Results will be much more authentic, and therefore interesting.

The most effective approach is the exact opposite of demanding early memorization. Save an emphasis on being “off book” for the final stages of rehearsals as well.

Posing Questions

Sometimes actors will take the end of rehearsal as an opportunity to ask a director questions and make requests. A good 90% of the time, there’s nothing wrong with that. Within reason, a director shouldn’t be a whip-cracking Erich von Stroheim type if they don’t have to be, and a nice person tries to make the most accommodations for everyone that they can; as for the actors, naturally, they will need to ask legitimate questions from time to time. But actors can become overly dependent on having the director’s ear, and it’s easy to get bombarded in that situation. Being swamped with questions from all sides after a rehearsal can be maddening and unproductive.

On some productions, directors will be lucky enough to have an assistant; in smaller-scale situations, sometimes the stage manager winds up fulfilling that responsibility in addition to the myriad of other things to which they must attend. In either case, that’s the solution. If you know that a tidal wave of queries is not what you want and that you need time to deal with them singly, strongly discourage your cast from asking direct questions and point them to your assistant. Part of the assistant’s responsibility is to field as many conversations as possible and to schedule actor conferences when needed. Makes your job much easier.

Pulling Weight

One of the big differences between professional and amateur theater is that the pros have paid union members to do tech work. In a community theater, it’s all done by volunteers, and they usually don’t apply in large numbers to paint flats and hammer together walls. The obvious solution is to have actors help with the tech. The problem with that is that some actors think this shouldn’t be an expectation.

Nip this in the bud as quickly as you can. State clearly from day one that actors are required to help on set with building, or some other technical aspect of the show, for at least one full day. If they object, characterize it as a team-building experience that will provide essential company bonding, ask them if they would prefer a bare stage without lights to a full set, and allow for any doctor’s notes by assigning responsibilities carefully. “Can’t lift over a certain weight? You can untangle wires or paint sets just fine.”

To Bow or Not to Bow

There was a period several decades ago when it was popular not to have curtain calls. Some directors still prefer this idea, especially when directing a heavy drama; they’ll say that they cut the curtain call to maintain the desired dramatic effect on the audience. Others will be more honest about the notion behind the “no curtain call” philosophy: they think that the calls are a love fest for the actors rather than a chance to express praise and gratitude for the audience. (Proof that this is entirely mistaken is that, in my experience, it’s usually an actor who refuses to participate in a curtain call “because of reasons.” In that situation, we’ve tried talking them through why we think a curtain call is necessary, and if they still refuse to join in, sometimes they don’t take a bow. It happens. Not everyone is going to agree with the below stance on curtain calls, and sometimes you just have to agree to disagree about stuff.)

My opinion? Not concluding a show with a curtain call is pretentious (and, I might add, I’m not alone in thinking this). The mood of every show is “broken” by the mere fact that the show is over. That is unavoidable. The audience is back in the reality of sitting in a theater, even if they do think about what the show is trying to say for the next few days or weeks. Besides, the curtain calls are as much for the audience as they are for the actors. Yes, an actor soaks up the appreciation like a beach-goer in search of a tan, but the curtain call answers a cathartic need to offer a response to what they were just given. Generally, audiences want to show their appreciation for the evening’s performance, by applauding.

Most important of all, it seemingly never occurs to some directors that one can change up the style and mood of a curtain call. Indeed, it can certainly vary widely, depending on the show. To have a solemn, group call is entirely fitting in some cases, while the energetic running-out-to-center call is very appropriate for a musical comedy. Assess your needs, and adapt accordingly.

Giving Notes vs. Letting Go

Any director worth their salt will be observant during each rehearsal and make a mental or physical note about things they may want to alter or change. It’s typical for the director to then “give notes”; at the end of the evening’s rehearsal, or perhaps at the beginning of the next, the director can divulge suggestions based on these notes to the cast, crew, etc., to give them an indication of what they would like altered, thus ensuring that all involved are on the same page.

That’s fine during the run of rehearsals and even during previews up to the opening night, but the question is: where do you stop? When does one “let go” of the show? There’s a wide variety of opinions on this question, and the answer can differ depending on whether the production is professional or a presentation at a community/amateur level.

Me, I strongly feel that, in the case of a community/amateur presentation, detailed notes should be given all through the run of a show. The theory that “the work is never over” means there is always room for improvement, and notes will help maintain the quality of the show. They’ll also provide ample opportunity to point out lessons actors can be learning during a run, if they’re made aware of timing errors, good and bad adjustments they made, etc. Doing so follows the natural progression of the production as well — shows should improve during a run, as the cast is discovering what it’s like to perform the show with audience feedback.

However, when it comes to professional production, it’s a slightly different scenario. The show should ideally still maintain the integrity of your vision and the actors’ rehearsal work on through the closing night. The director may give notes during the run of a show to correct things that aren’t working. Indeed, there are technical aspects of the cast’s performance(s) that are elements the director can continue to work with during a run when they pop in to check on it. But how does one maintain that with (sometimes countless) replacements? How does one chart the progress of their baby when they’re busy working on other shows and moving forward in their career? It’s perplexing, even annoying. And it’s hard, bordering on impossible, to figure out the “best way to deal with it.” Regardless of how one does, a point inevitably comes when one must let go.

Professional productions have a typical track/setting once a show is frozen and formally opened. Sometimes there are “associate” or “resident directors” who were there with you in rehearsals, and whose job is to stay on and function as your eyes and ears on the show; sometimes that just falls to the stage manager. (For choreographers, the next lowest executive level is the dance captain[s], who will often take over running the show’s dances day-to-day after a certain point.) In either case, the subordinate takes notes on everything that happens on stage; there are meetings after some performances to give the notes; things that need more attention are referred to whatever is the next level up; and things that need more serious attention than that would be referred to the original heads.

Some idealistic directors have trouble letting go, and they want to stick around as long as they can. But dwelling longer undermines the ability of everyone whose job(s) it is to maintain the show. The sooner the director hands over the reins to whatever arrangement the show has for long-term maintenance, the sooner everyone can begin to settle into their jobs and the run. As a friend of mine once put it: “You visit, you don’t live.” And really, that’s what theater is all about.

(Note: The above info was originally posted at gdelgidirector on June 12, 2016. It has been modified for its present audience.)

Today, I’d like, if I may, to talk about a director’s style. Among the many responsibilities they shoulder, the director decides what is and is not on the stage. They help guide what the audience looks at and notices. Although the viewer may not be consciously aware of this, it still affects their experience. And how a director does that? That’s their style. Similar to an author’s distinctive writing voice, each director has their way of doing things. Through analysis of technique, the differences between their work become more evident. This kind of careful study also helps potential directors decide what is most important to them, the first step toward developing a unique style.

I’ve explored a few of the most popular methods, and their strengths and weaknesses, along the way, so I’m gonna break it down for you with my usual flair, sharing my thoughts on a couple of noteworthy or common phenomena in theater today, and by the end, I’ll explain to you where I think I stand. Maybe you’ll learn something along the way for yourself.

Actor/Musicians: Cute Gimmick (But That’s All It Is)

Over the past ten years or so, there has begun to be a trend in the production of live musicals, especially revivals of established pieces, called the “actor/musician staging,” where, in addition to their usual duties in performing the show, the actors also accompany themselves on musical instruments because… reasons. (Yeah, it’s never really been clearly defined, to my satisfaction anyway.) It has its adherents and its detractors; many feel it is a polarizer (i.e., that people either love or hate this practice, no in-between), but no matter where they stand, all agree it’s currently one of the most popular directing styles.

Well, I guess I’m the statistical outlier (but you’re going to include me because I write the blog — that’s how this works). I don’t hate it, I don’t love it; I’m just indifferent. To my way of thinking, any concept for production should accomplish one of two things: it should enhance, expand, or further deepen and/or highlight what is already there, or failing that, it should at least be interesting. And if it is either of those things, then you must be able to explain, or rather justify, its presence (see Carl Weber quote from last entry).

My two cents: aside from how entertained one may be to watch actors play instruments, there isn’t a reason for it to happen, and it doesn’t add anything that acting or good direction couldn’t do just as well if not better. Unless it’s a show like Once or Rent where being a musician is organic to the plot, or the orchestra is onstage for some reason, I don’t care for actors replacing the work of the orchestra (especially since they usually aren’t professional musicians, so not only are the instruments distracting, but the playing generally isn’t very good). And, so far as I can see it, the actor/musician thing is an innovation only in that producers don’t have to pay for an orchestra; barring little moments here and there in various such productions, in my opinion, I have never seen it add, or expand, or highlight anything, and I’ve never found it particularly interesting to watch actors struggle to play, sing, and act (and occasionally dance) at once. If it doesn’t add anything, it doesn’t grab me. Don’t get me wrong, there are moments when it works in a show; I just don’t think they happen often enough to justify making it one’s trademark, especially if, without them, one’s work is pedestrian.

Such is the case with John Doyle. Sans instruments, barring a few exceptions like his stunning revival of The Color Purple, he doesn’t tend to do anything particularly special. This is funny because, as regards his main handiwork, I feel that it might just be a case of missing the boat. In my opinion, his most interesting ideas exist in his actor/musician productions, but are buried under the gimmickry they use; with less “actors playing instruments” and more thought put into them, they could be extraordinary, perhaps even game-changing in a definitive fashion, like the 1998 Mendes/Marshall staging of Cabaret that has left its stamp on every production since.

For one example of a concept that could have worked without it: the idea of Sweeney Todd staged as a flashback playing on a never-ending loop in the traumatized mind of Toby, now confined to an asylum following the story’s events, is brilliant. (Not particularly original anymore, as everyone and their brother has since beat that dead horse six feet into the ground, but the initial spark is terrific.) And even the tableau which opened the production (at least on Broadway; no clue if it was present in the UK) was awe-inspiring. But the minute that was over, the spark was gone, and I think that’s due in large part to the actor/musician shtick. What made this idea even harder to justify was how incomprehensible the show became with the actors-accompanying-themselves gimmick tacked on; had you brought someone to the theater who had never seen Sweeney Todd, I think they’d have been hard-pressed to follow what was going on plot-wise. Hell, I knew the show, and I was confused as a lad of 15. Good idea (once I figured out what the hell it was from the show’s press), but bad execution because of a useless gimmick.

The lesson? If its only purpose is to save money, maybe you’re better off finding another way to experiment. Let the orchestra do what they do, and let the actors do what they do.

Non-Replica vs. Replica Productions

Then some directors are in what I call the repackaging business. A lot of shows are subject, both in their first-run production history and occasionally in their licensing, to replica productions. In the interest of clarity, for those who don’t know, a replica production retains the original staging, and sometimes even costumes and choreography, and all of that comes as part of the license, with a varying degree of restrictions over what can be used and how. Think of it as the original version “frozen” in time or something like that.

Major “frozen” shows include some of the greats, like:

• Jerome Robbins. Professional productions of Fiddler on the Roof, Gypsy, and West Side Story, for example, must use his choreography, and occasionally when people have tried to do quite different takes — of Fiddler or Gypsy in particular — they have then been forced to work around the mandated choreography and somehow make it not feel shoehorned into their new concept.
• A Chorus Line.
• Some of the largest Cameron Mackintosh productions (Les Misérables, Phantom, etc., although occasionally these get swapped out for an updated model that becomes the new “replica” mold).
• Susan Stroman’s original production of The Producers. In its early years of widespread licensing, productions were essentially all “replicas,” going as far as making sure the leads performed their roles the same way other leads did, and even bringing in show veterans to keep it running like clockwork, same as it ever was, in touring, regional, and Hollywood Bowl productions.
• Tanz der Vampire. After a famously awful example of a non-replica (in the strongest sense of the word) production in New York, the rights holders for one of my favorite popular European musicals have been very careful about allowing even the most minor changes to the show. By which I mean, they generally don’t allow them (after NY, who could blame them?). The show has mostly been presented in one of two replica packages, which I have dubbed — for lack of a better distinction — the “Stage Entertainment” (basically resembling the original Vienna and Stuttgart productions, with William Dudley/Sue Blane/Hugh Vanstone designs) and “Kentaur” (self-explanatory, used in a few territories since the Hungarian production where his designs premiered) packages. It’s been my understanding for some time that Vereinigte Bühnen Wien, the original producer, and part owner, is largely only interested in licensing Tanz for professional production when coupled with one of these two packages. A few non-replica productions (Estonia, Finland, Japan, Slovakia, Switzerland, and the Czech Republic) have been allowed to go forward, but only with minor differences that don’t materially alter the way the story is told, and they all have the same text and music.

The obvious advantage to “replication” for the audience is that one comes as close as they ever will to seeing what made the original production so thrilling; as for the creative team, they can rest assured the show they toiled over will always basically look and sound the same when someone sees it. The downside is that it can grow samey or dated over the years, or be cast with performers not up to the original standards. For me, the jury is still out when it comes to replicas vs. new stagings: for some shows, I would like to see a newly-interpreted production, but for others, I’m very much in the “show me a brilliant replica” camp.

And then some people see a show that is traditionally presented as a “replica” in all other instances, and decide that they’ll be the one to buck the trend. In that case, as far as I’m concerned, the most important point when considering if you have anything new to bring to the table is whether or not your take is just “different for the sake of being different.” I’ll give you an example.

As a Jesus Christ Superstar fan, I’d grown tired of seeing essentially the same show for almost 50 years (okay, I wasn’t around for all of it, but you know what I mean), so when I got my hands on the score for a short-lived “gospel” adaptation that took liberties with the music, I was excited, because at last, it was something different, a fresh and unique take. However, other — more purist — fans didn’t share my excitement. When I shared it with them, they strongly criticized its (admittedly radical) departures, and took the time to remind me, as though I were still a child, that “different is not always an improvement, and ‘different for the sake of being different’ is bogus. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” (Near exact quote.) I mean, they did have a strong argument on their side: Jesus Christ Superstar GOSPEL was specifically rooted in looking at the show and its score from a different perspective (and director Susan V. Booth’s note in its Playbill leaned strongly in a “we’re doing it differently because we can” direction).

But while I saw their point, I also saw the flip side of the coin. Gospel music is traditionally identified with the story told in the show and the characters who are part of it, but the specific way the story is told in JCS has never been explored in the gospel tradition before. Not only was it worth the artistic experimentation, in that doing so shone new light on the material, was rooted in textual analysis and brought forth things about the show that no one had considered before, but the concept (if not necessarily the execution) could be defended intellectually.

At the end of the day, like most things in theater, “replicas” work for some and not for others. But if you are tackling a production and specifically decide to go “non-replica,” then remember that, while it is interesting — and valid — to play with different ideas sometimes, the show is not your sandbox. Do it to (re-)illuminate the narrative, not to show off how you can twist it to your ends.

My Style

As I said elsewhere, a director is a storyteller. They must conceive of the overall vision, guide and collaborate with others to achieve this vision, synthesize all creative input into cohesion, and make the story relevant to their audience. And after watching many a misguided production, of classics and new musicals alike, I’ve come to realize that all the bells and whistles in the world won’t camouflage the work of a shitty storyteller — someone with a bad concept, or, worse, no concept.

When I see a show that is designed to be a spectacular, over-the-top, eye-popping extravaganza with flamboyant visual effects (and I’ve seen many, given Broadway’s love affair with multi-million dollar techno-musicals), like any audience member, I say, “Wow!” And then my brain clicks back “on” and I say, “Why?” Is a neon light show, amid fog pouring across the stage, called for? The theater is not (solely) about spectacle, and if one builds a show on that, then the impression I — and others — may get is that attempting to dazzle the audience equals distracting them from a dearth of ideas.

Great drama is not made merely of exciting theatrical wizardry. The best theater is very personal to its creators (consciously or not), profound, deals with human emotion, and, most importantly, is story-oriented. When telling a story (hopefully a great one), it should be told as clearly as possible; as long one remembers they are relating a specific message or series of events, that can take whatever form one thinks best. And to me, a story-oriented approach favors this decidedly minimalist description:

I can take an empty space and call it a bare stage. A man walks across this empty space whilst someone else is watching, and that is all that is needed for an act of theater to be engaged.

Peter Brook, The Empty Space

I repeat: a director is a storyteller. First and foremost. If they can’t do that without more than the barest essentials, then how much story is there to tell? How much more is this exercise a mere display of technical skill as a director, or of showing off one’s ability to make “something” out of “nothing”? Sometimes camouflage is necessary, but a good show doesn’t need it. Neither should you.

(Note: The above info was modified for this audience from a couple of posts made at gdelgidirector on June 12 and June 22, 2016.)

Hello, everyone! (All zero of you.) I return belatedly to continue with my series of posts on directing. Before I begin this particular post, however, I feel I should open with a disclaimer. Let me be clear: all that I say — while it seems common sense to me, and may to you — may not work for you as a director. Read what follows and learn from it, but take it with a grain of salt. Remember at all times that I am primarily a producer, and that what I say won’t apply to everyone’s process.

With that out of the way, for starters, I’d like to talk about the overall role of a director, both in terms of determining the artistic course of a play or musical and of the role the director specifically plays during the casting and rehearsal processes.

The Director’s Overall Job

At a platform event ahead of the first preview of the National Theatre’s recent production of Follies, Stephen Sondheim said, “Theatre is malleable. Every generation, there’s a new way of looking at Hamlet. It’s not just Shakespeare who keeps the play alive, it’s the directors and the actors who keep that play alive. I think the same thing is true of musical theater, you can look at shows differently and they are enriched.” For a moment, I’d like to focus on the director’s part in that ball of wax.

Setting aside all the people and elements that a director is forced to address in a professional environment, the director is a storyteller. They must conceive of the overall vision, guide and collaborate with others in order to achieve this vision, synthesize all creative input into cohesion, and make the story relevant to their audience. In order to best achieve this desired outcome, there are many methods that directors of different development backgrounds, career status, etc., employ.

For example, it has been a trend which has grown exponentially since the experimental theater movements of the Sixties, where this phenomenon had its birth, to treat putting on a play as a group effort in the totally literal sense, with rehearsals conducted in a “democratic” fashion (i.e., everyone has freedom to offer suggestions and solutions to the problem-solving process, with all voices having equal weight). If it works for you, fine, but I’d love to learn how. Though theater is a collaborative art force, conducting the production process as a democracy has, in my experience as an observer, always invited nothing but chaos. (I personally theorize that the only reason this method has caught on like it has is that there are many misguided directors who think their motivation in seeking this route is to “keep everyone happy” when their actual subconscious motivation is that they’re overly concerned with popularity and being well-liked.)

Don’t get me wrong… I recognize that the actors and the design team will bring their respective qualities and talents to the table; in the case of a musical, a choreographer will often be responsible not only for dance patterns for the big numbers, but also for musical staging in general, which helps make the transition between the dramatic and the musical seamless. (Indeed, I feel part of why director-choreographers are revered in such hagiographic terms is that they are the rare breed that has mastered both dramatic action and the fluidity of movement required for a musical number. Well, some of them, anyway.) I further recognize that those making suggestions in a “democratic” rehearsal may feel they are being helpful when they offer ideas for staging or to help another actor’s process. I get where some of those involved in such an approach are coming from. Nevertheless, the buck has to stop somewhere. And as the person who uniquely walks the tightrope between arts and commerce (answering directly to the suits upstairs, filtering all that to the talent on the ground, making everyone’s respective visions gel, etc.), the director is the natural candidate.

So what, exactly, is the director’s overall job? Metaphorically speaking, at least as far as I’m concerned, it is as follows: if they (director and cast) are a team, then the director is the coach; if they’re a ship, the director is the captain; if they’re a company, the director is the head honcho; if they’re a tree, the director is the trunk, and cast and crew are the branches which grow from it. The director is the single mind calling the shots, guiding the artistic choices in every department of the production, and all work is under their auspices and approval as team leader.

A great director is welcoming of ideas. And from time to time, they may indeed open up an issue for group discussion. But as a director, they have to ensure that whatever choice is made serves the whole. And letting too many cooks spoil the soup, to borrow from the old adage, is a sure way to achieve run-of-the-mill results that give one’s “recipe” a bad name. Ideally, in a production situation, actors will know their role, and work hard at it; if they understand their immense job properly, there should be no time to even think about offering directorial notes.

Now, that’s not to say a director will always be “right,” but they must be able to count on cooperation from their team. If a direction is truly a misfire, a captain should be smart enough to alter the ship’s course instead of sailing over the edge of a waterfall. But rehearsal is meant to create an atmosphere where alternatives can be explored and choices finally made, with the acting ensemble receptive to trusting the moment during the process. Before anyone knows for a fact that an idea doesn’t work, unless it is potentially unsafe, they need to justify the request first, to try and execute the concept to the best of their ability. Objections for any reason that isn’t logical or character-based should be dismissed; it’s not about the individual performer, it’s about the show of which they are part.

I believe, though, I cannot emphasize those five words enough: “unless it is potentially unsafe.” I’m sure the reader has heard horror stories of certain directors, such as how Alfred Hitchcock promised Tippi Hedren he would use mechanical birds for scenes in The Birds only to have live ones maul her, or told Joan Fontaine everyone involved with Rebecca hated her to create true paranoia and unease that would show on camera; John Boorman filmed the scene on Regan’s balcony in Exorcist II: The Heretic without any safety net (or any means of catching her if she truly fell) to capture Linda Blair’s authentic screams of fear; Edward Zwick instructed another actor to whip Denzel Washington more than he expected on the set of Glory; Stanley Kubrick’s overall treatment of Shelley Duvall during the making of The Shining; James Cameron’s treatment, for that matter, of Ed Harris on The Abyss; or Bernardo Bertolucci filming the rape scene in Last Tango in Paris without the consent of the actor involved. Art is no excuse to treat people like this, ever. Good directors do not abuse their talent. And no matter how wonderful of artists these directors are purported to be, in addition to being abusive and fucked up, these tactics are lazy as hell, and counter to any theory of real value on directing and the actor/director relationship being taught in arts schools today. Don’t be like them.

God, I Hope I Get It!

A director’s responsibility begins at the casting phase. At auditions, it’s important to be thorough in explaining what the expectations are for people who are cast, especially if one is not dealing with professionals. When working in community theater especially, one needs to emphasize that a commitment is being asked for which is to be taken as seriously as when hired for a job. In a community setting where such is the director’s purview, they should post a rehearsal schedule — at least a theoretical one — at the time of auditions, and require all conflicts to be listed on the audition sheet, with more than very few disqualifying the performer from being cast.

Working out rehearsal schedules can cause directors some of their biggest headaches, but the method of requiring all actors to show up at every rehearsal, so it can be figured out on-the-fly what scenes can be worked on, is (in my opinion) sloppy, lazy, and unfair to the cast. Besides, an unorganized rehearsal schedule leads to the all-too-common syndrome of having a well-prepared first act but an under-cooked second act.

Avoid this by planning a thorough rehearsal schedule, including specifics of what will be worked on each night. It’s the only way to ensure that all scenes are given sufficient rehearsal time before the final dress rehearsals. (Remaining flexible with the schedule, however, is still paramount as a show progresses. The director must stress to the company the need to stay on top of changes.)

What’s that? You’d like a sample schedule? Okay then! Pulling from my years of uncovering miscellany, errata, etc., related to one of my favorite fandoms (namely, Jesus Christ Superstar), here is the rehearsal schedule for DJ Christ Superstar, a highly allegorical revamp that was primarily a tribute to “rave” music and culture which was one of the centerpieces of the 1999 Burning Man Festival. …yeah. Setting aside the show itself, pay close attention to the level of detail at that link: dates, times, and locations for every rehearsal (down to the address — and even directions in the pre-GPS era), what is being covered at each rehearsal, a rough breakdown of how a rehearsal will run (warm-ups first, ensemble vocals next, solo vocals after that, blocking, etc.), and so on and so forth. Even if it is “subject to slight changes,” try and plan rehearsals to this level of detail, and make the info available at auditions so anyone trying out can’t say they didn’t know what was expected of them.

A Director Rehearses

The director’s overall goal in rehearsals should be to provide an un-threatening environment where the actors are encouraged to give up the illusion of needing to be “good” from day one, so they can discover their roles organically. Actors have a need to please; at a very basic level, this is part of the reason they’re performers to begin with. Consequently, when they show up to rehearsal, they often operate under the assumption that a true professional shows up “ready to open,” and invariably try to emulate this “already perfect” fantasy model. The director is supposed to be their mentor, their guide, their guru; a good one should disabuse them of that notion. Not only are they not ready to open, they don’t yet need to be. Rehearsal is the time to make them “ready to open” as a team. And to be an effective member of a show’s acting team, to help create an artistically successful production, which is essential, they need to realize their place (i.e., accept the director’s position as leader/“captain of the ship”) and concern themselves with their job as an actor.

Discipline is a big key. It is not a dirty word; rather, it is the heart of acting success. With discipline, an ensemble is focused on the one common goal of mounting the production. Freedom in creative theater work, as with freedom in any aspect of life, only comes from structure. And any structure begins with a solid foundation that instills confidence in it. From day one, actors need to sense there is an order and organization to the production, and a director should work to achieve that to the best of their ability.

For example, establish a start time for rehearsals, and then let nothing prevent them from always starting on time. There will always be at least one actor who is punctual; work with that one actor as the others arrive. It works wonders in impressing on the cast that a director is serious about what they say.

Another good example: actors trust their director for guidance. It’s important for them to see how well-prepared their director is to handle the weighty role of staging the show. So, in pre-production, work out thorough blocking notes, the better to demonstrate that there is some idea of what the stage picture will (ideally) be. Without a solid foundation for the action worked out ahead of time, much time will be wasted in rehearsals, and the final show will never have the sense of sculptural, artistic staging that every good production must have. Be you director or performer, don’t think of it as a limitation on creativity; a precise pattern to the show’s blocking is essential to the design of its look.

Many people may question the need for designing blocking. These are the same folks who equate the term “director” with conducting onstage traffic and assume scripted stage directions are sacred. In truth, such directions are usually notes made by the original production’s stage manager. They can aid a reader in visualizing the show if the text is their first exposure, and they can occasionally help a director with complex scenes, but for the most part, as one mounts their own production, they will often find themselves disregarding the printed directions for a variety of reasons. This is not to say that a script should be roundly ignored except for dialogue and song; a show as it exists on paper is usually the starting point for all theatrical creations. But it’s not holy writ.

And neither are a director’s initial ideas for staging. As Tom O’Horgan, Tony-nominated director of the original Broadway productions of Hair, Lenny, and Jesus Christ Superstar, among others, once put it, “If you think that when I direct a show I get some sort of divine inspiration… well, that’s not the way it works. You try something because you’ve done everything else and it didn’t work out. Directing is no haphazard thing; rather, it is a complex series of challenges and compromises.” Inevitably, the pre-designed blocking will be adapted and expanded on during rehearsals. Changes in the set design or choreography, the instinctual movements of the actors, etc., will change and mold any initial plans. (Or the director may change their mind — remember, they’re the leader, they must be allowed to change the show’s blocking as much as they see fit.) For that reason, don’t extend the precision of preliminary blocking to the point of not allowing improvisational changes in movement. Almost nothing from the initial notes may be evident in the final performance, but at least people will know the moment or the number is meant to be staged, to be seen. (It’s also particularly useful to refer to as a source if one runs dry on ideas or hits a snag at some point in rehearsal.)

By now, the reader may have developed the (common) mistaken notion that a director is someone who dictates every moment of a given actor’s performance. This is not the case. In rehearsals, a director must walk a difficult tight-rope. On the one hand, they must give as much inspiration and encouragement as possible. On the other, they must allow their cast freedom. A good director does not “puppeteer” the details of an actor’s performance. In a safe, creative rehearsal atmosphere, actors will spontaneously arrive at approaches to their characters beyond anything pre-conceived. As such, while being prepared to assist as much as possible, a good director must respect the unique potential of everyone in their cast. (There will be more about this in a future post when I discuss points of technique.)

Last but not least, in rehearsals, mutual respect is essential, and public conflict should be avoided whenever possible (or at least one should try). This doesn’t mean that the rehearsal process will always be peaceful and “happy.” It may mean the most respectful thing at a given moment is for firm interaction to take place. All are involved in a dynamic, cooperative creative effort, and as such, it’s a highly charged arena, where the more one can bring of their passion to the project, the more success they will have in communicating with the final collaborators — the audience. That said, in the highly risky and volatile world of show business, people (especially producers and investors) are looking for reasons to justify saving themselves the trouble of involvement. Doing “nothing” is always easier than doing “something,” especially when that “something” is mounting theater on a thin dime. Anything that threatens the role of the director as the “captain” or creates doubt when one of these people deigns to visit rehearsals can be counterproductive at best and disastrous at worst, and that’s saying nothing of the effect on company morale even if the “suits” are not in attendance.

With that in mind, if an actor and a director disagree about an idea or note and it seems the only impending result is an argument, they should stop; table it, save that point to be discussed at a later time, and move on to whatever’s next. Whatever the disagreement, it is secondary — and counter — to the process of creating good theater.

(Note: The above info was originally posted at gdelgidirector on June 11, 2016. It has been modified for its present audience.)

Well, the votes on the Facebook poll are in, and writing about directing won by a landslide, so I’m going to devote the next several entries to directing, and what it means as far as I’m concerned. And I’d like to start with a small confession about a not-so-secret yearning of mine: I’ve always kind of wanted to be a director.

You might well ask, “Why do you want to direct so badly? Aren’t you content with being a producer?” Well, yes and no. Yes, I am content with being a producer, in that a producer ultimately calls the shots. As Mel Brooks eloquently put it, “The cast is great, the script is swell / But this we’re tellin’ you, sirs, / It’s just no go, you’ve got no show / Without the producers!” Actors, directors, choreographers, designers, everybody in the production has their part to play, but it’s producers who raise the money, assemble the creative team, book the venue, handle the office, problem-solve, mediate personality (or any, really) conflicts, basically anything that has to do with the management, development, and day-to-day running of the show.

But ask yourself this question: “Who today cares how a producer would approach their vision of a show?” Gone are the days of legendary mavericks like David Merrick. The people and elements that go into a show are not just tools used to achieve one’s ends; to insist this is so would ignore entirely the collaborative aspect of theater. Laypersons might well enjoy the odd behind-the-scenes segment giving insight into a marketing campaign or shedding light on how the creative team was selected or what led to the artistic compromises made for financial purposes, and a few seasoned observers might even be able to pick out traits common to, say, every Scott Rudin production, but no one comes home singing the praises of producers anymore. Or at least, not like they do directors.

Since the early 1960s, it has become fashionable to regard the director as having input akin to that of an author. One can hardly blame people for feeling that way because it’s fairly true: the director is responsible for helping the cast tell the story and working with the production team to present a unified vision, and as a result, though all play their part, it is often the director’s internal vision that is most translated to the external stage. It is no misstatement that the best way to approach one’s vision of a theater piece artistically is to direct.

Over the years, as a producer and occasional performer, I have learned both technical theater skills, as well as performance skills. As directing blends all aspects of theater, experience in directing a musical would be the cumulative peak of my artistic career. But to be taken seriously, especially as one with no experience in the directing field specifically, one has to prove they know what they’re talking about.

So, to that end, over the next several posts, I will articulate what I call my working methods, elaborating on the finer points of my hypothetical directing style and technique accumulated from years of study, and demonstrate how they would be applied by sharing my directorial concepts for some of my favorite shows (all of which currently lack momentum, except in the theater of my mind’s eye). Take all of it with a grain of salt; as I will elaborate in my posts on acting, the best way to learn in show business, given the chance, is by doing, not by reading about it. Maybe some of this will apply to you, or maybe it won’t. (Hell, it may not even apply to me, if I ever wind up in the driver’s seat.) But I hope you gain something from what I share here, even if it’s just a match to light the dry tinder of your mind.

(Note: The above info was originally posted at gdelgidirector on May 25, 2016. It has been modified for its present audience.)