One of the interesting things, to me, about the rehearsal process is how different people are, one to another. Some clown around, getting giggles from each other, and some are very serious, watching everything for fear of missing anything. Some people constantly voice suggestions, for their own part and for others as well as for props, furniture and set dressing. Some, well, don’t.
Anyway, as long-time Gentle Readers will remember, as part of my method for learning lines, I type all my scenes into the computer and print them out. It’s not a common trick; writing the lines out in longhand is an old favorite, but I converted to digital when I came back to playing parts a few years ago. As a result, at the rehearsals themselves, I’m clutching letter-sized sheets. When I played three different roles in The Man Who Came to Dinner, I printed them on different color sheets: Prof. Metz was, I believe, on green, Beverly on pink and Banjo on white. For Valmont, they were all on white. This time, I have printed both of Alfie’s scenes on blue (too dark a blue, as it turned out) and Whiskers on a lovely salmon. It makes it easier for me to grab the right scene as I’m working. I suspect I will re-print Alfie’s pages, probably with Poor Alfie on white and Rich Alfie on green, because I may have difficulty reading the blue pages, and besides, there were typos.
Normally, the rest of the cast will have playbooks, which are, oh, seven-by-five flimsy books, often staple-bound. In this show, Our Dear Director took a published copy, cut it up and pasted it up (actual cutting, actual pasting, not the digital stuff) and photocopied it for everyone, so we all have letter-sized scripts. At the read-through I saw a few three-ring binders, some binder clips, some in folders or pocket folders. I was (I noticed) the only one who was not reading along; I read my scenes, of course, and then spent the rest of the time listening and watching and making notes.
Now that we’ve started blocking, we see the difference between the three-ring binder actors, who carry the whole play with them for every scene, and the sheaf-of-sheets actors, who carry only the current scene at any moment. Our Higgins is a sheaf man; he’s using the photocopies but he stashes away the one’s he doesn’t need right away, to free himself up to gesticulate. He has lovely hands, our Higgins does. I suspect that his script will be a mangled pile before he gets off book, but then, so will mine. But I can print another copy.
Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.