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My name is Cady, welcome.
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They fired the guy who plays Laertes. It's not a terrible loss to me . . . I only got to rehearse with him a couple of times, literally. Methinks that's probably why he got fired. I suppose it could be worse -- granted, there's only a month left until we open, but you don't see Laertes very much, as he spends the majority of the play in France whoring it up.
So Marlene called me yesterday to let me know . . . and I'm meeting him at rehearsal today. Today is yet another rehearsal of Ophelia's crazy scene. Objectively, it sounds fun. It's not fun.
I'm told I need to look up. And cry. And talk to god. I'm having problems with these things. - The problem with looking up is that I don't have the instincts to look up. My instincts are to be down. Fetal position, hair in face, on the floor. But no. Marlene wants me up. And I did it . . . and did it, and did it some more until she said it was "getting better" . . . but it still feels false to me. I think she probably just said I was getting better not because I was actually getting better, but because she really needed to leave to go pick up her kids.
- And crying? Oh, I can fake cry like a boss. I can make any number of crying faces, I can make my voice slightly choked up, tearful, full-blown hysterical, you name it. I can even make my face and eyes red. I just can't actually get tears out. I'm not a crier. I don't think I've cried since 2009. My eyes will occasionally water if they get dust in them or something, but that hardly counts, since they don't even water enough to produce a tear. This is a problem because Marlene wants the full shebang -- tears, snot.
- And talking to god? Honestly, that's harder for me than my lack of tears and downward-facing instincts combined. I think I could sooner look up and produce tears than I could convincingly talk to god. All I could think of was the lunacy of the situation. Blame a nonexistent entity for all my (Ophelia's) sorrow? Look up at the ceiling and plead with it for mercy? Wear a miniature replica of an ancient execution device around my neck? How? It makes no fucking sense to me. I just don't --CAN'T-- understand. How does an (albeit imaginary) incorporeal being affect corporeal beings? Even worse . . . people believe that this being is LOVING, of all things. LOVING. God is only loving because [he] claims to be loving. Realistically, god is nothing if not completely malicious.
Poor Ronnie thought my problem with the situation is that I AM religious, not the other way around. Her theory was that I couldn't do it because I was afraid of pissing God off or something.
I assured her this was not the case.
She told me that that was Chris's problem . . . and I realized that I already knew that. One day, Marlene was trying to work up some vehemence in him, and told him to liberally sprinkle his lines with a lot of f-words just for emphasis. He wouldn't do it. He said, "Okay," and then continued reading his lines the way he'd been. She told him again. He still wouldn't do it. That's what tipped ME off, anyway.
Although, if that's an indicator, I'm not sure why one would make the assumption that I'm religious. I swear all the time.
ANYWAY . . . the thing is, the first instance of the new Laertes's and my working relationship is going to be me acting like an escapee from a psych ward and mistaking him for Hamlet and whatnot, complete with Marlene trying to direct me towards a Mariah Gale-esque performance.
Thank you all so much for reading January Brings Few Faces over the past few days . . . I'm sorry I haven't been around to read your stories. I'm going to catch up with you just as soon as I can. Labels: hamlet
3 Comments:
It would be hard to know exactly what the director wants. Good look on those real tears.
Hope it gets better.
It just gives bad vibes to everyone when someone gets canned. Hopefully, with practice..its gonna be a piece of cake soon.
Odd. The only thing I can do is actual tears.
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Cady, 21 - struggling actress, harried stage manager, bored sales rep. Luckily, not all at the same time.
I love late nights and early mornings, smoking without the head rush, blue hair, eating out at three a.m., swear words, phrases that sound inappropriate out of context, my combat boots, and my cat.
They fired the guy who plays Laertes. It's not a terrible loss to me . . . I only got to rehearse with him a couple of times, literally. Methinks that's probably why he got fired. I suppose it could be worse -- granted, there's only a month left until we open, but you don't see Laertes very much, as he spends the majority of the play in France whoring it up.
So Marlene called me yesterday to let me know . . . and I'm meeting him at rehearsal today. Today is yet another rehearsal of Ophelia's crazy scene. Objectively, it sounds fun. It's not fun.
I'm told I need to look up. And cry. And talk to god. I'm having problems with these things. - The problem with looking up is that I don't have the instincts to look up. My instincts are to be down. Fetal position, hair in face, on the floor. But no. Marlene wants me up. And I did it . . . and did it, and did it some more until she said it was "getting better" . . . but it still feels false to me. I think she probably just said I was getting better not because I was actually getting better, but because she really needed to leave to go pick up her kids.
- And crying? Oh, I can fake cry like a boss. I can make any number of crying faces, I can make my voice slightly choked up, tearful, full-blown hysterical, you name it. I can even make my face and eyes red. I just can't actually get tears out. I'm not a crier. I don't think I've cried since 2009. My eyes will occasionally water if they get dust in them or something, but that hardly counts, since they don't even water enough to produce a tear. This is a problem because Marlene wants the full shebang -- tears, snot.
- And talking to god? Honestly, that's harder for me than my lack of tears and downward-facing instincts combined. I think I could sooner look up and produce tears than I could convincingly talk to god. All I could think of was the lunacy of the situation. Blame a nonexistent entity for all my (Ophelia's) sorrow? Look up at the ceiling and plead with it for mercy? Wear a miniature replica of an ancient execution device around my neck? How? It makes no fucking sense to me. I just don't --CAN'T-- understand. How does an (albeit imaginary) incorporeal being affect corporeal beings? Even worse . . . people believe that this being is LOVING, of all things. LOVING. God is only loving because [he] claims to be loving. Realistically, god is nothing if not completely malicious.
Poor Ronnie thought my problem with the situation is that I AM religious, not the other way around. Her theory was that I couldn't do it because I was afraid of pissing God off or something.
I assured her this was not the case.
She told me that that was Chris's problem . . . and I realized that I already knew that. One day, Marlene was trying to work up some vehemence in him, and told him to liberally sprinkle his lines with a lot of f-words just for emphasis. He wouldn't do it. He said, "Okay," and then continued reading his lines the way he'd been. She told him again. He still wouldn't do it. That's what tipped ME off, anyway.
Although, if that's an indicator, I'm not sure why one would make the assumption that I'm religious. I swear all the time.
ANYWAY . . . the thing is, the first instance of the new Laertes's and my working relationship is going to be me acting like an escapee from a psych ward and mistaking him for Hamlet and whatnot, complete with Marlene trying to direct me towards a Mariah Gale-esque performance.
Thank you all so much for reading January Brings Few Faces over the past few days . . . I'm sorry I haven't been around to read your stories. I'm going to catch up with you just as soon as I can. Labels: hamlet
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