"Like the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end."--Sonnet 60, William Shakespeare
Dear memories,
It all ended so cleanly, like sealing a compressed letter inside an envelope. My flight took off at 10 am on Saturday; I saw on my ticket that my destination was Charlotte Douglas International Airport. I didn't realize this was my last time drinking actually decent English breakfast tea, or that I had made my last purchase at Portobello Market last Saturday, or that I would never step foot back in LAMDA (the current building is being torn down for a snazzy, remodeled version). London molded me, made me into a city person who is too impatient to take the bus and walks instead, or takes the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. Suddenly I realized I'd be stretched back out to my previous form, and would have to drive everywhere in Charlotte, would have to be courteous to pedestrians instead of being one of those bouncing walkers. My mom would be cooking meals for me, no more microwavable 2-minute Uncle Ben's rice. Is it odd that I grew such an affinity for instant rice? Is it odd that I enjoyed concocting my own meals and washing my own dishes in the sink, not with a dish washer? Then again, I would be back in a comfortable mattress (no thanks there, NIDO), my feet would wake up to fuzzy shag carpet, not freezing wood floors. Bubba, the faithful body-wagging lab, would greet me at the front door, inspecting every element of my being, down to my vintage ring from the Vienna marketplace. I thought I could handle the transition, as huge as it was. I figured I'd just relive my London memories in a hazy day dream for a few minutes every day. Well to be honest, it's a lot harder than that. It's hard to pick up the life you've crafted for three and a half months, all the habits and patterns, all the friends from LAMDA and silent acquaintances on the tube, all the meals at the Polish cafe and the grocery store runs after a long day at school. It's not even that I've picked up my life that I established, I literally just dropped it. I sealed it away in an envelope that I keep neatly filed in the back of my mind, and I dare every once in a while to open it just a pinch and let a few memories hop out for a dance. I know that envelope and the document it holds so carefully will stay crisp and clean. And every once in a while, I'll read it again and indulge in that life I so dearly miss and treasure.
I'll love you forever, London. I'll love all those who were my partner in the Breathing Station exercise in Stevie's voice class, who endowed me behaviors and characteristics in improv scenes, who let their breath synchronize with mine during movement class on Fridays. I'll love the addictive hot chocolate in the common room, and the 23 bus that dropped us off directly at our apartment. I'll love the Portobello Market and the entreating vendors. I'll love the fast dances at the Archangel Club, and the slow hugs in the hallways at NIDO. I'll love loving those moments.
Cheers,
Katie
P.S. I'll see you again soon. I promise.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Thursday, December 5, 2013
"To Ireland, I."--Macbeth 2.3, William Shakespeare
To Ireland went Maggie O'Brien (a spry and big-spirited, yet petite lass), Julie Brannon (my two-time travel buddy--see Vienna blog--and master packer--she fit everything inside a should-strap leather bag), and the Greek girl. So perhaps my two good Irish friends, Maggie and Julie, had their own cultural reasons for visiting their families' country; I was going to Dublin, Ireland to experience the land of shamrocks, fiery redheads, and Guinness beer. Little did I know, Ireland is also home to gaze-stealing architecture, sports bars galore, and the friendliest and most kind people in Europe.
This time we didn't let the shoddy Irish (but financially friendly) Ryanair airline put any bumps in our travel plans: we printed out our boarding passes the day before our flight, and we were sure to get our passports checked before entering security--I will say, however, I don't think the lady behind the Passport Control desk even looked up to make sure my face matched my passport's picture. Nevertheless, after an hour of staring at the backs of the hideous yellow Ryanair seats, we were in Dublin! We needed help getting to our hostel though; we planned on taking a local bus. Perhaps it was fate, or maybe just a common last name in Ireland, but a friendly airport employee named Mr. O'Brannon (see Julie's last name above) gave us a free map and made sure we got on bus #16 towards Blessington Street so we could get off at Mountjoy Street. What pleasant names for roads! Much to our horror, we realized after 3 stops on the bus that we had no idea when to get off: there were no street signs in sight and the bus stops didn't have names and the driver didn't announce the stops! A flashback to our trip to Vienna came to the forefront of my mind when we were on a bus to the main bus station in Brno and didn't know when we were supposed to get off; we didn't know what the words in German meant. But, wait...everything is in English here (and Gaelic, but our cab driver informed us that only about 10% of the Irish population actually is fluent in Gaelic). We should be able to figure this out. Luckily, our Irish guardian angel happened to be seated next to Julie; her clothes looked like that of a teenager, but her smile lines revealed a much older woman in her 40s; her nails were the foundation for nail polish residue, and her sparkly bag artificially added spunk to the lethargy that comes with age and watching after two young children. She realized from our fearful eyes that we were terribly confused and told us we still had about 15 minutes left in our bus journey. I recognized from Julie's frantic patting of her jeans and jacket that something was missing: her phone. Our guardian angel also picked up on it, and she commanded her young son to stick his hand behind the fuzzy bus seat in hopes of a successful rescue. But alas, he failed. So our guardian angel then instructed Julie to pick up her side of the bus seat--this random lady practically pulled apart the bus to retrieve a stranger's phone! With her help we got off the bus at the right stop, with Julie's rescued phone. We made our way to our shelter for the next 24 hours: the Dublin Interntional Youth Hostel. While we weren't expecting much for our 18 pounds per person bed and breakfast, I'm glad we only used the hostel as a place to sleep and grab breakfast the next day; my bed smelled a little funky and the bathroom downstairs felt like it was on a run-down fishing boat. Like I said, it did the job.
We wasted no time; we got directions to downtown Dublin (a 15 minute walk from the quasi-fishing boat hostel) and searched for a restaurant to satiate our ravenous appetites. The Larder sounded like just the place...and it was! Once we were all fully replenished after a scrumptious meal (Maggie had fish and chips, Julie had her ultimate favorite Eggs Benedict, and I had a lamb burger), we headed towards Dublin Castle where, rumor had it, a flea market was going on. Turns out the market consisted of a few food stands (I was a happy customer with my slab of fudge!) but we also were greeted by the floating notes of a Christmas choir in the middle of the castle's handsome stone square.
After leaving the castle, we quickly found numerous markets that sold small photographs of Irish landmarks, vintage clothing, rings, and second hand books. We then went to the Porterhouse Pub for a traditional pub dinner--bangers and mash and a beer definitely seemed appropriate for our trip. Pub vibes are very specific and yet simultaneously applicable to everyone: it seemed like it was Christmas Day and everyone had left their jobs or tasks to come have a good swig of Guinness, whether they be business men still in their suits or men in track suits who may not be able to count the number of drinks they've had on one hand, or a group of dressed up women laughing during their weekly girls' night out. Pub life in Ireland is legitimately a national hobby.
We started our next and last day in Ireland with a trip to the co-op, a market made up of local artisans and merchants, where we found desserts, vintage clothes, jewelry, art, old comic books and photos, and furniture. Seeing as how it was Sunday, we also made a trip to St. Patrick's Cathedral, a truly breathtaking structure that has been around for hundreds of years (I believe since 1400?).
So the two Jews and Maggie ventured through the praised church, observing the small wooden pews contrasting with the light-capturing stained glass and immensely powerful buttresses that held up the heavy stone ceiling. Even though I'm Jewish, there's something unarguably holy and grounding about being in a church that has been a haven for so many troubled people for so many centuries. However, the church gift shop fell in line with the other Irish souvenir shops, attempting to sell us shamrock-peppered cooking mitts and sheep key chains. Trying to fully submerge into the Irish flow of things, we paired up our trip to the cathedral with a trip to the Guinness Storehouse, combining the Irish love for Catholicism and beer!
I feel bad for underestimating the legitimacy of the Guinness Storehouse because they explained so much to us! We learned about the influence of Arthur Guinness' company on the Irish economy, since 90% of the barley and hops used in the beer is from Ireland! Imagine being an Irish barley farmer! Cha-ching! On the tour, they also took us to a tasting room that looked like it had been imported from Willy Wonka's factory; it was an all white room (meant to heighten our senses) where we were each given a sample of Guinness, about 1/5 of a pint in a mini pint glass. We, with mini pint glasses in hand, were then instructed to enter a room of deep mahogany and maroon curtains. This was the room where they would teach us how to drink Guinness properly: 1) assume a proud stance 2) bring the glass to you, you never go to the glass! 3) inhale through your nose 4) sip in the beer, swallow 5) inhale again through the nose. Follow these and the dark, smooth Guinness, "that black stuff," tastes magical! After 6 floors of Guinness ads through history, a thorough explanation of the beer making process, tasting instruction, and drinking IQ tests, we arrived at the famous Gravity Bar. A circular bar counter captures your attention immediately in the center of the disk-shaped room that has windows all around, providing a complete view of Dublin's landmarks and brightly lit windows from the largest pint glass-shaped building in the world. We enjoyed a pint of Guinness, which we thoroughly enjoyed due to our new drinking technique, as we pointed out some of the buildings we had ventured into earlier that weekend.
Sadly, our time in Dubin was up. We got back to our London flats around 2 am, just enough time to catch a few hours of sleep before starting our last week of classes at LAMDA. I would describe Dublin as London's younger, hardier, more down-to-earth cousin. At times I can see myself living there someday; but for now, I'll remember Dublin as a city I loved visiting with two good friends over an adrenaline-packed weekend!
To Ireland went Maggie O'Brien (a spry and big-spirited, yet petite lass), Julie Brannon (my two-time travel buddy--see Vienna blog--and master packer--she fit everything inside a should-strap leather bag), and the Greek girl. So perhaps my two good Irish friends, Maggie and Julie, had their own cultural reasons for visiting their families' country; I was going to Dublin, Ireland to experience the land of shamrocks, fiery redheads, and Guinness beer. Little did I know, Ireland is also home to gaze-stealing architecture, sports bars galore, and the friendliest and most kind people in Europe.
 |
| EXCITED FOR DUBLIN! |
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| Casual view of a Dublin street |
This time we didn't let the shoddy Irish (but financially friendly) Ryanair airline put any bumps in our travel plans: we printed out our boarding passes the day before our flight, and we were sure to get our passports checked before entering security--I will say, however, I don't think the lady behind the Passport Control desk even looked up to make sure my face matched my passport's picture. Nevertheless, after an hour of staring at the backs of the hideous yellow Ryanair seats, we were in Dublin! We needed help getting to our hostel though; we planned on taking a local bus. Perhaps it was fate, or maybe just a common last name in Ireland, but a friendly airport employee named Mr. O'Brannon (see Julie's last name above) gave us a free map and made sure we got on bus #16 towards Blessington Street so we could get off at Mountjoy Street. What pleasant names for roads! Much to our horror, we realized after 3 stops on the bus that we had no idea when to get off: there were no street signs in sight and the bus stops didn't have names and the driver didn't announce the stops! A flashback to our trip to Vienna came to the forefront of my mind when we were on a bus to the main bus station in Brno and didn't know when we were supposed to get off; we didn't know what the words in German meant. But, wait...everything is in English here (and Gaelic, but our cab driver informed us that only about 10% of the Irish population actually is fluent in Gaelic). We should be able to figure this out. Luckily, our Irish guardian angel happened to be seated next to Julie; her clothes looked like that of a teenager, but her smile lines revealed a much older woman in her 40s; her nails were the foundation for nail polish residue, and her sparkly bag artificially added spunk to the lethargy that comes with age and watching after two young children. She realized from our fearful eyes that we were terribly confused and told us we still had about 15 minutes left in our bus journey. I recognized from Julie's frantic patting of her jeans and jacket that something was missing: her phone. Our guardian angel also picked up on it, and she commanded her young son to stick his hand behind the fuzzy bus seat in hopes of a successful rescue. But alas, he failed. So our guardian angel then instructed Julie to pick up her side of the bus seat--this random lady practically pulled apart the bus to retrieve a stranger's phone! With her help we got off the bus at the right stop, with Julie's rescued phone. We made our way to our shelter for the next 24 hours: the Dublin Interntional Youth Hostel. While we weren't expecting much for our 18 pounds per person bed and breakfast, I'm glad we only used the hostel as a place to sleep and grab breakfast the next day; my bed smelled a little funky and the bathroom downstairs felt like it was on a run-down fishing boat. Like I said, it did the job.
We wasted no time; we got directions to downtown Dublin (a 15 minute walk from the quasi-fishing boat hostel) and searched for a restaurant to satiate our ravenous appetites. The Larder sounded like just the place...and it was! Once we were all fully replenished after a scrumptious meal (Maggie had fish and chips, Julie had her ultimate favorite Eggs Benedict, and I had a lamb burger), we headed towards Dublin Castle where, rumor had it, a flea market was going on. Turns out the market consisted of a few food stands (I was a happy customer with my slab of fudge!) but we also were greeted by the floating notes of a Christmas choir in the middle of the castle's handsome stone square.
After leaving the castle, we quickly found numerous markets that sold small photographs of Irish landmarks, vintage clothing, rings, and second hand books. We then went to the Porterhouse Pub for a traditional pub dinner--bangers and mash and a beer definitely seemed appropriate for our trip. Pub vibes are very specific and yet simultaneously applicable to everyone: it seemed like it was Christmas Day and everyone had left their jobs or tasks to come have a good swig of Guinness, whether they be business men still in their suits or men in track suits who may not be able to count the number of drinks they've had on one hand, or a group of dressed up women laughing during their weekly girls' night out. Pub life in Ireland is legitimately a national hobby.
We started our next and last day in Ireland with a trip to the co-op, a market made up of local artisans and merchants, where we found desserts, vintage clothes, jewelry, art, old comic books and photos, and furniture. Seeing as how it was Sunday, we also made a trip to St. Patrick's Cathedral, a truly breathtaking structure that has been around for hundreds of years (I believe since 1400?).
So the two Jews and Maggie ventured through the praised church, observing the small wooden pews contrasting with the light-capturing stained glass and immensely powerful buttresses that held up the heavy stone ceiling. Even though I'm Jewish, there's something unarguably holy and grounding about being in a church that has been a haven for so many troubled people for so many centuries. However, the church gift shop fell in line with the other Irish souvenir shops, attempting to sell us shamrock-peppered cooking mitts and sheep key chains. Trying to fully submerge into the Irish flow of things, we paired up our trip to the cathedral with a trip to the Guinness Storehouse, combining the Irish love for Catholicism and beer! |
| At the Guinness Storehouse! |
Sadly, our time in Dubin was up. We got back to our London flats around 2 am, just enough time to catch a few hours of sleep before starting our last week of classes at LAMDA. I would describe Dublin as London's younger, hardier, more down-to-earth cousin. At times I can see myself living there someday; but for now, I'll remember Dublin as a city I loved visiting with two good friends over an adrenaline-packed weekend!
Monday, December 2, 2013
"I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks."--Twelfth Night 3.3, William Shakespeare
For the past 17 years, I've spent Thanksgiving with family, on holiday from school and devouring cranberries, turkey, mom's delicious au-gratin potatoes and her sweet potato dish topped with candied pecans. But this year, I was the only one in the family missing from the long table (constructed from three smaller, slightly mismatched tables) in my grandparents' dining room as they celebrated Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, my mom's birthday, and my cousin's birthday a few days early. While I missed all of them dearly, LAMDA ensured that all the Americans and international students would still be treated to a proper Thanksgiving! The food making process may not have been as organized as my mom's typical strategy of making a long list of the foods and then adjacent to the names of the food is what time they need to be put into/removed from the oven. Instead, we all posted on the Facebook event page what we wanted to contribute to our potluck dinner; we had some nommy dishes: Mac and cheese, sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, stuffing balls, cranberry sauce from a homemade recipe, and tons more.
Upon entering Hogwarts, the large and majestic room we were allotted, we were struck by a warm and inviting environment full of four long tables with white table covers and dozens of lit candles with dimmed chandeliers overhead. Rodney, the professor who always walks around barefoot (now that it's so cold he wears socks), walked into the room and gave each table three bottles of red wine. We all went around and reminisced with our new best friends, whom we didn't even know three months ago, about our favorite Thanksgiving tales and stories. I'd been close with these people (felt their diaphragms expand in Pure Voice class, seen them roll on the ground in Movement class, and pretend to be in a glass elevator in acting class), but I felt like I understood them all so much better after hearing these little snippets of their lives back home. We laughed and ate our hearts out all night; my friend Julie made her first batch of latkes away from home, and they reminded me of my mom's. My friend Erika made her mom's cranberry sauce from a family recipe, and that also brought back the taste of my mom's boiled cranberries. Sometimes it's hard to move on from a tradition, like having turkey at Thanksgiving dinner, or being with family back in the States, but every tradition was new at some point. So here's a toast to new traditions: may you remember the old, embrace the new, keep what works and forget the rest!
For the past 17 years, I've spent Thanksgiving with family, on holiday from school and devouring cranberries, turkey, mom's delicious au-gratin potatoes and her sweet potato dish topped with candied pecans. But this year, I was the only one in the family missing from the long table (constructed from three smaller, slightly mismatched tables) in my grandparents' dining room as they celebrated Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, my mom's birthday, and my cousin's birthday a few days early. While I missed all of them dearly, LAMDA ensured that all the Americans and international students would still be treated to a proper Thanksgiving! The food making process may not have been as organized as my mom's typical strategy of making a long list of the foods and then adjacent to the names of the food is what time they need to be put into/removed from the oven. Instead, we all posted on the Facebook event page what we wanted to contribute to our potluck dinner; we had some nommy dishes: Mac and cheese, sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, stuffing balls, cranberry sauce from a homemade recipe, and tons more.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
"Conceal me what I am and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent."--Twelfth Night 1.2, William Shakespeare
During the last few weeks of my journey at LAMDA, I will take on yet another disguise: Viola in Shakespeare's comedic Twelfth Night. However, it's a bit thought-knotting because I'm a girl playing a girl who says she'll pretend to be a eunuch but really just disguises herself as a messenger boy. Typical Shakespeare, right? And who better to direct my peers and me in this puzzling play than Phil, a young and retro-dressing director who graduated from LAMDA. Phil's approach towards the text is very similar to that of my other directors here: focus on the clarity and meaning of the text. From there we work on movement in the space, relationships between characters, and all the other sparks that add to the ultimate flash of the performance. His approach is very academic and we often read a scene at least 3 or 4 times through before we get up on our feet with scripts in hand. Before you read through a scene with Phil, you better make sure you know the meaning of everything your character says--or at least by the second read-through! LAMDA will be renovating their building next year due to a lack of room for all of its many courses; in the meantime, this means that we get to rehearse just a tube stop away in a beautiful church with a massive rehearsal space.
We take advantage of this grand space in our warm ups when we play (what I call) "Steal the Bacon," a game we used to play in 7th grade Physical Education with Coach Carlisle--it's much less dangerous now that we're not all armed with field hockey sticks. However, I did receive quite a mocking from my peers as they exclaimed how Southern "Steal the Bacon" sounded...I shall now be called Miss Katie Maybelle forever. Phil set our play in the '80s, a flashy and bold time period that meshes well with the three main traits of the play: drunkenness, vanity, and love. Let me begin with the first:
1. Drunkenness: The play is called Twelfth Night because it is the twelfth night after Christmas Day, so basically everybody has been partying for twelve days straight. In this play Viola either magically makes for a good looking girl and boy-in-disguise or everyone around her may be a little too tipsy to be seeing things quite so clearly. It would also seem that in Illyria, the coastal setting of the play, people are of a different breed: they don't just feel emotions, but emotions seem to consume them. This kind of reckless and grandiose emotions we most easily associate with characters who have popped a cork or two.
2. Vanity: Talk about confidence (and that's the nice way of putting it)! Even though the beautiful Olivia refuses to love the handsome Duke Orsino, they are truly a match made in heaven--the two of them could just look in mirrors the entire time and be perfectly content. Meanwhile, Feste is too proud of his continuous puns and pranks, which catches hold of Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Maria as they are all too confident in their ability to pull the ultimate and meanest prank on Malvolio (Can you blame them? It works!). Last, Viola doesn't even appear to have any qualms or worries about pretending to be a boy (...has she done this before?) and is extremely confident that she can convince anybody in Illyria that she is in fact a guy.
3. Love: Forget love triangles, in this play we're practically dealing with love any-geometrical-shape-with-many-many-sides. Olivia refuses Orsino but loves Cesario who is really Viola who loves Orsino who loves Olivia who loves Sebastian who she thinks is Cesario but Malvolio thinks Olivia loves him. Yeah, that's what I mean.
Even though most people of my generation may be more acquainted with the teenage girl movie version of the play, "She's the Man" with Amanda Bynes, I've learned that with an energetic time period, a hip director, and getting down to the basics (see #1,2,3 above), this play is timeless for every generation...oh, and also: don't pretend to be something you're not.
During the last few weeks of my journey at LAMDA, I will take on yet another disguise: Viola in Shakespeare's comedic Twelfth Night. However, it's a bit thought-knotting because I'm a girl playing a girl who says she'll pretend to be a eunuch but really just disguises herself as a messenger boy. Typical Shakespeare, right? And who better to direct my peers and me in this puzzling play than Phil, a young and retro-dressing director who graduated from LAMDA. Phil's approach towards the text is very similar to that of my other directors here: focus on the clarity and meaning of the text. From there we work on movement in the space, relationships between characters, and all the other sparks that add to the ultimate flash of the performance. His approach is very academic and we often read a scene at least 3 or 4 times through before we get up on our feet with scripts in hand. Before you read through a scene with Phil, you better make sure you know the meaning of everything your character says--or at least by the second read-through! LAMDA will be renovating their building next year due to a lack of room for all of its many courses; in the meantime, this means that we get to rehearse just a tube stop away in a beautiful church with a massive rehearsal space.
We take advantage of this grand space in our warm ups when we play (what I call) "Steal the Bacon," a game we used to play in 7th grade Physical Education with Coach Carlisle--it's much less dangerous now that we're not all armed with field hockey sticks. However, I did receive quite a mocking from my peers as they exclaimed how Southern "Steal the Bacon" sounded...I shall now be called Miss Katie Maybelle forever. Phil set our play in the '80s, a flashy and bold time period that meshes well with the three main traits of the play: drunkenness, vanity, and love. Let me begin with the first:
1. Drunkenness: The play is called Twelfth Night because it is the twelfth night after Christmas Day, so basically everybody has been partying for twelve days straight. In this play Viola either magically makes for a good looking girl and boy-in-disguise or everyone around her may be a little too tipsy to be seeing things quite so clearly. It would also seem that in Illyria, the coastal setting of the play, people are of a different breed: they don't just feel emotions, but emotions seem to consume them. This kind of reckless and grandiose emotions we most easily associate with characters who have popped a cork or two.
2. Vanity: Talk about confidence (and that's the nice way of putting it)! Even though the beautiful Olivia refuses to love the handsome Duke Orsino, they are truly a match made in heaven--the two of them could just look in mirrors the entire time and be perfectly content. Meanwhile, Feste is too proud of his continuous puns and pranks, which catches hold of Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Maria as they are all too confident in their ability to pull the ultimate and meanest prank on Malvolio (Can you blame them? It works!). Last, Viola doesn't even appear to have any qualms or worries about pretending to be a boy (...has she done this before?) and is extremely confident that she can convince anybody in Illyria that she is in fact a guy.
3. Love: Forget love triangles, in this play we're practically dealing with love any-geometrical-shape-with-many-many-sides. Olivia refuses Orsino but loves Cesario who is really Viola who loves Orsino who loves Olivia who loves Sebastian who she thinks is Cesario but Malvolio thinks Olivia loves him. Yeah, that's what I mean.
Even though most people of my generation may be more acquainted with the teenage girl movie version of the play, "She's the Man" with Amanda Bynes, I've learned that with an energetic time period, a hip director, and getting down to the basics (see #1,2,3 above), this play is timeless for every generation...oh, and also: don't pretend to be something you're not.
 |
| It's hard to be a man...when you're not. --picture from She's the Man |
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
"On Saturday we went to the ballet
The men had abs; 'twere better than okay."
--Julie and Katie's Iambic Pentameter Phrase for Applied Voice Class, inspired by the Vienna trip
You may have seen the copious amounts of photos on Facebook, but you have yet to hear the complete story of our journey to Vienna, Austria. Let's be clear: this was a speed round trip. No meandering or lolligagging; when you're in a country for less than 48 hours it's go time! Let me introduce you to my travel companions: Julie, a sassy but caring and loving drama major from NY who sports bright red lipstick almost every day, and Sarah, a blonde-gone-ginger who carries with her the laid-back San Francisco vibe she's grown up with. Plus me. The ultimate travel posse has been united! One of the amazing parts of a gap year is the speed with which you make decisions. About two weeks ago the three of us had a conversation that sounded something like this:
Hey. Want to travel somewhere?
Yeah, but where?
OMG VIENNA.
I'm in.
Ditto!
That's where we first hatched the plan, and then the hotel booking, airplane tickets, bus tickets, tickets for the ballet came later; as always with teenagers and young adults, the big ideas first, the necessary logistics later. Our adventure started on Friday at 10:50 AM in Stansted Airport in London (we had woken up 4 hours earlier though to catch a bus to the airport); our flight would take us to Brno, Czech Republic and from there we were to take a 2 hour bus ride to our final destination, Vienna. Since we're students, we were going cheap for all the transportation, so we decided to roll the dice and put our lives in the hands of Ryanair, a notoriously shoddy Irish airline. The tickets are super cheap for Ryanair flights since they make all their money off of the fine print fees that nobody reads when they agree to the Terms & Conditions flyer. So, if you don't print out your boarding pass before you arrive at the airport, Ryanair fines you £70 even though your ticket may only have been £50. Keeping that in mind, you can be sure we were on top of our printed boarding passes. Turns out, even though the bus ride from Brno to Vienna didn't cost much, we traveled like royalty! We received the most delicious hot chocolate (I'm ashamed to say the best hot chocolate I've had in Europe was on a bus), free internet, and tons of movies and TV shows (one might say I am hooked on the show Friends--what happens to Rachel and Ross in the end?!?). Once in Vienna we dropped our luggage off at a surprisingly well-furnished and comfy hotel near the center of downtown Vienna, and adventured out onto the streets of Vienna to find some noms for dinner. Here's what you must know about restaurants in Vienna: the food is delicious, the servers are modest. We stumbled upon a cozy, hipster-ish cafe in the center of Vienna and our waiter orally recounted the menu (we tried to read German but failed spectacularly); he recommended small pasta dumplings filled with cheese, meet, or tomato. He didn't describe them too enthusiastically but each of us ordered three of the pasta dumplings. I don't know why he didn't describe them to us like he was describing a prized and ancient recipe because our dinner was succulent and we savored each bite. The same thing would happen to us at our dinner the next night, when the gnocchi and risotto made our mouths water even after we had polished off the plates, even though the waitress played the dishes off like they were nothing much. I may as well stay on the food theme and make way to the most important food of all in Austria: STRUDELS. I demanded of myself the consumption of one apple strudel per day, and I'm proud to say I didn't let myself down.
Saturday morning we forced ourselves to be early risers, even though the hotel mattresses put our rib-poking mattresses back in our London apartment to shame. We had enough cause to be excited about the day: we were going to hit up the largest flea market in all of Vienna, Naschmarkt. The flea market is situated between two streets, so it's set up with edible, heavenly items on one end and then not so subtly turns into an antiques and clothing fest. The food section was seemingly never ending: vendors enchanted us and other passerbyers with olives, kebabs, fudge, cheeses, breads, seeds, dried fruit, pastries, stir fry, and just about anything else that can be consumed. Then suddenly, the market turned into the ultimate clothing and random item swap; vendors under tents sold anything from decrepit 90's phones and their fathers' old jackets to more intriguing items like antique door locks, jewelry boxes, traditional Austrian scarves (mixed in with a few made in China), and art.
It was pouring rain and I think my umbrella might have done more eye poking than I had anticipated, but until we realized our feet were frozen numb and our coats thoroughly soaked through, we sifted through the immense number of tents. We unanimously decided that our next activity should be indoors (none of us wanted another one of nature's showers) and we chose to head to the Museum quarter where we picked an art museum with some of Klimt's most famous works. It was almost like all the art history I had studied in AP Euro last year actually was useful! But in all seriousness, the art pieces revealed how determined and hard working the Austrian people are; many of the pictures used dark and depressing colors to describe the landscape of the country, but there were also marvelously bright colors intertwined with the duller ones, showing all that Austrians had done to make use of whatever they were given. After a much needed siesta, the girls and I tried our best to dress up (we had fit everything for the trip into our three backpacks!) for a night at the ballet! Julie had bought us cheap tickets, the equivalent of 12 dollars each, that were in restricted view--we were totally pleased with that, we're going to the ballet for $12 after all! Turns out, our restricted view seats had their own private box and we were located right next to the stage. I could literally see the sweat on the dancers' costumes and see the small smirks that floated onto the ballerinas' lips when they perfected a lift. The whole experience at the ballet was extravagant: a massive glass chandelier lit the entire theater, red velvet covered our seats, and Austrian mothers photographed their young daughters posing in front of floor to ceiling mirrors. Not every part of our trip was as relaxing as watching ballerinas twirl and be lifted into the air like feathers, we had an 8 hour trip back home to London and our bags threatened to rip at the seams they were so full of souvenirs, but every part of our Vienna trip was full of memories created by three friends who planned every detail of their Austrian adventure together and enjoyed every second of it.
The men had abs; 'twere better than okay."
--Julie and Katie's Iambic Pentameter Phrase for Applied Voice Class, inspired by the Vienna trip
You may have seen the copious amounts of photos on Facebook, but you have yet to hear the complete story of our journey to Vienna, Austria. Let's be clear: this was a speed round trip. No meandering or lolligagging; when you're in a country for less than 48 hours it's go time! Let me introduce you to my travel companions: Julie, a sassy but caring and loving drama major from NY who sports bright red lipstick almost every day, and Sarah, a blonde-gone-ginger who carries with her the laid-back San Francisco vibe she's grown up with. Plus me. The ultimate travel posse has been united! One of the amazing parts of a gap year is the speed with which you make decisions. About two weeks ago the three of us had a conversation that sounded something like this:
Hey. Want to travel somewhere?
Yeah, but where?
OMG VIENNA.
I'm in.
Ditto!
That's where we first hatched the plan, and then the hotel booking, airplane tickets, bus tickets, tickets for the ballet came later; as always with teenagers and young adults, the big ideas first, the necessary logistics later. Our adventure started on Friday at 10:50 AM in Stansted Airport in London (we had woken up 4 hours earlier though to catch a bus to the airport); our flight would take us to Brno, Czech Republic and from there we were to take a 2 hour bus ride to our final destination, Vienna. Since we're students, we were going cheap for all the transportation, so we decided to roll the dice and put our lives in the hands of Ryanair, a notoriously shoddy Irish airline. The tickets are super cheap for Ryanair flights since they make all their money off of the fine print fees that nobody reads when they agree to the Terms & Conditions flyer. So, if you don't print out your boarding pass before you arrive at the airport, Ryanair fines you £70 even though your ticket may only have been £50. Keeping that in mind, you can be sure we were on top of our printed boarding passes. Turns out, even though the bus ride from Brno to Vienna didn't cost much, we traveled like royalty! We received the most delicious hot chocolate (I'm ashamed to say the best hot chocolate I've had in Europe was on a bus), free internet, and tons of movies and TV shows (one might say I am hooked on the show Friends--what happens to Rachel and Ross in the end?!?). Once in Vienna we dropped our luggage off at a surprisingly well-furnished and comfy hotel near the center of downtown Vienna, and adventured out onto the streets of Vienna to find some noms for dinner. Here's what you must know about restaurants in Vienna: the food is delicious, the servers are modest. We stumbled upon a cozy, hipster-ish cafe in the center of Vienna and our waiter orally recounted the menu (we tried to read German but failed spectacularly); he recommended small pasta dumplings filled with cheese, meet, or tomato. He didn't describe them too enthusiastically but each of us ordered three of the pasta dumplings. I don't know why he didn't describe them to us like he was describing a prized and ancient recipe because our dinner was succulent and we savored each bite. The same thing would happen to us at our dinner the next night, when the gnocchi and risotto made our mouths water even after we had polished off the plates, even though the waitress played the dishes off like they were nothing much. I may as well stay on the food theme and make way to the most important food of all in Austria: STRUDELS. I demanded of myself the consumption of one apple strudel per day, and I'm proud to say I didn't let myself down.
Saturday morning we forced ourselves to be early risers, even though the hotel mattresses put our rib-poking mattresses back in our London apartment to shame. We had enough cause to be excited about the day: we were going to hit up the largest flea market in all of Vienna, Naschmarkt. The flea market is situated between two streets, so it's set up with edible, heavenly items on one end and then not so subtly turns into an antiques and clothing fest. The food section was seemingly never ending: vendors enchanted us and other passerbyers with olives, kebabs, fudge, cheeses, breads, seeds, dried fruit, pastries, stir fry, and just about anything else that can be consumed. Then suddenly, the market turned into the ultimate clothing and random item swap; vendors under tents sold anything from decrepit 90's phones and their fathers' old jackets to more intriguing items like antique door locks, jewelry boxes, traditional Austrian scarves (mixed in with a few made in China), and art.
 |
| Julie and me at Naschmarkt |
It was pouring rain and I think my umbrella might have done more eye poking than I had anticipated, but until we realized our feet were frozen numb and our coats thoroughly soaked through, we sifted through the immense number of tents. We unanimously decided that our next activity should be indoors (none of us wanted another one of nature's showers) and we chose to head to the Museum quarter where we picked an art museum with some of Klimt's most famous works. It was almost like all the art history I had studied in AP Euro last year actually was useful! But in all seriousness, the art pieces revealed how determined and hard working the Austrian people are; many of the pictures used dark and depressing colors to describe the landscape of the country, but there were also marvelously bright colors intertwined with the duller ones, showing all that Austrians had done to make use of whatever they were given. After a much needed siesta, the girls and I tried our best to dress up (we had fit everything for the trip into our three backpacks!) for a night at the ballet! Julie had bought us cheap tickets, the equivalent of 12 dollars each, that were in restricted view--we were totally pleased with that, we're going to the ballet for $12 after all! Turns out, our restricted view seats had their own private box and we were located right next to the stage. I could literally see the sweat on the dancers' costumes and see the small smirks that floated onto the ballerinas' lips when they perfected a lift. The whole experience at the ballet was extravagant: a massive glass chandelier lit the entire theater, red velvet covered our seats, and Austrian mothers photographed their young daughters posing in front of floor to ceiling mirrors. Not every part of our trip was as relaxing as watching ballerinas twirl and be lifted into the air like feathers, we had an 8 hour trip back home to London and our bags threatened to rip at the seams they were so full of souvenirs, but every part of our Vienna trip was full of memories created by three friends who planned every detail of their Austrian adventure together and enjoyed every second of it.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."--Macbeth 4.1, William Shakespeare
Londoners take Halloween to a whole new level. This special Halloween edition blog post will feature some wicked and deadly things: murderous Jacobean tragedies from drama class and LAMDA's annual Halloween Sleazy.
For the past 5 weeks I've worked with London short film director William Oldroyd.
He's pretty legit: http://www.williamoldroyd.com (Check it out.)
Will employs some unorthodox directing tactics to help us work through Jacobean tragedies, plays from the era of James I that specialize in whoredom, murder, backstabbing, and incest. How juicy! For example, one group is doing a play called 'Tis Pity She's A Whore (the main woman character leaves her husband for her brother) and my group is performing a piece called Women Beware Women, complete with a big shabang in the ending scene that results in 12 deaths (one character is killed by flaming gold). These plays were written without the graceful and poetic writing of Shakespeare, yet they attempt to deliver similarly complex thoughts and plots (revolving around some weirder topics). Many times one might appear more like a pirate instead of a character of the Jacobean era since the playwrights often shortened phrases like "you are" into "y'are." In context: "Y'are a damned bawd" (that line comes up quite a bit). There is one specifically extreme example of this shortening of phrases: guess what " 'slid " stands for?
Did you guess "God's eye lid?" I thought so.
Besides the oddness of the writing style and plots, Jacobean theatre grew exciting during rehearsal because of Will's determination that we bring alive the emotions and objectives of the characters through physical work and what's written in the text. In the ending scene of our play, I find out that my brother has killed my love, Leantio. Here's what I logged into my personal journal after rehearsing that scene under Will's direction:
"In order to run into the murder scene with fury and surprise, as soon as I entered the scene Will would begin to drop a blue ribbon to the floor from the chair he was standing on. My objective was to run and catch the ribbon before it hit the floor. Next, we ditched the ribbon-dropping exercise and I still had to replicate the same rush and intention of hurrying into the scene, this time with the objective of finding out who has been murdered. Then, in order to get Livia's disappointment and shock when she finds Leantio dead, Will blindfolded me and made me find Leantio in the room, saying my line of text "Leantio? My love's joy?" while I did the activity of searching for him. Eventually I found him lying on the floor and the connection changed. Will lifted my blindfold and I felt the burning hurt of losing the one you love after optimistically searching for them for so long. Then I turned to see Ben, playing my brother, who murdered my love. Will told me to go get this wooden bat and hit this large green punching bag with the frustration I felt for Ben while saying my lines of text, really putting the energy of the physical activity into the words. Then I had to convince everyone else in the room to "run for officers" so we could arrest my brother for the murder of my love, but they weren't allowed to leave the room and obey me until they truly felt compelled to do so, and Will made me use the emotion in the text to move them into action. Will said the connection in that moment was definite, and that now we must transfer that energy into the performance without the punching bag and the ribbon dropping to the floor. I must remember the feeling of those moments."
Will's strategies follow the foundation we've been given at LAMDA: emotion starts from the body, not the head. Physically energizing the text does more for your voice and emotion than thinking so hard about it.
But we can't leave the bloody murders and gore of the Jacobean tragedies yet, since British people don't think of Halloween as the day when you dress up like a movie character or something funny; for them, it's all about the scary fancy dress. The week leading up to Halloween I kept seeing posters around school saying "wear your fancy dress to the Sleazy" and I was so confused why I was going to get dressed up all nice for Halloween...fancy dress means costume, y'all. Last night I went to the annual LAMDA Sleazy, a talent show/dance/venue for cheap alcohol. I planned to go as a hippie, but realizing that the Brits wouldn't accept that as scary enough, I began to come up with titles that would make me sound scary: Hippie from Hell was definitely the winner. I'll tell you what: I seriously underestimated the scariness factor of my British peers. Brits must just have a container at home labeled "Halloween Blood" in their medicine cabinets; if I had 50 pence for every fake stitch, wound, and gash I saw last night, I could maybe rent a room in Buckingham Palace. Somebody went as Mario the video game character, and then of course they had to put a fake knife going through his hat, dripping with blood. The talent show was amazing, going to school with multitalented drama kids always means you're in for a good performance--where else could you get a dance off between traditional Indian dancing and 1920s dancing and then have the dance off battle resolved with the Thriller dance? After the performances, the music seemed to last all night and we literally danced the night away. Even though it was on November 1, it was the best Halloween I've had yet.
Londoners take Halloween to a whole new level. This special Halloween edition blog post will feature some wicked and deadly things: murderous Jacobean tragedies from drama class and LAMDA's annual Halloween Sleazy.
For the past 5 weeks I've worked with London short film director William Oldroyd.
He's pretty legit: http://www.williamoldroyd.com (Check it out.)
Will employs some unorthodox directing tactics to help us work through Jacobean tragedies, plays from the era of James I that specialize in whoredom, murder, backstabbing, and incest. How juicy! For example, one group is doing a play called 'Tis Pity She's A Whore (the main woman character leaves her husband for her brother) and my group is performing a piece called Women Beware Women, complete with a big shabang in the ending scene that results in 12 deaths (one character is killed by flaming gold). These plays were written without the graceful and poetic writing of Shakespeare, yet they attempt to deliver similarly complex thoughts and plots (revolving around some weirder topics). Many times one might appear more like a pirate instead of a character of the Jacobean era since the playwrights often shortened phrases like "you are" into "y'are." In context: "Y'are a damned bawd" (that line comes up quite a bit). There is one specifically extreme example of this shortening of phrases: guess what " 'slid " stands for?
Did you guess "God's eye lid?" I thought so.
Besides the oddness of the writing style and plots, Jacobean theatre grew exciting during rehearsal because of Will's determination that we bring alive the emotions and objectives of the characters through physical work and what's written in the text. In the ending scene of our play, I find out that my brother has killed my love, Leantio. Here's what I logged into my personal journal after rehearsing that scene under Will's direction:
"In order to run into the murder scene with fury and surprise, as soon as I entered the scene Will would begin to drop a blue ribbon to the floor from the chair he was standing on. My objective was to run and catch the ribbon before it hit the floor. Next, we ditched the ribbon-dropping exercise and I still had to replicate the same rush and intention of hurrying into the scene, this time with the objective of finding out who has been murdered. Then, in order to get Livia's disappointment and shock when she finds Leantio dead, Will blindfolded me and made me find Leantio in the room, saying my line of text "Leantio? My love's joy?" while I did the activity of searching for him. Eventually I found him lying on the floor and the connection changed. Will lifted my blindfold and I felt the burning hurt of losing the one you love after optimistically searching for them for so long. Then I turned to see Ben, playing my brother, who murdered my love. Will told me to go get this wooden bat and hit this large green punching bag with the frustration I felt for Ben while saying my lines of text, really putting the energy of the physical activity into the words. Then I had to convince everyone else in the room to "run for officers" so we could arrest my brother for the murder of my love, but they weren't allowed to leave the room and obey me until they truly felt compelled to do so, and Will made me use the emotion in the text to move them into action. Will said the connection in that moment was definite, and that now we must transfer that energy into the performance without the punching bag and the ribbon dropping to the floor. I must remember the feeling of those moments."
Will's strategies follow the foundation we've been given at LAMDA: emotion starts from the body, not the head. Physically energizing the text does more for your voice and emotion than thinking so hard about it.
But we can't leave the bloody murders and gore of the Jacobean tragedies yet, since British people don't think of Halloween as the day when you dress up like a movie character or something funny; for them, it's all about the scary fancy dress. The week leading up to Halloween I kept seeing posters around school saying "wear your fancy dress to the Sleazy" and I was so confused why I was going to get dressed up all nice for Halloween...fancy dress means costume, y'all. Last night I went to the annual LAMDA Sleazy, a talent show/dance/venue for cheap alcohol. I planned to go as a hippie, but realizing that the Brits wouldn't accept that as scary enough, I began to come up with titles that would make me sound scary: Hippie from Hell was definitely the winner. I'll tell you what: I seriously underestimated the scariness factor of my British peers. Brits must just have a container at home labeled "Halloween Blood" in their medicine cabinets; if I had 50 pence for every fake stitch, wound, and gash I saw last night, I could maybe rent a room in Buckingham Palace. Somebody went as Mario the video game character, and then of course they had to put a fake knife going through his hat, dripping with blood. The talent show was amazing, going to school with multitalented drama kids always means you're in for a good performance--where else could you get a dance off between traditional Indian dancing and 1920s dancing and then have the dance off battle resolved with the Thriller dance? After the performances, the music seemed to last all night and we literally danced the night away. Even though it was on November 1, it was the best Halloween I've had yet.
 |
| Yola and Me! You can catch a glimpse of the fake blood behind us on the left side of the picture. |
Friday, October 11, 2013
"And as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and name." --A Midsummer Night's Dream 5.1, William Shakespeare
I don't know who decided that having an imagination was childish, but obviously he was not an actor. This week, through a performance of "The Light Princess" and in my classes, I've experienced the invaluable congealing of three important entities: movement, thought, and imagination. These three pieces can only be useful to an actor if they're used in conjunction with each other; otherwise, an actor will simply be caught in his head, always thinking and never acting on impulses, or always moving without intention, or exploring so much with imagination that the embodiment of the character strays from the clues in the text. Regardless of being an actor or an audience member, imagination is used by both sides in every show as we suspend our disbelief for an hour or two and enjoy a story about people, their struggles, and the relationship between the two.
On Monday night after classes, I made my way with two friends to see the National Theatre put on an incredible theatrical feat: "The Light Princess." (Can I interrupt real quick: OMG I get to see amazing theater on Monday nights after going to acting classes all day. This rocks!) The word 'light' isn't referring to actual light, but to the property of being physically light, since the main character (Princess Althea) has lacked the ability to feel deep emotions since her mother passed away and from that time has floated in mid-air. Yeah, I don't know how George MacDonald's original 1867 production of this fairytale compensated for having a main character who floats in mid-air, but I'm sure it was interesting.
But I will tell you how the 2013 production of the mature fairytale pulled off this challenge:
In the very first scene, Princess Althea is supposed to be descending in front of a very large, Wicked-reminiscent bookcase (I'm guesstimating about 20 feet tall) to about a foot off the floor. It was clear she wasn't using one of those "whoops, I just saw the invisible string" wires. No, no. Instead, she was fashionably harnessed (it fit right in with her orange outfit) in the back to a movement man dressed in all black. He was facing the bookcase and crawling down it very slowly (with a 5'8'' full grown woman attached to his back as she belts songs). I promise you, I gasped out loud, pointed with my finger and remarked in a whisper, "Fuck! Do you see him?" (very British with the "fuck") to my friend Victoria. She nodded in agreement with big eyes and equal astonishment. The Princess really looked like she was floating; I had to look closely to even notice the movement man since he was practically hidden behind her! Throughout the play, the number of movement people taking on her entire body weight increased, and at one time there were four people dressed head-to-toe in black clothing on the stage, moving Princess Althea's limbs and torso with such flawless execution and fluidity that at times I forgot that she wasn't really floating. At one point, one movement woman lay on her back on the stage, supporting Princess Althea with only her legs and feet. As Princess Althea tilted her head and upper back down to the stage in order to float horizontally, the movement woman simultaneously adjusted her legs, placing one leg on the actress' spine and the other on the back of her upper leg. I have no idea if the moves were choreographed down to the second, but I never once felt that Princess Althea was in danger of being dropped and cracking her head, even though all of her body weight was being supported by movement professionals that were essentially invisible to the audience members who bought into the story and used their imagination to believe in a floating princess. When I can find another actress who can be so relaxed physically that she can convince me she's floating AND sing beautifully at the same time, I'll let you know.
Today in movement class I got to experience another mix of imagination, thought, and movement, but this time I wasn't in the audience. Our movement teacher repeated that phrase that we hear all too often at drama school: "walk around in the space." (To be fair, walking is just about the most neutral physical activity a character can do.) So we followed instructions, like obedient school children, and all 12 of us walked naturally and fluidly through the space (we had spent the previous 45 minutes stretching and soothing bodily aches, so we were all very happy to obey her orders). Now Fey gave us another thing to do:
"I want you to pick a person in the room. Be subtle about it! I realize that's not an easy task for actors, being subtle, that is. But, pick a person and notice their walk. Do their shoulder rotate? Do they swing one arm more than the other? Do they stick their bum out?"
As I ticked through a whole checklist of that person's movement in certain body parts, their walk evolved into a predictable system, not just something random that a person does to achieve walking around a room. Our walks reflect what injuries, tendencies, and inadequacies we've had in the past. We're constantly compensating for aches and pains. Therefore, each person's walk is uniquely crafted for that certain somebody. Fey recommended we don't share who we picked, so for this blog I'll call the person I picked Jenny. Jenny's stride was pretty short, kinda like mine. She swung her right arm a bit more than her left, but overall didn't rotate her shoulders much. Her mouth formed a small, determined pout, and her head was slightly tilted back. These are just a few of the characteristics I noted. Then Fey took it one step further: "As I count down from 10 to 1, 10 being your walk and 1 being the walk of the person you chose, I want you to embody their walk. This is not time to impersonate somebody's walk or your opinion of their walk. This is fact, and merely an embodiment of their walk." Slowly I adjusted, remembering all that I had noted about Jenny. My shoulders stopped swiveling, and became stiffer, my mouth turned upside down slightly, and my speed decreased just barely. Then Fey asked us to create a character based off this new walk we had taken on. Who would walk like this? Where are they going? Where are they coming from?
Joanna would walk like this, but everyone calls her Jo for short. She's on her way to her flat from her job at a cafe, one of those little places that sells lattes and little breakfast pastries. She's exhausted, and just scraping by with a meager job. She thought she'd be someplace better at the age of 27. She's going home to see her boyfriend, they've been dating for many years, but he hasn't popped the question. She's kinda one of those tough girls, she doesn't have many acquaintances, but the friends she has are lifelong and trustworthy.
So I came up with that whole character and background story in about three minutes of just walking like Jenny. That's imagination. That's connecting a movement with a thought. It was surprisingly easy, to be honest. So maybe I wasn't floating with the support of movement professionals like Princess Althea, but my imagination was floating and bright for the first time in many years.
.JPG) |
| Drop Curtain of "The Light Princess" at the National Theatre |
On Monday night after classes, I made my way with two friends to see the National Theatre put on an incredible theatrical feat: "The Light Princess." (Can I interrupt real quick: OMG I get to see amazing theater on Monday nights after going to acting classes all day. This rocks!) The word 'light' isn't referring to actual light, but to the property of being physically light, since the main character (Princess Althea) has lacked the ability to feel deep emotions since her mother passed away and from that time has floated in mid-air. Yeah, I don't know how George MacDonald's original 1867 production of this fairytale compensated for having a main character who floats in mid-air, but I'm sure it was interesting.
 |
| Advertisement for the National Theatre's "The Light Princess" |
But I will tell you how the 2013 production of the mature fairytale pulled off this challenge:
In the very first scene, Princess Althea is supposed to be descending in front of a very large, Wicked-reminiscent bookcase (I'm guesstimating about 20 feet tall) to about a foot off the floor. It was clear she wasn't using one of those "whoops, I just saw the invisible string" wires. No, no. Instead, she was fashionably harnessed (it fit right in with her orange outfit) in the back to a movement man dressed in all black. He was facing the bookcase and crawling down it very slowly (with a 5'8'' full grown woman attached to his back as she belts songs). I promise you, I gasped out loud, pointed with my finger and remarked in a whisper, "Fuck! Do you see him?" (very British with the "fuck") to my friend Victoria. She nodded in agreement with big eyes and equal astonishment. The Princess really looked like she was floating; I had to look closely to even notice the movement man since he was practically hidden behind her! Throughout the play, the number of movement people taking on her entire body weight increased, and at one time there were four people dressed head-to-toe in black clothing on the stage, moving Princess Althea's limbs and torso with such flawless execution and fluidity that at times I forgot that she wasn't really floating. At one point, one movement woman lay on her back on the stage, supporting Princess Althea with only her legs and feet. As Princess Althea tilted her head and upper back down to the stage in order to float horizontally, the movement woman simultaneously adjusted her legs, placing one leg on the actress' spine and the other on the back of her upper leg. I have no idea if the moves were choreographed down to the second, but I never once felt that Princess Althea was in danger of being dropped and cracking her head, even though all of her body weight was being supported by movement professionals that were essentially invisible to the audience members who bought into the story and used their imagination to believe in a floating princess. When I can find another actress who can be so relaxed physically that she can convince me she's floating AND sing beautifully at the same time, I'll let you know.
Today in movement class I got to experience another mix of imagination, thought, and movement, but this time I wasn't in the audience. Our movement teacher repeated that phrase that we hear all too often at drama school: "walk around in the space." (To be fair, walking is just about the most neutral physical activity a character can do.) So we followed instructions, like obedient school children, and all 12 of us walked naturally and fluidly through the space (we had spent the previous 45 minutes stretching and soothing bodily aches, so we were all very happy to obey her orders). Now Fey gave us another thing to do:
"I want you to pick a person in the room. Be subtle about it! I realize that's not an easy task for actors, being subtle, that is. But, pick a person and notice their walk. Do their shoulder rotate? Do they swing one arm more than the other? Do they stick their bum out?"
As I ticked through a whole checklist of that person's movement in certain body parts, their walk evolved into a predictable system, not just something random that a person does to achieve walking around a room. Our walks reflect what injuries, tendencies, and inadequacies we've had in the past. We're constantly compensating for aches and pains. Therefore, each person's walk is uniquely crafted for that certain somebody. Fey recommended we don't share who we picked, so for this blog I'll call the person I picked Jenny. Jenny's stride was pretty short, kinda like mine. She swung her right arm a bit more than her left, but overall didn't rotate her shoulders much. Her mouth formed a small, determined pout, and her head was slightly tilted back. These are just a few of the characteristics I noted. Then Fey took it one step further: "As I count down from 10 to 1, 10 being your walk and 1 being the walk of the person you chose, I want you to embody their walk. This is not time to impersonate somebody's walk or your opinion of their walk. This is fact, and merely an embodiment of their walk." Slowly I adjusted, remembering all that I had noted about Jenny. My shoulders stopped swiveling, and became stiffer, my mouth turned upside down slightly, and my speed decreased just barely. Then Fey asked us to create a character based off this new walk we had taken on. Who would walk like this? Where are they going? Where are they coming from?
Joanna would walk like this, but everyone calls her Jo for short. She's on her way to her flat from her job at a cafe, one of those little places that sells lattes and little breakfast pastries. She's exhausted, and just scraping by with a meager job. She thought she'd be someplace better at the age of 27. She's going home to see her boyfriend, they've been dating for many years, but he hasn't popped the question. She's kinda one of those tough girls, she doesn't have many acquaintances, but the friends she has are lifelong and trustworthy.
So I came up with that whole character and background story in about three minutes of just walking like Jenny. That's imagination. That's connecting a movement with a thought. It was surprisingly easy, to be honest. So maybe I wasn't floating with the support of movement professionals like Princess Althea, but my imagination was floating and bright for the first time in many years.
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