Good Grief, John Boy - Part Six
The problem with the phrase, "Doing theater on a shoestring budget" is that most people don't have shoestrings just lying around. If you want shoestrings, you have to go out and buy them, and that, of course, means spending money. Better is the phrase "Doing theater on a toothpick budget," because just about everyone has a box of toothpicks sitting around and they are more than willing to let you borrow some or, more likely, just take some. This is more like the way community theater works (at least that's what I've seen in Charlottesville). And nowhere does this seem to be more true than in the world of costuming.
You do a show, your clothes do a show, at least as much as is reasonable. And if it's not your clothes most likely it's somebody else's. "My friend has a coat that might work." "Oh, I know so and so who has this jacket." "Hmm, my father has that type of boots, and I think they just might fit." When worse comes to worst, the purse opens (if there is one) and people comb the used clothing stores. So many shows have been costumed out of the used clothing stores. Little do people know that one of the best ways they can support local theater is by giving generously to Goodwill.
When John Gibson at Live Arts Theatre recently asked me if I would try out for Macbeth, I told him that I was "too fat to act." He assumed I was being flippantly self deprecating, but I was quite sincere and nowhere does this seem to apply more than in, you guessed it, the world of costuming. You see, little of what I own (comfortable, loose, black stuff) is usually useable, and I'm so large that little of what you find in thrift shops will fit. Fat people give away clothing that's too small for them. Anything that fits, you wear until it breaks, gets too shabby, or goes woefully out of style. Thus, I'm a costuming nightmare.
And I brought all this up with Boomie during my initial series of "No's". Plus there's the hair. "Boomie, I'm not cutting my dreads. This takes place in what? 1933? What are you going to do about the dreads?" She said we'd get a big coat and cover them or something. So when Charmagne, the costumer for The Homecoming finally came over to me and asked me about my costume, I told her I didn't know. Boomie was talking about some kind of coat. She took my measurments and left.
My next day at the theater was the open dress rehearsal (open to friends and family), the night before opening night. I walk in; I have no idea what my costume is. Just in from work, I had on black sweats, socks, and sandals, and a dark red plaid shirt that I bought to placate my parents' fears that I would be fired for wearing black all the time. Boomie walks up to me and says, "This is your shirt? I like this shirt. I don't mind the sandals. You can keep the sweats. Hold on." She goes away and comes back with a large piece of black cloth. She throws it over my shoulders (and over my dreads), stands back and says, "There."
I say, "What? This?" Boomie says she likes it. I tell her tomorrow I can have pants. She doesn't want the pants. I tell her I have black shoes. She's thrilled. Tomorrow, I'll bring the shoes. Tonight, it's me and the cloth. With it over my dreads, I realize exactly how thick they are. I can barely turn my head and feel ready to play any of a number of theater's famous hunchbacks. Boomie asks if I want the dreads out and so now they're out. We safety pin the cloth to my shirt, I pick up an old book mascarading as a Bible, and out I go. Onstage, as I bend over to put down a box that I'm supposed to stand on, the cloth rips from one of the pins. I spend the entire scene surreptitiously trying to keep the damn thing from sliding off the left half of my body. Highpoints of Western Theatre.
After the dress rehearsal, people from the audience say how much they liked the show, how much they liked my singing. No one says, "But what the hell was that you were wearing?" Boomie rushes past me and says good job and not to worry. She has an idea of what I should wear tomorrow for opening night.
You do a show, your clothes do a show, at least as much as is reasonable. And if it's not your clothes most likely it's somebody else's. "My friend has a coat that might work." "Oh, I know so and so who has this jacket." "Hmm, my father has that type of boots, and I think they just might fit." When worse comes to worst, the purse opens (if there is one) and people comb the used clothing stores. So many shows have been costumed out of the used clothing stores. Little do people know that one of the best ways they can support local theater is by giving generously to Goodwill.
When John Gibson at Live Arts Theatre recently asked me if I would try out for Macbeth, I told him that I was "too fat to act." He assumed I was being flippantly self deprecating, but I was quite sincere and nowhere does this seem to apply more than in, you guessed it, the world of costuming. You see, little of what I own (comfortable, loose, black stuff) is usually useable, and I'm so large that little of what you find in thrift shops will fit. Fat people give away clothing that's too small for them. Anything that fits, you wear until it breaks, gets too shabby, or goes woefully out of style. Thus, I'm a costuming nightmare.
And I brought all this up with Boomie during my initial series of "No's". Plus there's the hair. "Boomie, I'm not cutting my dreads. This takes place in what? 1933? What are you going to do about the dreads?" She said we'd get a big coat and cover them or something. So when Charmagne, the costumer for The Homecoming finally came over to me and asked me about my costume, I told her I didn't know. Boomie was talking about some kind of coat. She took my measurments and left.
My next day at the theater was the open dress rehearsal (open to friends and family), the night before opening night. I walk in; I have no idea what my costume is. Just in from work, I had on black sweats, socks, and sandals, and a dark red plaid shirt that I bought to placate my parents' fears that I would be fired for wearing black all the time. Boomie walks up to me and says, "This is your shirt? I like this shirt. I don't mind the sandals. You can keep the sweats. Hold on." She goes away and comes back with a large piece of black cloth. She throws it over my shoulders (and over my dreads), stands back and says, "There."
I say, "What? This?" Boomie says she likes it. I tell her tomorrow I can have pants. She doesn't want the pants. I tell her I have black shoes. She's thrilled. Tomorrow, I'll bring the shoes. Tonight, it's me and the cloth. With it over my dreads, I realize exactly how thick they are. I can barely turn my head and feel ready to play any of a number of theater's famous hunchbacks. Boomie asks if I want the dreads out and so now they're out. We safety pin the cloth to my shirt, I pick up an old book mascarading as a Bible, and out I go. Onstage, as I bend over to put down a box that I'm supposed to stand on, the cloth rips from one of the pins. I spend the entire scene surreptitiously trying to keep the damn thing from sliding off the left half of my body. Highpoints of Western Theatre.
After the dress rehearsal, people from the audience say how much they liked the show, how much they liked my singing. No one says, "But what the hell was that you were wearing?" Boomie rushes past me and says good job and not to worry. She has an idea of what I should wear tomorrow for opening night.
posted by - caj at 11:48 AM
1 Comments:
Break a leg.
:)Lee
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