Director Dreams
Actors dream they have to go onstage and perform when they don't know the lines or the part. What do directors dream?
I just dozed off while reading Topdog/Underdog for class. I segue from a dream where I'm walking around in an almost abandoned shopping mall ... nope ... scooting around in an office chair (much like the chair I am unaware I'm asleep in) in an almost abandoned shopping mall, trying to find my way back up to this other family's home where I have been doging pets in a previous part of the dream and studying. All the elevators are blocked off. I can't remember the direction. I know it's up, and I know I got there easily earlier in the dream. I don't know I'm dreaming.
Three people come up to me. They hand me a notebook. They tell me that the only actors available are So-and-so, and So-and-so. (I forget the names.) That means we can only work Archie and Reggie scenes. There are two. The first one starts on page 27 of the script. Instantly I know through Magic Dream Knowledge, 1) I'm directing an Archie play, 2) It's for this prestigious conference where other people are simultaneously directing other plays for a joint presentation, 3) I haven't read the play, done one speck of research, nor do I even know anything about it or this production.
"I see," I say. The people (memebers of my production team?) want to know what we'll be doing in rehearsal today. One of them says, "Well that's for someone else to decide," throwing me a sly look as if to say, "Glad it's not me," and walks away. We've been walking and have come to a grungy area of the mall - lots of concrete, dark, an old cinema that goths are lined up in front of. I sit down (have I ever left the chair?). I'm naked and dirty, but the knowledge of my nakedness doesn't bother me. I'm not panicked but am trying to put on the "studious decision face" when I know I will eventually have to choose one of the two scenes arbitrarally.
Shanti Durkee (someone I know from town. Last saw her years ago. Is she even still here?) Walks past us. She starts to take shower a behind us. I look back. I see her torso, head, and arms from the back. She's naked, but rather than reacting to the eroticism of the moment, I say, "Oh that's where the shower is! I knew it was around her somewhere!" I scoot into the wake of her shower stream with a moment's concern that she'll mind me hitchhiking her shower. Now hot water is showering on me as well, washing off the dirt as I'm pretending to make a studious decision. My companions are saying things to themselves like, "We could do the scene when Archie and Reggie go to Hell."
"No, that would require Commisariat.'
"Oh great," I think. "It's a weird, modern, abstract Archie play." The shower feels good. "Hey, wasn't Shanti Durkee naked behind me, and shouldn't I be paying attention to that?" I look back to Shanti, but she's closed the shower curtain. It's a dark burgundy, blood red.
I announce we'll do the first Archie and Reggie scene and get up and head to the rehearsal hall. My troupe follows.
The rehearsal room is (Oh, suddenly I'm clothed.) The rehearsal room is like a big, long, banquet hall. (I have crazy, near-abandoned shopping malls in my dreams. You never know what they have.) with white tile floors, high ceilings, high windows all along one side with sunlight streaming in through them. There's a whole row of tables opposite the windows filled with people. Some are there to help. Some are there to observe. (Do I see one of the guys from the Hamner Playwriting Conference out of the corner of my eye?)
My two actors enter. One is Larry Evans, an actor I knew years ago. I don't even know where he is now. He's fair haired. I assume he's playing Archie. I give Larry a big hug, conscious that I'm being watched by the assembly, expected to be the director and lead a rehearsal. At the same time, I hear, "Clinton! Clinton! Clinton!" I brake from Larry and look over to see our mutal friend, Rhada. (Again. Where is she now? I've lost track.) We hug, but I'm slightly annoyed that she's blown my majesterial "Meet the Actors" moment. I turn to the second guy. He's got black hair. I don't know him. Presumably, he's Reggie. We shake hands.
I say we're going to work on the Archie and Reggie scenes 'cause that's who we have and start to flip though my script. The other actor says, "I bet we could contact Stephan and get him down here. That way we could do Archie and Reggie in Hell."
Larry says, "Is he available?"
Rhada says, "Ooo, that's my favorite scene."
That's sounding more and more like a climactic scene to me, and, very conscious that I know nothing about the play, I bullshit. "No, let's leave Stephan alone. It's too early in the process to hit that scene." They nod in agreement. Unbelievably panic has still yet to set in.
All this time I'm flipping through my script looking for page 27. But the page numbering doesn't make sense. Maybe it's scene 2.7 or something or Act II, Scene 7. But the scene numbering doesn't make sense. An "a". Some numbers. A strange symbol. Is that Krytonian? Finally panic starts to creep. I reach out for some help. "Who is my stage manager?" I ask the assembled crowd. A row of people at the long tables immediately pour over their bright white binders in front of them, assiduously flipping pages.
Guess I'm not the only one who doesn't know. I wake up.
I just dozed off while reading Topdog/Underdog for class. I segue from a dream where I'm walking around in an almost abandoned shopping mall ... nope ... scooting around in an office chair (much like the chair I am unaware I'm asleep in) in an almost abandoned shopping mall, trying to find my way back up to this other family's home where I have been doging pets in a previous part of the dream and studying. All the elevators are blocked off. I can't remember the direction. I know it's up, and I know I got there easily earlier in the dream. I don't know I'm dreaming.
Three people come up to me. They hand me a notebook. They tell me that the only actors available are So-and-so, and So-and-so. (I forget the names.) That means we can only work Archie and Reggie scenes. There are two. The first one starts on page 27 of the script. Instantly I know through Magic Dream Knowledge, 1) I'm directing an Archie play, 2) It's for this prestigious conference where other people are simultaneously directing other plays for a joint presentation, 3) I haven't read the play, done one speck of research, nor do I even know anything about it or this production.
"I see," I say. The people (memebers of my production team?) want to know what we'll be doing in rehearsal today. One of them says, "Well that's for someone else to decide," throwing me a sly look as if to say, "Glad it's not me," and walks away. We've been walking and have come to a grungy area of the mall - lots of concrete, dark, an old cinema that goths are lined up in front of. I sit down (have I ever left the chair?). I'm naked and dirty, but the knowledge of my nakedness doesn't bother me. I'm not panicked but am trying to put on the "studious decision face" when I know I will eventually have to choose one of the two scenes arbitrarally.
Shanti Durkee (someone I know from town. Last saw her years ago. Is she even still here?) Walks past us. She starts to take shower a behind us. I look back. I see her torso, head, and arms from the back. She's naked, but rather than reacting to the eroticism of the moment, I say, "Oh that's where the shower is! I knew it was around her somewhere!" I scoot into the wake of her shower stream with a moment's concern that she'll mind me hitchhiking her shower. Now hot water is showering on me as well, washing off the dirt as I'm pretending to make a studious decision. My companions are saying things to themselves like, "We could do the scene when Archie and Reggie go to Hell."
"No, that would require Commisariat.'
"Oh great," I think. "It's a weird, modern, abstract Archie play." The shower feels good. "Hey, wasn't Shanti Durkee naked behind me, and shouldn't I be paying attention to that?" I look back to Shanti, but she's closed the shower curtain. It's a dark burgundy, blood red.
I announce we'll do the first Archie and Reggie scene and get up and head to the rehearsal hall. My troupe follows.
The rehearsal room is (Oh, suddenly I'm clothed.) The rehearsal room is like a big, long, banquet hall. (I have crazy, near-abandoned shopping malls in my dreams. You never know what they have.) with white tile floors, high ceilings, high windows all along one side with sunlight streaming in through them. There's a whole row of tables opposite the windows filled with people. Some are there to help. Some are there to observe. (Do I see one of the guys from the Hamner Playwriting Conference out of the corner of my eye?)
My two actors enter. One is Larry Evans, an actor I knew years ago. I don't even know where he is now. He's fair haired. I assume he's playing Archie. I give Larry a big hug, conscious that I'm being watched by the assembly, expected to be the director and lead a rehearsal. At the same time, I hear, "Clinton! Clinton! Clinton!" I brake from Larry and look over to see our mutal friend, Rhada. (Again. Where is she now? I've lost track.) We hug, but I'm slightly annoyed that she's blown my majesterial "Meet the Actors" moment. I turn to the second guy. He's got black hair. I don't know him. Presumably, he's Reggie. We shake hands.
I say we're going to work on the Archie and Reggie scenes 'cause that's who we have and start to flip though my script. The other actor says, "I bet we could contact Stephan and get him down here. That way we could do Archie and Reggie in Hell."
Larry says, "Is he available?"
Rhada says, "Ooo, that's my favorite scene."
That's sounding more and more like a climactic scene to me, and, very conscious that I know nothing about the play, I bullshit. "No, let's leave Stephan alone. It's too early in the process to hit that scene." They nod in agreement. Unbelievably panic has still yet to set in.
All this time I'm flipping through my script looking for page 27. But the page numbering doesn't make sense. Maybe it's scene 2.7 or something or Act II, Scene 7. But the scene numbering doesn't make sense. An "a". Some numbers. A strange symbol. Is that Krytonian? Finally panic starts to creep. I reach out for some help. "Who is my stage manager?" I ask the assembled crowd. A row of people at the long tables immediately pour over their bright white binders in front of them, assiduously flipping pages.
Guess I'm not the only one who doesn't know. I wake up.
posted by - caj at 10:32 AM
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