Season Eight: Week 24


Thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings…

Tuesday / February 19 / 2019
Written by Frannie

We spent the bulk of our time tonight working through Act IV, scene ii. In this scene, Maria’s plot against Malvolio comes to a head. Locked in a dark, windowless room, he tries in vain to get people on the outside to help—but they make fun of him instead.

I can’t imagine it comes as a surprise to this blog’s readers that this scene is a potential minefield for incarcerated people, particularly those who’ve spent time in solitary confinement, and those who’ve survived trauma similar Malvolio’s. We can’t ever assume we know what other people in the room are going through, or what they carry with them, so we have to take great care to be sensitive as we work through this scene.

As people settled in with their scripts, I called a “blue car” (our kindly code for “shut up and listen”). I reminded the ensemble that, while Twelfth Night is a comedy and this scene can be very funny, it is decidedly not funny for some of our members (whether they’ve voiced it or not). I asked everyone to keep that in mind, stay together and focused as an ensemble to make sure the space felt safe, and to know that if at any point anyone needed to take a breather, she should feel free to do so without explaining or apologizing, even if that meant leaving the session entirely for the night.

The first order of business was to figure out how to stage the scene, period. The text requires Malvolio to be in a “dark room,” but what does that look like on this stage, and in our show?

We decided to use the balcony that we first used in 2014 for Romeo and Juliet, and in 2016 for Othello. After experimenting with sightlines a bit, we found its ideal position and angle. Our Malvolio climbed under it, but we couldn’t see her at all. So she climbed onto the platform instead, sitting cross-legged and actively participating in the conversation.

We batted ideas back and forth about whether the audience needs to see Malvolio, or if hearing him is enough. One woman suggested we keep the curtain drawn for a time, but it’s difficult to hear anyone from back there. Someone suggested draping black fabric over the structure and using a book light to illuminate the actor’s face. One woman countered, “If we put any light in there, then Feste will be telling the truth… He’s a witty fool, not a foolish wit.” Another pointed at a page in her script and said, “The text says, ‘Horrendous dark.’”

“Do we have to see her face?” asked another member. The woman who’d just cited the text replied, “The audience will already know who Malvolio is. They don’t need to see her face.”

I asked the ensemble what the function of this scene is within the play. “To make fun of Malvolio!” said one woman. “Well, that’s what the other characters want,” I said. “What about the playwright? What does he want this scene to accomplish?” Another woman slowly responded, “To make the audience feel bad for Malvolio.”

But two women said you don’t need to see someone’s face to feel for them. “It’s real easy to feel bad for someone, just hearing their voice,” one of them said. “Think about segregation. You don’t see their faces, but you hear their voices, and it moves you.” Eventually, we settled (at least for now) on draping the set piece in very sheer black fabric to symbolize darkness while still leaving the actor visible to the audience.

“Ooooh!” one woman exclaimed. “Do you think we could use ‘do not cross, crime scene’ tape on the balcony?” A brief pause. “I… don’t even want to ask that question,” I replied.

We started working through the scene, but it didn’t go far before we had to pause and work through some pretty important issues. For instance: “I thought I couldn’t have a beard,” said our Feste. “You can’t?” I replied. “I mean, not actual hair but… Even if it’s a mop or something?” Dryly, she responded, “It better be a clean mop.”

Most of the group continued to troubleshoot with Feste—she couldn’t seem to get “Sir Toby” and “Sir Topas” straight (I don’t blame her!)—while I worked to the side with our Maria and a few others.

“Can Maria just leave after Toby enters, and then come back to say her line?” our Maria asked. “That’s her last line in the play anyway.” I nodded and said, “You could probably approach the scene that way. But I feel like you might be letting her off the hook if you do.” She asked what I meant, and—this is part of why this scene is so loaded—I asked her what Maria’s function is in this scene and why she disappears from the play after. “Because she sees that it’s gone too far,” she replied. “Yeah, that’s how we’ve interpreted it,” I said. “If that’s the case, Maria acts as the audience’s conscience. We’re probably still laughing out there—we still think it’s funny. Maria can show us that it’s not.”

We explored a few ways of accomplishing this, all of which involved Maria separating herself from the action and sitting or standing far downstage right. She could either watch the whole thing unfold, or she could avoid looking altogether. We found that, either way, she could have quite an impact not only on the people sitting just a couple of feet from her, but for people farther away who might even forget she’s there.

We ran the scene again, and it was still pretty rough. I checked in with Maria for a few minutes, and when I returned to the group, most were deep in conversation about Feste, while our Malvolio simply sat on the balcony. I caught her eye and walked over, saying, “Is Malvolio feeling a little neglected over here?” She smiled and said she just really wasn’t sure how to approach the scene—how to make her performance effective without upsetting anyone.

I asked if she could simplify: what is Malvolio’s objective? “Just to get out of this box,” she said. “Right,” I replied, “And what is the obstacle to that?” She gestured to the others, saying, “These people just won’t listen! They’re just idiots!” I nodded and said, “Yes! Yes, they are an obstacle! In terms of keeping your performance safe, though, you’ve got an even better one.” I knocked on the wood frame of the balcony.

“Ohhhhhh,” she said, eyes widening. “Yeah,” I said. “You’ve got a solid, physical prop to work with.” Seeing that she still wasn’t quite sure what to do, I climbed into the box myself. “Check this out,” I said, moving into different positions, pushing, punching, and kicking against the frame to see if it would work the way I’d been thinking. “Making it this physical will automatically build your frustration—you won’t have to think about it at all.” I gave the frame another good kick. “That is so cool,” she said, and I quickly climbed out so she could try it herself. “Oh, I’m getting so many ideas now,” she said, pounding on the frame. “This feels so much better already.”

We then realized that we were covered in dust from rolling around on the platform… We’ll make sure to wipe it off next time!

Friday / February 22 / 2019
Written by Matt

“Hey!” announced one of our new members as she entered the room today, “The officer stopped me and asked me what I was here for, and I said, ‘I’m an actor!’”

All of us actors---and techies and directors and everything in between--gathered up today with one major mission: to come up with the concept for our Twelfth Night design.

One of our veterans, who has having an emotional week, said that she wrote a bunch of ideas down to distract herself from everything that was going on. (“Art is good for that,” Frannie chimed in). But our new members seemed a little bit confused--this group of women is so tight that it’s easy to forget sometimes that most of them are new this year and don’t have a sense of the SIP process, let alone the ins and outs of set elements and props!

The facilitators and more experienced women explained how we usually do our sets, and we looked at our rotating set piece from Taming of the Shrew. After talking through logistics for a few minutes, one of our newbies asked the crucial first question: is our set going to be reflective of the play’s themes, or will it represent the different locations of scenes? One of our veterans put in that she prefers thematic sets, going on to describe our flats for Macbeth. I put in that thematic sets are great for communicating big ideas and atmospheres, where literal sets are good for plays that need very clear, specific settings to work. When others began to worry about the number of locations in Twelfth Night, the woman who asked the question in the first place suggested, brilliantly, that we use sound design to set our literal scenes, freeing us to go thematic, even abstract.

What ensued was a signature SIP discussion: generally circuitous, often hilarious, frequently frustrating, but ultimately successful. No one’s notes make very much sense, and it’s hard to pull a narrative out of them (Frannie took none at all--thanks, Fearless Leader). So instead of trying to reconstruct what happened, I’ll give you a highlight reel from our notes. That is, from the notes Lauren and I took. Frannie took no notes.

Without further ado:


-SIGNS -- Beachfront on cloth? Roll it up after scene?

[zannis carrying signs]: “Laughter” and “Applause”

-Feste strumming uke?

-“There are so many entrances and exits in this play! It was a lot for Macbeth, but this will be way more!”

-Frannie: “Who is familiar with vaudeville?”
Woman: [beat] “Did you say, ‘Who is familiar with vodka’?”

-Idea: use a blatant scene-indicator.

-”What if Orsino has a man-cave with Corvette posters, and Olivia has a she-shed with flowers and teacups?”

-Big rolls of paper


-Puppet masters / puppet strings

-“Everyone in this play is just so… EXTRA!” What about a 1920s Twelfth Night?
Frannie: “We don’t have the money for that.”

-This play is like a cesspool of love.


-We’re on a journey.

-”This play reminds me of those 80s teenage movies.”

One of our veterans turned to Frannie and requested that she synthesize. From that collection of...whatever it is, Frannie distilled the following thoughts:


As Frannie did a pretty good pantomime of thinking (while continuing not to write anything down), one of the witches from last year in Macbeth, dramatically stirred the bubbling hell-broth on request.

“Journeys,” murmured Frannie, as our resident witch stirred the pot. “Excess. Everything is not what it seems. Cesspool….”

“I’ve got it!” she announced. “Is this a cesspool of all of our themes? Like, a tie-dye?”

“Or a maze,” added one woman. “A kaleidoscopic maze?” asked Frannie. “Kinda like a maze from a funhouse,” another woman chimed in. “Like you sort of understand what you’re looking at, but not really, and it’s almost overwhelming?” added another. “It’s like a toy box!” said someone. “But it’s a kaleidoscope!” Nailed it!

One of our veterans had one somber request: “Can we just have… no glitter?”

“That’s a lot to ask,” warned another. But we’d try.

Next on the docket was picking a play for next season. We had narrowed it down to five: As You Like It (the lone comedy), Romeo & Juliet, Julius Caesar, Hamlet, and King Lear.

To catch people up, the facilitators covered the plays quickly (sort of), mentioning the plot, themes, and challenges of each one. To be fair, we got better with each one at keeping the summary short. As You Like It resists quick summary, and Frannie simply recited the Prologue to Romeo & Juliet. Lauren covered Hamlet in a few sentences, and Frannie summed Lear up in even fewer.

The first question was about Romeo & Juliet. We have a member (but only one) who was in Romeo & Juliet when we did it five years ago. Still, no one wanted to consider it if she didn’t want to revisit the play. The woman in question graciously thanked everyone for their concern, but assured us that we didn’t need to work around her “just since I been here since Skippy was a peanut.”

Frannie and I noted briefly that, while we’d be happy with any of the plays, we would be really excited to tackle the intellectual and theatrical challenges of Hamlet and Lear with this particular group of people--“the brains in this room.” Our feeling seemed to echo the group’s sentiment, and it mostly took a few glances around the room for the decision to be clear: Hamlet it is!

The past few weeks have been a lot of sitting around and talking, which is important, but everyone was ready to get up and do something active. One the women suggested playing a classic improv game, so we set up Bus Stop. In Bus Stop, one actor is waiting for the bus, and a second enters the scene, embodying a specific quirk that eventually drives the other one away.

There were all kinds of brilliant quirks on display, including a cat lady and Darth Vader. The game was a fun way to unwind and bond the group, but it was actually more than that in the end: two women who rarely if ever participate in any sort of improv games jumped in for the first time, both of them coming in with really big personalities and voices. Bus Stop is great, but playing it leaves the actor very exposed onstage, with only one other person and a pretty thin “plot.” That they were able to jump in is a huge step for each of them--and for the ensemble!

Season Eight: Week 23


Once more unto the link, dear friends, once more!

Or you could make a recurring donation… Up to you, really…

Tuesday / February 12 / 2019
Written by Frannie

Tonight’s session was one of those that, from the outside, might seem largely unproductive—but it was emblematic of this ensemble’s (and this program’s) values and priorities. This is a long post, y’all. Hang on tight.

The first (and, it turned out, only) order of business was to cast a new Orsino through an “Orsino-off.” After an ensemble member identified the best “audition cut” of 2.4 (which was EXACTLY what I would have chosen for a professional audition), we decided the order in which people would audition, and the first of three walked onto the stage with our Viola.

We were surprised when this woman voiced her interest in Orsino—she’s new to the group and is pretty quiet—but we were delighted. So she got nothing but support as she stumbled awkwardly through her first go at the scene. Immediately, a veteran asked, “How did that feel?” Giggling a little, she said she’d been nervous. That same veteran gently asked, “Want to do it again or not?” She said she wasn’t sure, but the ensemble encouraged her, saying that she had taken the first step and could only feel better from there. I asked her what Orsino’s objective was and if she could focus on that, rather than putting pressure on herself to do everything else that was in her head.

The second time, she said she “felt better.” She was still nervous, but she’d also looked up more from her script and, in doing that and focusing on an objective, connected more with our Viola. She seemed thrilled by that, and our Viola (who has been in the ensemble for a very long time) warmly said she’d felt the same. I asked if this woman wanted to try one more time, and she said she did. This time, I asked if she could imagine that this was the most important conversation ever as she went after her objective.

She did, and it showed. “You had more confidence this time!” proclaimed a longtime member who absolutely glories in these kinds of breakthroughs. The woman said she’d felt better each time—the urgency especially “helped [her] feel the connection”—though she’d continued to make mistakes. I reassured her that mistakes don’t matter: what we want to see in any audition is a progression and openness to adjustments, and that’s exactly what she’d had. So it was a perfect audition!

The next member to audition sprang to her feet and launched into the scene almost before we knew what was happening! Her energy was incredible—Viola looked quite literally blown away—but, as the auditionee acknowledged afterwards, she raced through so fast that she didn’t give herself time to do much acting. I asked her to take it back to her character’s objective. (And I’m noting here, readers, that I owe you a dedicated blog post about how important this question—this basic acting technique—turns out to be for our ensemble members. Please hold me to that!) She said that Orsino has GOT to get Cesario to pull off this wooing of Olivia. “He’s naïve,” she said. “[Viola] is talking, and it’s clear that she’s in love with him, but he doesn’t hear her.” And that’s why she’d spoken so quickly. “Well,” I pondered, “If that’s the objective, but you feel you went too fast, what could be a reason for him to slow down?” She said again that he just really needed to get his point across, to which the ensemble member who’d come up with the audition cut replied, “Well… I don’t think they give ages [in the text], but I feel like Orsino is talking to Viola like you talk to a little kid.” She said that often, when we need to get our point across, we slow down to make sure people understand us. Well, again, she totally said what I was going to say right before I said it! She’s got a knack for this.

And then the group launched into the kind of analytical conversation that’s usually reserved for the first part of SIP’s season—but this play is different for us, and so is this process.

One woman said she thought speaking quickly was merited, given the importance of the situation. Another said Orisno was being unrealistic. But another woman said it was more than that—that he’s actually delusional. “He’s in his own little world,” she mused. “He doesn’t realize he’s not gonna get Olivia.” Another member nodded, saying, “Cesario is his last hope.” A third woman jumped in, saying that this is exactly the reason for both the urgency and the delusion: “This is the only one who’s come back with anything resembling—”

“—or even the first one to talk to her, after God knows how many others,” exclaimed our Viola, finishing the other woman’s sentence. They beamed at each other. Viola continued, “He’s gotten the same answer for so long, he already knows what Cesario’s about to say—so he doesn’t let him go on and on…” She paused, thinking, brow furrowed. “You know, I’m starting to think I see him differently.” The woman who was auditioning asked if they could do the scene again. “Yeah,” Viola said, “Let’s do this scene again.”

They did, and it changed—big time. The auditionee played with pacing quite a bit without dropping her energy, which was much more effective than her first time through. And our Viola—her performance was deeper, more complex, more interesting. Before anyone else could speak, a veteran said, “[Name], I could totally tell you see him differently now! Your whole demeanor is different.” She laughed. “It was really distracting, actually. But in a good way!”

“Yeah, I was really feeling that,” said the auditionee, and that gave us pause. The text seems to indicate that Orsino doesn’t see Viola’s feelings—how could we justify that? “He feels like he’s got a chance,” the auditionee said. “This is his one hope.”

An ensemble member who is serving a very long sentence said, “Well, it’s like—you know when a lifer is about to see the [parole] board?” A hush fell over the ensemble, and many of them nodded. “It’s kinda like when someone’s spending their whole life in prison, and they don’t get to see the parole board—then they suddenly get to see the board after all.” She said that when an objective is that important, everything else fades into the background. You become totally focused on your goal, to the point where you miss things happening around you that would be obvious in any other circumstance. “Put yourself in them shoes.”

It’s a brilliant example of the “as if” acting tool—drawing on experiences from your own life to inform your acting choices. Sometimes the “as if” is universal (like the feeling of stubbing your toe), and other times it’s quite personal. This was the latter, without a doubt. For someone serving a life sentence—or a very lengthy one, as she is—the stakes literally could not be higher than when about to go before the parole board. I don’t have an “as if” for that. The feeling I got from the ensemble was that most of them don’t exactly, either, though one woman ventured, “I feel like that’s also an analogy for Viola right now. Like [Viola’s] the parolee and [Orsino] is the parole board, and he won’t even listen to you or look you in the eye.”

These “as ifs” worked. Both women were so effective—the scene was so affecting. We felt for both of them. Afterwards, the auditionee said, “I liked it. I felt like I put more in it. Like I was giving it my heart.” That came through, without a doubt.

And then it was time for the third candidate to audition. She has just returned to the group after a long (excused) absence, and, as our gaze shifted to her, she smiled and squirmed out of her seat into a standing position, saying, “Awwwwww shit.”

The scene began, and I will tell you what: this woman is LOUD. REALLY loud. Holy moly. The acoustics in the auditorium can be kind of rough, especially for folks who are (quite literally) finding their voices, but you could have heard this woman on the other side of the building if the doors hadn’t been closed. This was particularly surprising because she’s so petite; even more surprising (and hilarious) was when she allowed herself to get so frustrated with Cesario in the end that she threw her script on the ground and got right up in her face—well, as “up” as she could, given she’s at least a foot shorter than our Viola.

We burst into applause, and the woman who had auditioned second exclaimed, “Can I just say, I love your dramatic actions!” The woman on stage said, “Well, to me, Orsino’s a drama queen… I think he’s got a few screws loose.” Another member exclaimed, “Orsino is like the cheese and crackers without the cheese!” Another woman asked the auditionee not to turn her back to the audience so much, and she replied that she didn’t know how to work that in. “Oh, your interpretation makes this so fun!” I exclaimed, hopping up on stage with her. I demonstrated some ways she could justify “cheating out” quite a bit, going on what I guess is now a patented Frannie-riff, gesticulating dramatically to various points in the room and exclaiming, “Oh my GOD! The moon and the stars and the ocean and the desert and my heart and my soul!” Eye rolls commenced, and I know this will someday be used in an impression of me by certain parties in the room, but whatever. We accept each other in our totalities.

They ran the scene again, and I don’t know what happened, but Viola’s acting clicked. This time I was the one who got distracted by her performance—though Orsino got my attention back when she kneeled dramatically on the line, “women are like roses,” pretending to pick invisible flowers from the ground.

The woman who’d auditioned second was, again, the first to praise the current Orsino, saying, “I like how you moved through different emotions this time.” It’s not like this is unprecedented in SIP, but this woman just joined the group, really wanted this part, and was still this generous in praising the others (she had voiced encouragement for the first woman who auditioned as well). What great energy to have in the room!

Someone mentioned how amazing the kneeling had been (“It really sounded like you were explaining it to a child!”), and, as we laughed, one of the women said, “Speaking of that line… what a douchebag!”

“Yeah, that’s my big challenge with this play,” I said. “I just don’t get what Viola sees in Orsino.” I turned to our Viola. “But watching you that time was really interesting… It seemed like something clicked. Am I right about that?” She said it hadn’t exactly felt that way to her: “I just wanted to try something a little different each time to give them something to work with.” The current Orsino brightened, saying, “Yeah, and that really helped me, when you gave a little something different.”

“This is a really intense scene for both of them,” said one woman, gazing at her script. Our Viola replied, “Yeah, I really feel for Viola. Like… How hard must that be, to love someone you know you can’t have? Because they belong to somebody else? I’ve never had to deal with that—for all the shit I’ve been through, I’ve never been in that position. That must be so terrible.”

They ran the scene once more, and it went pretty well. The woman who was auditioning asked us which “version” we liked best, but we were hesitant to make a judgment call. One woman said it seemed like the auditionee had gotten more nervous each time. She replied that it wasn’t exactly that, but it had felt best the first time. The woman who’d made the comment corrected herself, saying that “nervous” wasn’t the right word—what she meant was that the actor had been overthinking. That turned out to be accurate.

Several woman asked the first woman who auditioned if she’d like to try again—sometimes, said one, “it’s kinda like you get robbed when you go first” because, another continued, “you don’t get to build off others’ ideas.” She demurred, though, and we sent the three out of the room and huddled to talk it over.

We were in agreement that the second and third women had amazing energy. “I really love [the third woman’s] energy, but she got so many words wrong,” said one person. “But that was just nerves, though,” said another, and a third said, “Yeah, it was just the words for me.” And that would get better in time, we all agreed.

A longtime member broke in to advocate for the first woman. “She just—she was just trying so hard, and she kept asking me all these questions... She reminds me of myself when I first joined.” She paused. “I don’t know. I just always root for the underdog. But this is an ensemble thing, and I appreciated every last one of them.” Another woman added, “And [the first woman] showed the most growth of the three of them.” A third woman added, “Yeah, totally.” A fourth member shook her head, “Man, all three of them had something going for them.”

Responding to that, another veteran said, “Well… What other roles could they fill?” There are a few that are still up for grabs: Curio and Valentine were the first that came to mind. One woman said she thought that one of our longtime members was playing Curio, and we all turned to her. “Uh, no, I was just filling in,” she grinned. “You should give that role to one of them.” I proposed that she take on my “anchor zanni” role, and she smiled again but said she wasn’t sure—she knows her instincts are great (she’s hilarious), but she’d been thinking of taking on more of a “coaching” role this season.

She is an amazing performer, though, and other members began demanding that she audition for Orsino. “Come on, you’d be a PERFECT Orsino!” exclaimed one person. The longtime member replied that she appreciated it, and she probably would do a good job, but she has a lot going on and is concerned about the number of lines. “I mean, we can always cut down on the lines, if that’s what’s holding you back,” I said. “What do you think?” She looked at each of us in turn, eyes narrowed, and finally said, “Okay. What the hell!” One woman said, “A SHOCKING TWIST! Get the others back in here!” And the final audition of the evening began.

She. Is. So. Good. This is her fourth season, and it’s obvious that she knows what she’s doing with the language—and performance. But, as the second woman to audition (again!!!) said, “Initially, I was like, ‘[Name’s] got this part–’ but then you dropped it.” The other woman nodded, saying she just wasn’t that familiar with the scene and got kind of tripped up. We asked her to give it another try. She did, and it went a bit better, but she was still frustrated. One of our vets said, “You’re always so great with the way you move around the stage, but you’re not really doing it right now. You should move around more.”

As Viola took the current Orsino backstage to confer about how to approach the final round, one of the newbies said “This is a good scene. I actually was really into it.” Another newbie replied, “That’s why I’m so happy that I get to work with [all these veterans]. They’re so experienced, and I just learn so much. I’m really honored.” Then she turned to the woman who’d anticipated so much of my input and said, “And [Name] seems really knowledgeable about Shakespeare. I learn a lot from her.”

The final run of the scene was different, as the auditionee played Orsino “totally clueless.” It worked pretty well! “I could see you two connected,” said a new member. Another woman agreed that it “seemed natural.”

We had only a few minutes left, so the four hurried out into the hallway. The group was torn—the veteran had (predictably) blown the others out of the water simply because, as one woman said, “She’s seasoned. I think we’ll learn a lot from her. If she’ll take the time to learn the lines.” A veteran said, “That’s my fear. Not that she won’t want to, but that she won’t have time.” A good friend of the member in question rose, saying, “I’ll go ask her to tell us for real, right now, if she doesn’t think she can handle it.” Less than a minute later, she returned to tell us that it would be better if we didn’t put that pressure on her. No problem.

Quickly, we took a vote by a show of hands, deciding on who would play Orsino and then, in quick succession, Valentine and Curio. We called everyone back to the room and circled up. There was an awkward silence.

“So…” I said, “Does anyone want to share the news?” The second woman who auditioned cheerfully said, “We already know!” She made the sound of a drum roll and pointed at the veteran who auditioned. In unison, nearly everyone shouted, “NO!”—made the same drum roll sound, and pointed at her! Amid laughter, we told the others where they’d been cast, which they were glad to hear, and we called it a night.

So “all” we did was audition four people for one role in what was, perhaps, the least efficient way we could. But that’s so not the point. The core of SIP—the reason we don’t care about product, or about being productive all the time—is what happens within that lack of efficiency. The length of this blog should be clear evidence of that. And trust me—there’s even more in our notes.

Friday / February 15 / 2019
Written by Matt

The theme of this week seems to be “sessions that are inefficient and technically unproductive--but also totally representative of the whole SIP endeavor.”

Frannie wasn’t able to be at today’s session, but we had plenty to do. Most importantly, we had to make sure the play’s logistics were in order! It’s easy to lose track of these sorts of things as we work through the “fun stuff” (scene work, games, monologues, and all that). At some point each season, we need to make sure that everybody has a job, and that every scene is fully cast. That point is now.

For Twelfth Night, the logistics are even more complicated because we’ve added actors to the show who aren’t in the script: the zannis, visiting from the planet Commedia. But which scenes have zannis, how many zannis, and who plays those zannis was not something we had thought through in a systematic way yet. Add to that the fact that we nearly doubled the size of our ensemble less than six weeks ago--and that only one of those people has taken on a role… this was about to be SIP’s most complicated scene breakdown yet!

But before we could even do that, we had to briefly discuss plays for next season. To be honest, that conversation was a bit of a mess. Many of the current ensemble members have little or no familiarity with Shakespeare’s plays, which is normal and fine, but it means that some facilitators and ensemble members had to run through extemporaneous summaries of each play, so others could evaluate it. We kept those summaries very short (Much Ado About Nothing turned into “a three-hour game of ‘Telephone’”), but the shorter they are, the less helpful they are to folks. It’s also a big group, and just about everyone was present, which is great in principle, but makes a sit-down conversation even more challenging than it usually is.

We listed six or seven plays to consider before it was definitely time to move on. We’ll make decisions in the next few weeks. On to The Logistics Olympics! (as one facilitator’s notes had it).

Instantly, it was clear that the process would be chaotic and confusing. Many of the women were acutely engaged with the process, some were enthusiastic but sometimes confused, others were content to hang back and problem-solve when required, and some others just seemed checked-out. And our first big challenge came with the first scene.

We were confronted first by our lack of zannis! The people who have tended to jump in as zannis now have other roles to attend to, and we have a pack of newbies without jobs. But as soon as I asked who wanted to be a zanni in that scene, I realized that almost half of the group might not entirely understand who a zanni even is yet, let alone know whether she wants to play one! A few of the veterans explained what zannis are and what they do. The zannis have no lines, but they run around on stage working with other characters and against them, supporting and undermining them, and generally causing hilarity. As I was listening, I was thinking, “Who in their right mind would put their hand up for this? It sounds totally intimidating.” Still, I asked whether anyone wanted to be a zanni--actually, I asked whether anyone wanted to try to be a leader among the zannis, the zanni captain. There was a pause as everyone stared at me. “Okay,” I thought, “pulling teeth it is!”

Then a new member whose stage debut was just a week ago put her hand up slowly. “You want to be the zanni captain?” I asked. “The perma-zanni?” She nodded. Okay! Seconds later, two other new members who have no stage experience had raised their hands to be zannis in the first scene. It’s worth noting that these three women have been among the quietest of the newbies--not the people I would have expected to put themselves out there for something big like this. It was awesome… and a little terrifying, I think, for those of us who know how much of the performance rests on the zannis’ energy. And that’s just coming from an observer; I can’t imagine what the rest of the ensemble felt like.

The first scene was done! Big Problem #2 arose when we got to the second one: we realized that we had only one role cast! We picked our Orsino on Tuesday, but every other role, including zannis, was up in the air. Given how many times we’ve run that scene (it’s the “If music be the food of love…” one, which we’ve put second but is technically Act I, scene i; yeah, it’s confusing: about as confusing of the grammar of this parenthetical statement--wanna fight about it?), it was a little bit disconcerting to see how many roles were unfilled.

Immediately, the same three women who had jumped in as zannis for the first scene raised their hands again and took most of the pressure off. Their eagerness--these are the quietest folks in the room, mind you--gave us the momentum we needed. By about Act II, it was clear that they would be the only zannis for most of the play. I stopped them to ask if they just all wanted to be the permanent zannis for the whole play, and we might throw in a plus-one in a few scenes. I was quite honestly expecting them to reject that suggestion, but they exchanged a “what the hell do I have to lose?” look and simultaneously nodded. We were off to the races!

The rest of the conversation went much more smoothly. Encouraged by their example, other new members started throwing themselves into roles, and we were able to move reasonably quickly through the end of the play. Still, there were three women who had not been cast in any role. After making them pinkie-swear (not actually, but metaphorically) that they really, truly, honestly DID NOT want any stage time, I asked them if they’d be willing to help out backstage. One reminded me that she had already taken a “job” as curtain queen (a lofty position, indeed!), and that, despite everything she had said before, she would be happy to be a body onstage in any scene where we needed a crowd.

Several of the veterans and I then looked over at the two remaining women. They slowly and emphatically shook their heads.

“Well,” I ventured, “there are two of you, and there are two wings.” I gestured to the backstage spaces to right and left. “Would you have any interest in being queens of the right and left wings, respectively? Helping with scene changes and connecting people with their props and reminding people to enter and whatever else they need?”

They looked at each other. A veteran said, “Oh my god, that would be SO helpful!” Another told them they would be lifesavers, that we’ve never had anyone whose only job is to keep things running in one wing.

Both women broke out in big smiles and nodded. And that was that!

We had about 40 minutes left at the end of that conversation, and people were itching to put something on its feet. Someone suggested that we run something with our new Orsino, since she was the new member with the biggest role. Plus, since the zannis seem to buzz around Orsino, it would give our new zanni crew a chance to try out their chosen roles. Act I, scene i (again, our second scene; it’s not gotten any less complicated since the last time I mentioned it) was a perfect way for everyone to experiment. Actually, every actor in that scene was not only new to the scene but new to SIP in the last six weeks! We got the well-worn scene up on its feet again, but by that time our Curio and Valentine had left for the evening. One of the women stood in for Curio, and I jumped in as Valentine (I already had an over-the-top entrance established for him).

And… it was a mess! Actually, even before it was a mess, there was a quick huddle of the new zannis as they panicked about going out onstage. A couple of people reassured them that they’d have time to find their way into the role, I told them that the only thing that was set in stone was entering through the center curtain part, and we were off. Orsino battled her way awkwardly through the curtain, followed by the zannis. Then it was a mess, but a good mess. Everyone clapped and cheered at the end. Emma commented that seeing the new zannis arrive en masse at last made her feel… some kind of way. At once, several of the women leapt in to offer encouragement and suggestions.

Maria asked whether Orsino wanted to fight her way through the curtain, which was funny, or whether she wanted someone to pull it up for her, and she mimed paging a curtain. The zannis responded that they’d much rather have the curtain paged for them. As luck would have it, we have two new backstage queens, who were happy to give the curtain a dramatic lift! Finally, Lauren suggested that our Orsino step off the foreshortened stage--the curtain is drawn throughout the scene--and Orsino immediately said, “I wanted to do that SO BAD!” Two of the other women encouraged her to go with her instincts: “Oh my god, if you want to do something, let’s DO IT!”

The next two runs are, quite honestly, a blur for me. Our Orsino really got into her groove when the zannis dragged out a “throne” for her and gave her some space to move. The energy was so big that, by my entrance as Valentine, I wound up running up to Orsino and then continuing under the curtain before realizing what I had done and reemerging. Someone had the brilliant (and potentially impracticable) idea of using a giant blow-up pool chair for Orsino’s “throne.” The zannis could struggle to get it out the door and end up having to deflate it. I assume everyone else was laughing at that, but I don’t actually know because I couldn’t hear much over my own hysterics. It was a day.

We rushed to get everything back in order and put up the ring, still giggling from everything that happened onstage. It was a great reward for getting through a challenging conversation.

I think it’s worth taking a step back to register how, just like Tuesday’s session, today’s meeting was all about process--a messy, frustrating process. It’s hard to imagine a less efficient way to go through the logistics of a play than to have a free-wheeling conversation with 22 people. If we were concerned with getting things done rather than with giving people ownership of the process, however roundabout and maddening, we would have just come in with a spreadsheet with assignments for our ensemble members. It could have been over in two minutes. They would have done their jobs, I think--most of them, anyway. It would have been fine. Instead, we beat our heads against our books, each other, and everything else for an hour and a half.

But we arrived at the right decisions--decisions that the facilitators would never have come to on our own. And, more importantly, those decisions were theirs. Because the program is theirs. And to bind it to our bias for efficiency and smoothness would be to miss the point. I’ll stop there because there’s plenty more on this topic in Frannie’s Tuesday entry… but it really was a week of pure SIP: pure frustration, and pure joy.

Season Eight: Week 22


Neither a borrower nor a lender be…

Tuesday / February 5 / 2019
Written by Frannie

Tonight was my first session back after a week in California, where I spent time with The Actors’ Gang Prison Project and Marin Shakespeare Company’s Shakespeare in Prison Program. (Tons of gratitude to Michigan Council for Arts and Cultural Affairs and the Anton Art Center for the mini-grant that enabled me to make the trip!) It was wonderful to see everyone, and, after our usual check-in, I spent a long time sharing what I learned from these awesome programs and answering a lot of questions.

It was a whirlwind of a week, and there were many specific moments that gave me much-appreciated insight into these programs (on which I’ve had a giant crush for a long time). But as much as I learned about the structural and logistical differences between programs, I was even more struck by the elements that hold true through all of this work, seemingly no matter where it’s being done.

I heard echoes of things SIP’s ensemble members have said over the years: that the work provides immense relief, insight into themselves, and empathy for others. The circles I visited were warm, welcoming, open, and generous. The participants showed incredible bravery, allowing themselves to be vulnerable in places where that can feel dangerous. There was laughter; there were tears. There were things that went smoothly, and others that proved challenging.

I felt that same hope in California as I do in Michigan—in myself, and in others. As one man said, “This class gives me a chance to recharge my optimism and humanity.”

Like I said, this took up most of our time, but we did a little troubleshooting about our play’s logistics before we left. In brief, there’s an awkward scene change that needs to be bridged by some sort of action, and the idea of having zannis swoop in to fill in the audience popped back up. We went through a few improvised scenarios, ultimately landing (at least for now) on a quick scene in which two (very confused) zannis attempt to explain the plot and are steamrolled by Malvolio, who has brought a beautiful presentation on poster board.

Friday / February 8 / 2019
Written by Matt

“I went zanni-CRAZY!” announced one of our veterans today. We’ve all been a little zanni-crazy this season at times, so the feeling was general. To help us with the zanni-crazies (and names), we played a goofy name game that involved saying your name and singing a snippet of some song--whereupon everybody else would repeat your name and the song snippet. People sang all sorts of songs, ranging from “I Will Always Love You” to “Happy Birthday,” by way of the Macarena. Frannie brought up the rear with “I Want It That Way.” Fearless leader, indeed.

To keep the energy up, one of our veterans explained a game we played one other time this season. Everyone began as an “egg” (their job was to run around with their arms tented over their heads, chanting “egg, egg, egg, egg…”), and could progress to be a chicken, a T-Rex, a farmer, a businesswoman, and then, finally, Beyonce. Each stage has its own associated motion and noise. Once you become Beyonce, you win. I never said it made sense. The way a person progressed to the next level was to win a game of rock/paper/scissors with another person at their same level (egg vs. egg, farmer vs. farmer). What’s great about the game is that it’s so darn easy to learn and really fun. It requires lots of short interactions with various other ensemble members, but there’s no pressure to be clever or interesting during those interactions--it’s formulaic: you play rock/paper/scissors, and then you’re done.

Before diving into scene work, we had one more item of business: unfortunately, our Orsino won’t be able to come to SIP anymore. It’s always a shame when we lose someone, but we’ve always rolled with the punches, so we asked if anyone else was interested in that role. Turns out that two of our newbies (today marked a month since they joined!) were game! With minimal convincing, another put her name in, too. We decided to give them until Tuesday to prepare a short part of Act II, scene iv. We’ll make a call after seeing them “audition” then.

We dove into Act II, scene v, which we’ve had on the back burner for a few weeks now, since it’s complicated and requires some people who have been absent for one reason or another. This scene is long but hilarious. Malvolio finds the letter Maria wrote to trick him into thinking that Olivia is in love with him as Sir Toby and Sir Andrew hide in the bushes to observe. It also marks the appearance of Fabian, who has never been mentioned before in the play, but serves as a foil for Toby and Andrew.

The hardest part of the scene, we quickly realized, was that Malvolio has to talk for a long time! First, he talks to himself, then finds and wonders about the letter, then reads the letter, then surmises about its import. It’s a lot of lines--even cut down a bit. To help our Malvolio, who is essentially giving a soliloquy (he thinks he’s alone on stage), Frannie had those of us in the audience vocally react to Malvolio’s words, to help her bring us into her thought process. The blocking was a mess, but the energy was great!

What to do with a moment like this? It’s a complicated scene, a long scene, and we really wanted to preserve the great energy and instincts of the performers. Ordinarily, we shy away from “directing” in SIP in the same way we steer clear of “teaching.” Our process is collaborative (“painfully collaborative” as Kyle puts it), messy, inefficient, and focused on personal growth for the participants, not on putting on a show, and certainly not on putting on a show that is tight, spectacular, or even artistically sound. We sometimes get there, but that’s never the point.

And yet, with a scene like Act II, scene v of Twelfth Night, we sometimes have to break our own guidelines in order to serve that larger purpose. It was immediately apparent to Frannie--and, I think, to many of the women--that blocking this scene in our usual way would be more than simply painfully collaborative; it would be a distraction from the rest of the work, an annoyance as well as a mess.

So Frannie jumped in and asked permission to direct the scene, making sure everyone knew that they could jump in any time to question, contradict, add to, or spin off of her ideas. Everyone, especially the veterans, seemed happy with that offer, and totally unintimidated by Frannie putting on the “Director” hat. “I feel like you can help out,” said a core ensemble member, “and if we don’t like it, we’ll just say, ‘Uh, no.’”

Sure enough, Frannie’s “direction” ended up being more of a conversation than a monologue. As soon as Frannie started talking through blocking the scene, women were coming up with ideas to play off of Frannie’s. Our Sir Toby suggested that Malvolio use the stage levels (and sitting) to create dynamism, and Frannie helped Malvolio find moments to sit and stand. A woman in the audience suggested that Sir Andrew, who is somewhat shorter than our Toby and Fabian, hide behind a shrub while the others hide behind trees--Frannie announced that she even has fake shrubs she could bring in! A woman new to the ensemble this year (Heather) was helping work out positioning on stage. Another woman wondered what would happen if Malvolio tried to smile--but wasn’t sure how to make her face into that shape. In all, it was more collaborative than painful this time.

During the second run of the scene, all sorts of things were working better. Frannie gave Maria a pen to use as a “feather duster,” which she used to wrangle Andrew, Toby, and Fabian. Frannie had them pause and suggested that Maria do even more--she’s a lion-tamer! Maria was tickled by that idea, and really backed the others into the bushes. (There will be more feather duster antics to come…)

Afterwards, one of our veterans asked our Maria, “Did that feel natural?”

“No,” she replied. “I felt like I wanted to shoo them, but they wouldn’t shoo.”

Frannie suggested some more forceful movements for her and fetched her a bigger “duster,” this time a drumstick. Silently, one of our quieter members took off her headband and tied it to the tip, so the prop really had some reach--and floppiness! That did the trick.

Malvolio was hilarious as she gave her first lines, but Frannie stopped her partway through. “Wait!” Frannie exclaimed, “aren’t you a stick?” Malvolio said, “Yes.” (She had described her character as “a giant, walking stick” a few weeks ago, which, if Frannie were writing this blog, would have resulted in a bubbly and rambling paragraph about how that’s totally a Michael Chekhov thing, so be grateful, dear reader, that I am on duty for this one).

“Go back and teach us!” said Frannie. “Teach us about being a stick and all the sticky stickness.”

“Okay,” said Malvolio. “Give me a second to get sticky.”

After a second, when she started again, she was. She stood ramrod-straight, and all of her motions and gestures were sudden and in straight lines.

Then, within the framework we had created, all sorts of ideas came bubbling up. One woman wanted Sir Andrew to get angry enough at Malvolio to stalk out towards him, only to be pulled back through the trees. Another agreed, and added that, if the trees were moved to a somewhat different orientation, the sight gag would be funnier. When they ran that moment, Sir Andrew knocked over one of the potted trees in her haste, so we paused, and Frannie suggested that we could have the same effect without toppling trees if Andrew instead did an army crawl and Toby and Fabian pulled her back by her legs. Perfect!

There were several other moments like this, with an actor doing something, one of the other women coming up with an idea of how to do it more effectively, then several others building on the initial idea, and Frannie either weighing in during the conversation or streamlining the final decision. Each time, we came to a solution that no one person (no, not even Frannie!) would have settled on. It was a really beautiful expression of the SIP process.

After working through the scene in chunks, we had a few minutes left. Were we going to end the session or try to squeeze in one more run? One more run, of course! The scene was really tight--well on its way to performance-quality work. Sir Andrew became terrified of the feather-duster-bearing Maria and started cowering behind Fabian, who was herself trying to cower behind Andrew.

After we ended the run, everyone let out a big laugh. It’s a really funny scene! We raced to put everything back in order, put up the Ring, and head out.

Season Eight: Week 21


Is this a credit card I see before me?

Tuesday / January 29 / 2019
Written by Emma

Despite the biting cold (and the absence of our intrepid leader, Frannie) our ensemble gathered in good spirits. Check-ins were a mixed bag of goofy and serious, and included the reading of a “check-in sonnet” that Frannie had sent to appease us while she is out doing research in sunny California. Everyone in the ensemble seemed relieved that we were meeting, bad weather be damned.

After ringing it, one long-time member shared a quintessential SIP moment from earlier this week. She noticed one of the prison staff wasn’t having a good day and, being the caring individual that she is, she offered them “a woosh.” “A what?” the undoubtedly perplexed staff member asked. “A woosh—y’know, WOOOOSH!” the woman waved her hands as the ensemble broke out in laughter. We eat these anecdotes up—the more SIP-energy that spreads, the better.

After some quick deliberation, we transitioned into active exercises to get our blood flowing and bodies moving. We did a zippy round of Crazy 8s, followed by the loud-and-proud game of “Wah.” Following some gentle encouragement, one of our newest ensemble members bravely joined in our revels—a first for her. Once sufficiently warmed up (ha), we decided it was time to jump into some Shakespeare. In the interim a first season member and a veteran were discussing learning lines. The newer woman was expressing her anxieties concerning memorization. “Aren’t you scared to learn all of the lines? I don’t even have a big part and I’m worried,” she remarked, hands in her pockets. “I just don’t know if I could ever really do that, like, realistically.” Picking up on the apprehension, our sage veteran calmly responded, “The pressure is all within you—you put it on yourself.” She smiled. “My first season I had a small part, too. I even learned all of the lines and then I changed characters. I had to scrap it all and start over. You can do it, believe me.” And just like that, this Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.

We began our evening’s stage work with Act II, scene iv. The meat and potatoes of this scene is an intense exchange between Viola (in disguise as Cesario, because Shakespeare) and Orsino. Heaps of unrequited love, turned up to 11. As the ensemble began hammering out scene transition details, it became clear that there were competing instincts at play. Our Orsino has an incredible comedic intuition that has contributed to a number of schticks that are sure to elicit laughter during performances. One of said schticks includes Orsino flailing and floundering his way on to a too-tall throne in a manner reminiscent of Chris Farley. As the scene opened with this image—Orsino not-so-gracefully hopping atop his lofty seat—our Viola broke character and said, “Is this a real thing that’s happening right now?” Despite the initial discord, the scene continued. Orsino remained seated as the emotional exchange played out, surrounded by his “zanni posse.”

As soon as the scene ended, one of the zannis exclaimed “Ok, you need to get down at some point!” Other ensemble members rushed to agree. Our Viola explained, “So once I come back from seeing Olivia, [Orsino] will be anxious to hear more! He won’t want to remain seated.” This input was met with open arms by our Orsino, who gratefully accepted the constructive criticism. The presence of our goofy zanni posse in the scene was also brought into question, with one woman commenting, “I feel like this is a very serious scene.” After some collaborative brainstorming, we started again from the top.

There was a palpable tonal shift almost instantly. Whereas before our Orsino approached the interaction with her natural affability, it was clear that she was now tapping into a new dimension of her character—the Orsino that none of us had met yet. Similarly, Viola dug in and explored the multitudes contained within her character. She explained, “I’m in love with this person, and I’m forgetting I’m disguised as a guy, but I’m fighting to get back—to get back to reality while having these emotions.” As the scene continued, Orsino began wandering across the stage. Breaking character, Viola asked, “Were you talking to me?” Orsino nodded, and Viola continued, “Ok then, you need to make me hear. Let’s do it one more time.” This brief interaction, in my eyes, exemplifies what is so special about this group. Our ensemble members are able to effortlessly provide feedback in a way that is both supportive and effective.

As we wrapped the second run of this scene, more ideas came to light. “I felt kinda lost. I was trying to put emotion in, but the way they’re talking it’s hard to move. I feel like we should be sitting down eating tea,” Orsino commented as chuckles rippled through the ensemble, then quickly added, “I meant eating crumpets—I just couldn’t think of the word.” Cutting through the levity, our Viola responded to Orsino’s suggestion of sitting down: “Don’t reject what you feel is right… always do what you feel for your character.” Another veteran member added, “This is YOUR house—you get to do what you want!” Again, with the supportiveness! The third and final time we ran this scene, it became clear that it had found its legs. By collaboratively incorporating both Orsino and Viola’s instincts, we seemed to have hit the nail square on the head.

Next, we tackled Act III, scene i. A more jovial segment, this scene includes a little bit of everything that makes Twelfth Night what it is: unrequited love, disguises, and drunken buffoonery. We opened the floor to any new ensemble members who would like to give reading a shot, and much to our delight, we got a taker. The new member fearlessly made her way to the front of the stage to read the part of Feste the Joker, commenting happily, “That’s me, for real!” We worked our way through the scene, stopping only briefly to crack up at a few choice moments (when Maria missed an exit, Sir Toby and Sir Andrew whispered loudly from backstage “Maria! Maria!”).

When the scene ended, Olivia and Viola explored the age-old questions of “what worked?” and “what didn’t?” In this scene, Olivia is swooning over Cesario (Viola)—much to Viola’s chagrin. Viola recounted, “This was frustrating, because [Olivia’s] so stuck up! It’s like… what’s my line… westward, ho!” At this, the room erupted in laughter. Redirecting that energy, Viola said to Olivia, “I think we could ping-pong it. You’re happy to see me, but I’m not happy about you.” “Do you like the challenge of her not liking you?” another ensemble member chimed in. “In real life,” our Olivia (Cosi) said, “it can be a really bad situation and [the person you are romantically interested in] can still show up, and just the fact that they’re there is enough,” speaking to the validation Olivia feels simply due to Viola’s presence.

The final time we ran through this scene, Olivia honed in on the annoying puppy-dog energy, and Viola worked on shutting her down. Viola executed a perfectly chilled “I pity you,” landing heavily on the “t” in a way one facilitator described as “very Bette Davis.” Finishing the scene, there was a unanimous opinion that the second round was better—more grounded, more realistic. We concluded a particularly chilly day by raising the ring and bidding one another tidings of warmth, in every sense.

Friday / February 1 / 2019
Written by Matt

Frannie is off in California this week, so for the second time, we were without our fearless leader. She would object to my use of “leader” and probably to my use of “fearless,” but she’s in California as we’re freezing our butts off in Michigan, so she’ll have to deal with it. But this is a blog about the SIP women’s ensemble, not about how much warmer it is in California than Michigan this week (roughly 70 degrees), so I’ll start again.

It was warm and cozy in the auditorium today, despite the Siberian conditions outside—almost like we were in California, where it is 70 degrees warmer, and where Frannie is this week (of all weeks). But we were not jealous. …I’ll start again.

*Note: Matt knows Frannie proofreads and posts all of these blogs. This is as much of a response as his nonsense is going to get.*

There was so much positive energy in the room today when we gathered—focused positive energy, too! Check-in was lean, except for a good deal of wishing we were in California. After giving a quick update from Frannie (who is 70 degrees warmer than we are, but whatever!), one of our most enthusiastic members knew exactly what to do: “Okay!” she announced. “Let’s play two games and then do some Shakespeare!” All right! She suggested playing Wah!, which we introduced on Tuesday. Half of today’s group was new to the game, though, which is part of why she suggested it—it moves quickly, and it’s easy to pick up. Everything went smoothly until the final four, when one of our veterans started getting sneaky! No one could decide who should leave the stage, and no one wanted to run another round, so we called it a four-way draw. Wah! is physical, so we played a mental/verbal warmup as well: the Question game. The rules are simple: you turn to the person next to you and ask a question (any question), and they have to either answer you with a question (any question) or turn to the other person next to them and ask them a question (any question). Funnily enough, the finale of this game featured two of the same women who had “won” Wah!

Our Malvolio was absent, so we ended up skipping ahead to the next big scene that doesn’t involve him. Act III, scene ii is short—maybe, one of the women observed, the only short scene with Sirs Toby and Andrew—and mostly just setting up for a funny sub-sub-plot in which Sir Andrew challenges Cesario to a duel. In addition to being unusually short for an Andrew/Toby/Maria scene, it’s also not especially funny; there are a few jokes, but it mostly just moves the plot.

Maybe for this reason, the first run was especially rough. The actors stepped out and mostly stood in a clump until the exit. “There aren’t a lot of words here that make we want to move,” observed Andrew, and her scene-mates agreed. A group of us clustered together to try to work out what was going on and how to make the scene more dynamic. Between us, we figured out that simply having Toby, Andrew, and Fabian (more on Fabian in a moment) enter from a different spot would give the scene some more action. Andrew realized that she really just wanted to pout, and that the steps in front of the stage were the perfect place to do that.

Round two was worlds better. Sir Andrew discovered that she was the focal point of the scene—the focal point of Sir Toby’s manipulation, really—which meant that she could lead the others around. Whatever she did, the others had to do, too. She stormed in ahead of the others in lieu of her usual pratfall (“I was mad!” she said, by way of explanation). She pouted on the steps, they pouted on the steps. She stalked off upstage, they stalked off upstage. In the end, it wasn’t a great staging, but we found our way to the beginning of something.

The next big question was: what is Fabian doing here? Our Sir Toby had an idea: “Fabian is like a zanni with a voice,” she suggested. Everyone loved this idea, but no one more than Fabian herself!

On the third go-around, Fabian stole the show. Toby was working on Andrew, and they were sitting side-by-side on the steps in front of the stage. On Fabian’s line, she put her hands between the two Sirs, as if parting a curtain, and pushed her way into the middle of the conversation. We were all in stitches from just that movement, which was perfect and funny, but then she started buttonholing Andrew, giving him the Johnson Treatment. At last, Fabian started stealing the cups of the others whenever they stood up or made a gesture that put the cup in reach. It was so funny, and it naturally created tension and character development and dynamic movement—all the things that the scene was lacking at the beginning.

Not content with that, we moved onto the next scene, which is the second appearance of Sebastian and Antonio (halfway through the play? Why not?). Our Sebastian was present, but our Antonio was not. As so often happens, an absence made a great opening for someone else to step up. This time, it was a brand-new member, who confessed that she had never even set foot on a stage to speak except once in AA. She dove right in as Antonio with truly minimal prep—a few of us mumbled something about how he’s a bit pirate-y and madly in bro-love with Sebastian. The first run through was predictably rough, but one of our veterans jumped right in to take the reins. She talked the actors through the plot of the scene and asked what they needed to tell that story.

This timely intervention by an experienced, dedicated ensemble member did the trick. Sebastian and Antonio quickly realized that their conversation needed some space to move. The curtain was closed, so they had to come through the house to give the scene the long walk that it needed before they naturally wound up at the center part of the curtain, where Antonio gave Sebastian money before slinking away. By the third time, some chemistry had developed between the characters, and our Antonio stand-in had shaken off some of the stage fright. It’s always wonderful when a person’s first experience acting can be so positive. Really good vibes today.

Season Eight: Week 20

Check out this article in American Theatre

A Role for Theatre in Criminal Justice?

So much great information about this work, its impact…
And Shakespeare in Prison is honored to be a part of it!


Oh, and while you’re at it…

Tuesday / January 15 / 2019
Written by Frannie

After checking in and answering our traditional three questions (which we forgot to do last week!), I asked the ensemble what they wanted to do. Some kind of icebreaker? “SIX DIRECTIONS,” said a longtime member, gleefully rubbing her hands together. This Michael Chekhov exercise (a favorite of some… and not so much of others, but they humor the rest of us) is a good one for centering oneself and warming up for scene work and other exercises. Before moving our energy in each of six directions, we did some physical expansions and contractions. We followed these with a Michael Chekhov “personal atmosphere” exercise, which several ensemble members have been asking for.

In this exercise, each person uses her imagination to conjure a “bubble” of space around herself that is filled with a specific sensation or image that influences her feelings and physicality. We began with each of four tastes (sweet, bitter, sour, salty), and then went through a sequence of atmospheres, moving through the space and trying out different activities. Finally, I asked each person (including myself) to choose an atmosphere of either bubbles or cactus spines, and then to interact with each other using only the words “yes” and “no.”

We realized very quickly that all but two people had chosen cactus spines, but those two proved to be very persuasive! It didn’t take long for the cactuses all to be converted to bubbles, and there was a lot of smiling and laughing when I called a hold to the exercise so we could sit together and reflect.

The first thing anyone said was that that she’d noticed how sad everything felt as soon as we stepped into atmospheres of tears. Everyone nodded as another woman said that being in that atmosphere “brought her right into” being with her kids, which was what made her feel sad. I asked if she was okay, and she assured us that she was. “It’s good to show emotions sometimes,” she said. “If you bottle it in, it comes out negative.” I made very sure that everyone knew that our goal is not to re-live painful memories in our acting, but to find ways of being emotionally truthful in our performances—to use our imaginations to call the feelings up. She had experienced the emotion, she said, but it hadn’t been a painful moment in itself.

“When we did the tears, there was a heaviness in the air because everyone was so down,” said one woman. “When I stepped over [into the stage left wing], I almost felt a wall come up. It was weird.” I asked if she’d gotten stuck in that energy, and she said, “No, as soon as I stepped over that line, I left it behind.” … Which is also a Michael Chekhov exercise—creating a threshold to separate one atmosphere from another—but I didn’t want to interrupt the reflection and figured I could tell her (for the umpteenth time) how brilliant she is later.

Still on the subject of tears, another woman said that her atmosphere had been so heavy that, “I didn’t even want to move. Just stand there.” Another woman, who had spent most of the exercise standing just offstage, closely observing, mused, “When we did the bubbles, everybody did their own thing. There were all kinds of bubbles. But when we did the tears, everybody did the exact same thing—the same emotion, the same expression, everything.” She said it had affected her, even though she’d only been watching.

I agreed with her completely, suggesting that maybe that was because everyone experiences the physical sensation of tears pretty much the same way, while “bubbles” can mean anything. That’s why I’d thought the group would like using atmospheres in Twelfth Night, and this woman agreed. “I think that’d really help,” she said, explaining that she tries her lines all sorts of ways in her head, but she’s never sure which is right. “I really don’t know what kind of atmosphere [her character] is supposed to be,” she said. “Sometimes my atmosphere gets mixed up with my character’s.”

I responded that this is a really common challenge for those of us who get stuck in our heads, and that’s why I love Chekhov technique: because it removes the necessity of thinking and uses the body’s memory, rather than the brain’s, to call up truthful emotions. I began to give an example, and then realized that one was sitting right next to me: last year’s Macbeth. “Do you remember ‘Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow?’” I asked her. She thought for a moment. “If I could look at the script for a minute, I think I would,” she said, and, improbably, another ensemble member called out, “I’ve got a copy right here,” waving around a No Fear edition. Ye Olde Macbeth grinned, and, by the time she’d gotten over there (which was all of 15 feet away), the other member had the book open to the correct page.

When we say we’re nerds, we mean it.

As she looked over the speech, I asked The Artist Formerly Known as Macbeth if she remembered what she’d done to access the emotion she wanted for that scene, and she did. The monologue had reminded her of a time when she thought she’d felt the same way: when her entire body had felt “heavy, like a brick.” She sat back down beside me on the edge of the stage and called up the physical sensation. And then she read the piece.

It had lost none of its power since some of us last saw and heard it in June, and we were rapt. In fact, when she finally looked up at the end, and I was able to pull my gaze away from her, the first thing both of us saw was Matt, sitting on the floor in the first row, so moved that he was weeping. “Oh, no! Not the atmosphere of tears!” I joked. Several of us joined forces to whoosh him (see last week’s blog!), and he pulled himself together. “You know,” said a woman who joined the group a couple of months ago, “I’ve never read that. I’ve never seen it. But the way she did it made me have feelings.”

This took us back to atmospheres—and back to tears! But this time, the group focused on all the positive feelings that came out of that atmosphere. One woman, who had sat on the stage taking notes, said that she’d been on edge all day, and that imagining and then shaking off that atmosphere had allowed her to shake off her actual tension, too. “Same here,” said the other woman who’d mostly watched the others. She said she’d been crying before the session, and the feeling had persisted—until she’d dropped the imaginary atmosphere of tears. And then they were both gone. Another woman said it “took a second” for her to dismiss the tears, and “it scared me for a second.” But after that scary moment, the feeling vanished.

One woman said that the atmospheres had been cool, but she HATED the expansion/contraction exercise. “A lot of us do!” I said, and I asked if she had any thoughts about that. “I can’t put my finger on it… It makes you, like, vulnerable,” she said, grimacing. “It was easier to be in a contracted ball, but it felt better to be expanded,” said one woman, and I asked if she knew why that was. “You’re vulnerable when you’re expanded,” she said, “but it’s powerful. Being in a little ball felt bad, but safe.” “Yeah, I agree,” said another woman.

That all took longer than anticipated, but we had a little time left for scene work, and we returned to the Olivia/Viola section of Act I, scene v. We tried out some atmospheres: Viola used sparkles, Olivia used bees (which changed to butterflies when she fell in love), and Maria used butter (which, I confess, was my lame idea). There were some definite changes in the scene, though this way of working will take some getting used to. Still, “It feels good to change,” said our Olivia. A woman who’d been watching agreed, “You could feel the irritation, and then the change.” Our Viola, who was irritated with me for taking so long with the exercise, conceded, “This was a good start.” Another woman took it further, saying that she could see “a lot of improvement.”

Friday / January 18 / 2019
Written by Matt

“Thank god I’m here,” announced one of our veterans when we sat down for check-in, “because it’s been a day! I was like, ‘I gotta get to Shakespeare, cause this is my sanity!”

Our group was already feeling a little less huge today--more like our usual size. Still, there were a lot of new folks in the circle, so after check in and the ring, we played a name game. We’d played one last week, but there are so many new people that we needed another! Of all the name games, we settled on the least “interesting,” but probably the most effective: we were going to a hypothetical picnic, and each of us was bringing something that happened to begin with the same letter (or sound) as our name. We went around in a circle, saying who we were, and what we were bringing. The trick is that you have to remember (and recite!) the names and offerings of every person who went before you. Like I said, not an earth-shattering game, but mnemonic devices sure help memory! And cause panic. One of the women froze up, looked at her hands, and said, in surprise, “My palms are sweating!” Who knew that the name game would be the most stressful part of the evening?

We started out by running through Act 2, scene 1 again. Last week, the women in that scene had needed a few run-throughs to “find” the scene. Today, it was still a little bit rough, but they told the story clearly, and there were some really funny moments. Most importantly, our Antonio made a big, dramatic cross to get in front of Sebastian. Everyone seemed pretty pleased with it as a rough draft, so we moved on.

We ran Act 2, scene 2 for the first time. A short scene between Malvolio and Viola is followed by Viola’s famous speech about being torn--between conflicting desires, conflicting duties, and conflicting genders. In stumbling through it the first time, our Malvolio found some totally hilarious gestures. Instinctively, she began doing all of her gestures with a straight, extended arm. On giving Olivia’s ring to Viola (which Olivia said was Cesario’s ring, and Cesario is Viola in disguise… oh, Shakespeare!), Malvolio thrust the object within two inches of our Viola’s face. Viola had clearly been working on her monologue (“Ha ha! I am the man!” she exclaimed). Only two women had time to give quick notes before our Malvolio demanded that we run the scene again, now!

They continued to refine the second and third times through. Malvolio raced to pop up in front of Viola and doubled down on the stiff-armed gestures. And after the monologue, our Viola walked off beaming. “I was wanting to do it just like that,” she said, “I really wanted the audience to go, ‘Woah, what’s this girl gonna do?’”

We did Act 2, scene 3 last week, but without Feste and Malvolio. Our Feste, in particular, was ready to get up on stage and act! Everyone has been doing brilliant work this season, but the women in this scene are on another comedic level! From the moment the curtain opened, we knew it was going to be funny--mostly because Sir Andrew, who has been the queen of pratfalls, fell on her face when the curtain opened on her. For the rest of the scene, we were teetering on the edge of chaos. Feste forgot her script, and piled shtick upon shtick as Frannie and the other zanni ran around looking for it. A few minutes later, Feste dropped her script and, instantly, Sir Toby offered hers.

All of this insanity gave Maria plenty to work with when she entered. She was not amused. Still less amused (but still more amusing) was Malvolio, who stalked around the stage and berated the others. As Malvolio raged, the zannis tied Sir Andrew’s shoes together under the table. The highlight of the run, though, was a beautiful tableau of Feste, Maria, Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew gathered around the “bar,” plotting their revenge on Malvolio. It looked like something designed by a director, but they just naturally found it: Maria holding court at the bar, Sirs Toby and Andrew on either side and seated, and Feste, who instinctively knew to kneel in front of the bar and open to the audience. We’re not here to create professional-quality theatre, but it’s so cool when we do by instinct what someone with training would have done.

Round two of the scene was even more delightful. Our Feste is really enjoying her role as zanni-meister, and relishing the freedom of playing the fool. She sang the songs in the wrong order--at one point adding the lyrics, “Oh, I’m totally singing the wrong song!”--instructed the zannis to grab musical instruments and play; and stole Frannie’s pen, dusted it off, and replaced it in her hand. When everyone got lost, she started clearing her throat, which led everyone onstage (except Malvolio) to clear her throat. All the havoc seemed to help Maria find her character. The zannis cowered on her entrance, and she was constantly shooing them away, which gave her some pretty funny stage business. To banish them, she snapped her fingers authoritatively and pointed to the exit.

Have I mentioned they’re doing really hilarious, amazing work? We’ve never had this many people, with so much energy, feeding so beautifully off of one another’s energy.