Blogging Macbeth 6 (Flock Theatre 2013) - Deathbird and the Grisly Pit
Things are amping up in rehearsals, although today was, so quoth our director in his unfailing mot precis, "WONKY!"
Most of us are half-memorized, and in that haze of nearly-remembered lines, are forgetting ourselves. Who are we? What play are we in again? Which aisle do we enter from? Which direction is midnight???
(The Awful Clock metaphor has morphed into the Grisly Pit, but we still take our stage directions off of midnight. But the Grisly Pit is the thing. Every time we enter the stage, we are entering an arena. One of those nasty pre-Coliseum ones. A cockpit. A bullring. Bear-baiting. Our director would like nothing better than to throw a bunch of sand down there on the linoleum floor of the Star of the Sea's basement. Throw down the sand and then just THROW DOWN in general. Us, mostly.)
My lines are there. The first act at least. I cannot speak for my eyes of newts and toes of frogs bit. It somehow all gets tangled with wools of bats and tongues of dogs until I have wooly newts and tongue-tied bats and six-toed froggy dogs, and who knows what else.
My lines are THERE, friends (a triumph!), but my INTERNAL TIMEBOMB ISN'T TICKING FAST ENOUGH.
PACING! Kapow!
That goes for all of us.
Our director says that by now he can recognize this point in the rehearsal process. It happens every time. It used to, he said - only half joking - make him go home and cry. "This play will never get there!" he wailed, by way of example. "But no," he said. "It's just the process. You're dropping scripts. Continue to push through on those lines."
We have to shave off 15 minutes of the first act, thirteen of which have to do with not stuttering and calling, "LINE!" every few minutes. The final two we'll have to squeeeeeze.
Michael's thrown me into two more scenes as Seyton, too, which I think is fun. Seyton's Macbeth's man, through and through, one of the "heartless" later mentioned. Me, I'm of the opinion that Macbeth saved Seyton's bacon on the battlefield, and that means undying loyalty - even to a tyrant.
No matter the cost.
I imagine that when the lords are talking about those who stick with Macbeth, they are talking of me.
So, this is me:
"Some say he's mad; others that lesser hate him
Do call it valiant fury..."
And this is me:
"Those he commands move only in command,
Nothing in love..."
And this is me:
"And none serve with him but constrained things
Whose hearts are absent too."
WAAAAAAAHHH. POOR US. Sucked dry by our loves into this loveless desert of obedience. Drained by virtue of all virtue, until nothing is left but BY YOUR GRACIOUS LEAVE.
(But that's okay, because in my mind, Seyton's being ridden by one of the secret, black, and midnight hags - me, in particular - my Deathbird witch girl. Maybe ridden, maybe possessed, or maybe she just takes on human form from time to time to get her business done - and this form is Seyton. I mean, "what's in a name," right??? Her business is CHAOS and battlefields and BLOOD and MEAT, so why not take on the form of a Scottish warlord's minion! I ASK YOU. It's a way of making sense of a triple role.)
Ooh, ooh, and I get to be in my favorite scene that Christie Max Williams (our Macbeth) does, when he's talking so sweet and smilingly to Banquo about his little afternoon ride, and ALL THE WHILE you can see he's already totally plotted to have Banquo murdered. It's fascinating - and now I'm in it! AS SEYTON!
Seyton is, I've decided, the same as Murderer 3. (Since I have to be Murderer 3 anyway.) I can just see Macbeth, in a scene unplayed, telling me to go after Murderers 1 and 2 and make sure they do what he's paying them to do. The "or else" is implied in the invisible subtext of this unwritten scene.
I told Christie my idea about that in the parking lot.
"You're something else," he said, shaking his head.
"But, Christie," said I, "I'm your MAN, Christie! I get to be your HENCHMAN!"
And he said, laughing, "My BEAUTIFUL henchman!" and we bid each other good night, chuckling over our murderous intent.
What else?
Oh, I had the day off today, so I wrote all day. But also I PAINTED MY FACE Macbeth Deathbird style! I have to access my inner War Goddess.
...You know, wash a few breastplates in the river. Turn myself into a hundred crows and eat some Celtic carrion meat.
Where have I been, you ask?
KILLING SWINE.
And this is how I imagine me looking, probably sans kerchief, while I do it. More or less.
Most of us are half-memorized, and in that haze of nearly-remembered lines, are forgetting ourselves. Who are we? What play are we in again? Which aisle do we enter from? Which direction is midnight???
(The Awful Clock metaphor has morphed into the Grisly Pit, but we still take our stage directions off of midnight. But the Grisly Pit is the thing. Every time we enter the stage, we are entering an arena. One of those nasty pre-Coliseum ones. A cockpit. A bullring. Bear-baiting. Our director would like nothing better than to throw a bunch of sand down there on the linoleum floor of the Star of the Sea's basement. Throw down the sand and then just THROW DOWN in general. Us, mostly.)
My lines are there. The first act at least. I cannot speak for my eyes of newts and toes of frogs bit. It somehow all gets tangled with wools of bats and tongues of dogs until I have wooly newts and tongue-tied bats and six-toed froggy dogs, and who knows what else.
My lines are THERE, friends (a triumph!), but my INTERNAL TIMEBOMB ISN'T TICKING FAST ENOUGH.
PACING! Kapow!
That goes for all of us.
Our director says that by now he can recognize this point in the rehearsal process. It happens every time. It used to, he said - only half joking - make him go home and cry. "This play will never get there!" he wailed, by way of example. "But no," he said. "It's just the process. You're dropping scripts. Continue to push through on those lines."
We have to shave off 15 minutes of the first act, thirteen of which have to do with not stuttering and calling, "LINE!" every few minutes. The final two we'll have to squeeeeeze.
Michael's thrown me into two more scenes as Seyton, too, which I think is fun. Seyton's Macbeth's man, through and through, one of the "heartless" later mentioned. Me, I'm of the opinion that Macbeth saved Seyton's bacon on the battlefield, and that means undying loyalty - even to a tyrant.
No matter the cost.
I imagine that when the lords are talking about those who stick with Macbeth, they are talking of me.
So, this is me:
"Some say he's mad; others that lesser hate him
Do call it valiant fury..."
And this is me:
"Those he commands move only in command,
Nothing in love..."
And this is me:
"And none serve with him but constrained things
Whose hearts are absent too."
WAAAAAAAHHH. POOR US. Sucked dry by our loves into this loveless desert of obedience. Drained by virtue of all virtue, until nothing is left but BY YOUR GRACIOUS LEAVE.
(But that's okay, because in my mind, Seyton's being ridden by one of the secret, black, and midnight hags - me, in particular - my Deathbird witch girl. Maybe ridden, maybe possessed, or maybe she just takes on human form from time to time to get her business done - and this form is Seyton. I mean, "what's in a name," right??? Her business is CHAOS and battlefields and BLOOD and MEAT, so why not take on the form of a Scottish warlord's minion! I ASK YOU. It's a way of making sense of a triple role.)
Ooh, ooh, and I get to be in my favorite scene that Christie Max Williams (our Macbeth) does, when he's talking so sweet and smilingly to Banquo about his little afternoon ride, and ALL THE WHILE you can see he's already totally plotted to have Banquo murdered. It's fascinating - and now I'm in it! AS SEYTON!
Seyton is, I've decided, the same as Murderer 3. (Since I have to be Murderer 3 anyway.) I can just see Macbeth, in a scene unplayed, telling me to go after Murderers 1 and 2 and make sure they do what he's paying them to do. The "or else" is implied in the invisible subtext of this unwritten scene.
I told Christie my idea about that in the parking lot.
"You're something else," he said, shaking his head.
"But, Christie," said I, "I'm your MAN, Christie! I get to be your HENCHMAN!"
And he said, laughing, "My BEAUTIFUL henchman!" and we bid each other good night, chuckling over our murderous intent.
What else?
Oh, I had the day off today, so I wrote all day. But also I PAINTED MY FACE Macbeth Deathbird style! I have to access my inner War Goddess.
...You know, wash a few breastplates in the river. Turn myself into a hundred crows and eat some Celtic carrion meat.
Where have I been, you ask?
KILLING SWINE.
And this is how I imagine me looking, probably sans kerchief, while I do it. More or less.