(no subject)
Summer stock theatre is like sleepaway camp for twenty-somethings. It is a place where they can gather, work grueling and variable hours, then party all night and fall asleep anywhere except their own beds-for several months at a time.
A crucial skill to surviving summer stock is to know what is and is not acceptable to talk about. For example, one popular conversation topic is comparing where people have worked in summers past. It is important, though, not to talk about what you did during the regular season-this will destroy the illusion that this is only “summer work,” and that you will be going back to college in the fall. Twenty-somethings flock to summer stock theatres to pretend that they are still students who are merely working for experience rather than desperately seeking a paycheck. Another favorite pastime is to complain about tyrannical designers-costume designers, lighting designers, scenic designers-but do not go so far as to admit that you too, designed in college, and deep down are somewhat disappointed that you are a lowly technician and not a master artist of the theatre. Twenty-somethings do not like to be reminded that they fell back to the bottom of the ladder upon leaving their college theatre.
The best way to combat this fall from glory is to boast about all the work you’ve done on other shows. College theatre is all well and good, but professional theatres are where you’ll earn your real bragging power. Of course, all of your one-upping should be done with subtlety, in the form of nostalgic stories that others will listen to politely, but are really only entertaining to the speaker. Extra credit is given to those who can provide anecdotes from a field other than the one they are currently working in: “Yeah, I’ve been doing paints since high school, but for a couple of years I worked as a sound designer…” If you find yourself lacking in this area, you have one of two options to make up for it. One, make up credits. Twenty-somethings like to refer to theatres they’ve worked at by obscure acronyms and abbreviations (OST, BFT, Shake&Co) that they will promptly be asked to explain. It is not terribly difficult to invent your own, but beware that you might be called out: everyone has worked with someone who went to school with someone who now works in that area, and s/he has never heard of that theatre before/has never heard of you. A safer bet is to have only a few credits to your name, but make them really count: claim to have worked with some (fabricated) big name. Do not make this person a famous actor or director; s/he should be “the pioneer of front-angle lighting techniques” or “the first to really promote the translation of antique tailoring standards into modern equivalents.” There is no Internet Database of Theatre Artists; even the most influential names are mostly unknown, therefore you are unlikely to be caught on this. The most credible-sounding names will have a hyphenated last name or a monosyllabic first name. Know also what credits will be admired and what will be frowned upon. Working directly for Disney is bad (“I spent last summer as a scene painter in the Disney shops”), but being connected with Disney is good (“my professor got me a job as an overhire scene painter on a project at Epcot”). Shakespeare festivals, reparatory theatres, and opera companies are good; children’s shows, dinner theatre, and theme parks are bad.
Celebrating-through-whining makes up a large part of any twenty-something’s daily routine. Complain about all-nighters and ever-changing schedules, but revel in not having a nine-to-five office job. Complain about the dormitory/shared apartment/lodge/company housing where you have been placed, but revel in not paying rent/mortgage or living at home. Complain about living in the middle of nowhere, but revel in the knowledge that you’ll be moving to a new job in a month anyway. Partying makes up the rest of the day. It is common practice for a twenty-something to come out of a fourteen-hour workday and drive promptly to the company housing for the evening’s barbeque/domestics night/gin bucket. Actors and technicians may party together, but it is considered poor form to hook up across disciplines. Take heed, however, that hooking up with someone is very nearly an entry requirement to these gatherings; the only valid excuse is having a boyfriend/girlfriend in another state, and you will be obliged to spend the rest of the night arguing with them on the phone. Twenty-something theatre technicians enjoy a rich and varied diet, consisting mainly of locally-grown organic produce, prepackaged junk food, cheap wine, and gourmet microbrews.
Unfortunately, the twenty-something lifestyle can only be had for a limited time. Thirty-year-olds are rare in summer stock, thirty-five year-olds rarer still, and by age forty all former theatre technicians are all living together on a quarantined island somewhere or have graduated to administration/management jobs in regional theatres or-gasp-the mainstream workforce. The result is a veritable Lord of the Flys-esque pleasure cult, tempered only by the necessity of catering to families and elderly tourists for support.
I've only been at this job for a week and a half now, but I feel more than qualified to write this review.
A crucial skill to surviving summer stock is to know what is and is not acceptable to talk about. For example, one popular conversation topic is comparing where people have worked in summers past. It is important, though, not to talk about what you did during the regular season-this will destroy the illusion that this is only “summer work,” and that you will be going back to college in the fall. Twenty-somethings flock to summer stock theatres to pretend that they are still students who are merely working for experience rather than desperately seeking a paycheck. Another favorite pastime is to complain about tyrannical designers-costume designers, lighting designers, scenic designers-but do not go so far as to admit that you too, designed in college, and deep down are somewhat disappointed that you are a lowly technician and not a master artist of the theatre. Twenty-somethings do not like to be reminded that they fell back to the bottom of the ladder upon leaving their college theatre.
The best way to combat this fall from glory is to boast about all the work you’ve done on other shows. College theatre is all well and good, but professional theatres are where you’ll earn your real bragging power. Of course, all of your one-upping should be done with subtlety, in the form of nostalgic stories that others will listen to politely, but are really only entertaining to the speaker. Extra credit is given to those who can provide anecdotes from a field other than the one they are currently working in: “Yeah, I’ve been doing paints since high school, but for a couple of years I worked as a sound designer…” If you find yourself lacking in this area, you have one of two options to make up for it. One, make up credits. Twenty-somethings like to refer to theatres they’ve worked at by obscure acronyms and abbreviations (OST, BFT, Shake&Co) that they will promptly be asked to explain. It is not terribly difficult to invent your own, but beware that you might be called out: everyone has worked with someone who went to school with someone who now works in that area, and s/he has never heard of that theatre before/has never heard of you. A safer bet is to have only a few credits to your name, but make them really count: claim to have worked with some (fabricated) big name. Do not make this person a famous actor or director; s/he should be “the pioneer of front-angle lighting techniques” or “the first to really promote the translation of antique tailoring standards into modern equivalents.” There is no Internet Database of Theatre Artists; even the most influential names are mostly unknown, therefore you are unlikely to be caught on this. The most credible-sounding names will have a hyphenated last name or a monosyllabic first name. Know also what credits will be admired and what will be frowned upon. Working directly for Disney is bad (“I spent last summer as a scene painter in the Disney shops”), but being connected with Disney is good (“my professor got me a job as an overhire scene painter on a project at Epcot”). Shakespeare festivals, reparatory theatres, and opera companies are good; children’s shows, dinner theatre, and theme parks are bad.
Celebrating-through-whining makes up a large part of any twenty-something’s daily routine. Complain about all-nighters and ever-changing schedules, but revel in not having a nine-to-five office job. Complain about the dormitory/shared apartment/lodge/company housing where you have been placed, but revel in not paying rent/mortgage or living at home. Complain about living in the middle of nowhere, but revel in the knowledge that you’ll be moving to a new job in a month anyway. Partying makes up the rest of the day. It is common practice for a twenty-something to come out of a fourteen-hour workday and drive promptly to the company housing for the evening’s barbeque/domestics night/gin bucket. Actors and technicians may party together, but it is considered poor form to hook up across disciplines. Take heed, however, that hooking up with someone is very nearly an entry requirement to these gatherings; the only valid excuse is having a boyfriend/girlfriend in another state, and you will be obliged to spend the rest of the night arguing with them on the phone. Twenty-something theatre technicians enjoy a rich and varied diet, consisting mainly of locally-grown organic produce, prepackaged junk food, cheap wine, and gourmet microbrews.
Unfortunately, the twenty-something lifestyle can only be had for a limited time. Thirty-year-olds are rare in summer stock, thirty-five year-olds rarer still, and by age forty all former theatre technicians are all living together on a quarantined island somewhere or have graduated to administration/management jobs in regional theatres or-gasp-the mainstream workforce. The result is a veritable Lord of the Flys-esque pleasure cult, tempered only by the necessity of catering to families and elderly tourists for support.
I've only been at this job for a week and a half now, but I feel more than qualified to write this review.