I've got a degree in Theater from UCI. Currently, I'm a website producer for a Fortune 500 company. In the past I've waited tables (how cliché), been a restaurant manager (decidedly NOT cliché… and soul-crushing) and held numerous other odd jobs (some more odd than others). I usually joke that my degree in theater means that I can act like I know what I'm doing in any situation. Sadly, this has been more true than I may have wished, and I've certainly bluffed my way through more than a few of those odd jobs on the pretense that I knew what I was doing.
Until this year, it's been ages since I've done any acting. It's been so long that my wife, who's done her share of acting and directing, had never seen me act. But I've talked a lot about getting back into it, especially in the past few years.
So, when a friend of mine asked me if I'd like to do a scene for her in the Shakespeare Festival at the Huntington Library this year, I jumped at the chance. We did a scene from Twelfth Night (the Malvolio Letter Scene, for those of you familiar with the play) and I played Sir Toby Belch. A grand time was had by all, and it just confirmed for me that I want to act again.
This month, the opportunity came up to attend a workshop sponsored by the company my friend works with, in preparation for their production of Twelfth Night for the Arts Council of Henderson in Nevada. The workshop is being run by an actor that I've actually heard of, and he's got some excellent insight into the workings and language of Shakespeare. So aside from the opportunity to audition for the show, there's also the chance to learn something interesting.
The first night, we sit down and we're going to read through the play. He picks a point in the room and has the person next to me start reading, at the top of the play. The famous "If music be the food of love…" opening monologue for Duke Orsino.
Now, years ago, I played Orsino in a production in El Cajon, in the park outside the East County Performing Arts Center. When I was at UCI, I mentioned this to one of my professors and he asked me to do the opening monologue for him. I had to tell him that we had cut the monologue right after the "food of love" line (the play was 90 minutes long, with songs—there was significant cutting involved). Without missing a beat, he said "never work with those people again" and moved on to someone else in the discussion.
So we're reading and dissecting the Orsino opening monologue and, to my surprise, I end up reading a part of it. (It's only about 10 lines. I assumed the person that started it would finish the monologue, but our discussion was pretty in depth and it took us the better part of an hour to discuss this one monologue.) I found myself stumbling through the section I had to read, falling prey to that worst of all Shakespeare acting failings… reading a line where you have NO idea what you're saying. I got through it and, after a few repeated readings and some feedback from the guy running the workshop, even managed to have it make sense.
But there was a moment when I felt the surreality of the whole situation. Orsino was one of the first major roles I ever played. Now, 20 something years later, I'm in a workshop that's all about understanding and communicating the language of Shakespeare—a workshop that is directed toward casting for this show—and I'm floundering through the opening monologue for this very same character. I found it strange and a bit disconcerting.
And, while I don't expect to be UP for the role of Orsino in this production, I can't help but wonder if the guy running the workshop, who's also directing this production of Twelfth Night, isn't going to look at my resume and wonder how the hell I could be so clueless about a monologue that I should simply grok. Maybe he'll have the same reaction as my professor when I tell him why.
Until this year, it's been ages since I've done any acting. It's been so long that my wife, who's done her share of acting and directing, had never seen me act. But I've talked a lot about getting back into it, especially in the past few years.
So, when a friend of mine asked me if I'd like to do a scene for her in the Shakespeare Festival at the Huntington Library this year, I jumped at the chance. We did a scene from Twelfth Night (the Malvolio Letter Scene, for those of you familiar with the play) and I played Sir Toby Belch. A grand time was had by all, and it just confirmed for me that I want to act again.
This month, the opportunity came up to attend a workshop sponsored by the company my friend works with, in preparation for their production of Twelfth Night for the Arts Council of Henderson in Nevada. The workshop is being run by an actor that I've actually heard of, and he's got some excellent insight into the workings and language of Shakespeare. So aside from the opportunity to audition for the show, there's also the chance to learn something interesting.
The first night, we sit down and we're going to read through the play. He picks a point in the room and has the person next to me start reading, at the top of the play. The famous "If music be the food of love…" opening monologue for Duke Orsino.
Now, years ago, I played Orsino in a production in El Cajon, in the park outside the East County Performing Arts Center. When I was at UCI, I mentioned this to one of my professors and he asked me to do the opening monologue for him. I had to tell him that we had cut the monologue right after the "food of love" line (the play was 90 minutes long, with songs—there was significant cutting involved). Without missing a beat, he said "never work with those people again" and moved on to someone else in the discussion.
So we're reading and dissecting the Orsino opening monologue and, to my surprise, I end up reading a part of it. (It's only about 10 lines. I assumed the person that started it would finish the monologue, but our discussion was pretty in depth and it took us the better part of an hour to discuss this one monologue.) I found myself stumbling through the section I had to read, falling prey to that worst of all Shakespeare acting failings… reading a line where you have NO idea what you're saying. I got through it and, after a few repeated readings and some feedback from the guy running the workshop, even managed to have it make sense.
But there was a moment when I felt the surreality of the whole situation. Orsino was one of the first major roles I ever played. Now, 20 something years later, I'm in a workshop that's all about understanding and communicating the language of Shakespeare—a workshop that is directed toward casting for this show—and I'm floundering through the opening monologue for this very same character. I found it strange and a bit disconcerting.
And, while I don't expect to be UP for the role of Orsino in this production, I can't help but wonder if the guy running the workshop, who's also directing this production of Twelfth Night, isn't going to look at my resume and wonder how the hell I could be so clueless about a monologue that I should simply grok. Maybe he'll have the same reaction as my professor when I tell him why.
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