Another op'nin, another play

In Shakopee or at Dor'thy Day

But usually it's the VOA [1]...

Most professional theatres have opening nights. There is glamour, maybe just a faint whiff, but it's in the air nevertheless: press and theatre cognoscenti are out front along with family, friends and scores of "hope you're great" or "hope you die" colleagues. The buzz of the audience before the show has a special electricity that's infectious. When the cast arrives at the theatre there are often bouquets of flowers, notes, chocolates and other giftie goodness waiting for you in your dressing room. The show goes on and it's great or it's not and then afterwards, there's some kind of party or reception, either in the theatre lobby or a nearby restaurant, where some of the best unrecognized acting in the Twin Cities happens. People come up to you, eyes a little too bright, smiles a little too wide and enthusiastically embrace you so you can't see their faces: "Darling, you took great risks!" "You should have been where I was sitting!" "Only YOU could have given such a performance!" "Your makeup was fan-tastic!" are just a few of the memorable comments lobbed in my direction over the years. I think there should be an Ivey Award for best post-show performance by an audience member. And bless our actor hearts, we fall and feed greedily on each stinking lie. Hearts are made to be broken, but please, just not tonight.

That's most professional theatres. TTT [4] has an opening day. Almost always at the Volunteers of America Women's Correctional Facility. Located in Roseville, the VOA is set well back from the road and if you weren't looking for it, other than a discreet sign at the drive you'd never know it was there. It resembles a suburban high-school, albeit with a lot more locks. TTT always performs in the common room adjacent to the cafeteria.

Our first performance is scheduled for 1pm on Feb 14 (Valentine's Day) and the company is supposed to arrive at noon to give us time to unload the set, props and musical instruments off the van, set up and otherwise prepare for the performance. Driving east from Mpls on I-94 I am a little nervous still about my lines and start mumbling my way through the play. I'm relieved to learn that I still remember everything but alarmed to learn that I've missed my exit. I call Nancy Waldoch, our amazing stage manager, effusively apologize and promise that I'll only be ten minutes late. "That's OK, glad you're all right!" she chirps brightly but I can decode the reproach: "Guess you'll miss the load-in, Hendrickson. How conveeeeen-ient!"

My battered Subaru roars into the parking lot to see that the van is indeed empty and parked. Shit! I grab my costume garment bag and stride across the icy pavement as briskly as I can. I am met at the door by a stern uniformed matron with a clipboard and a "just where do you think you're going?" expression. But after I announce I'm with the band her face brightens, she says hi and I sign in. After passing through three sets of locked being held open by staff, I'm in the common room, where all is motion and controlled chaos. The inmates are still finishing their lunch in the open adjacent cafeteria The set is in a jumble in one corner and the rest of the company are pushing sofas and chairs into the next room to clear our playing space. I've played the VOA six or seven times now so I know the drill. Our dressing room is a tiny library off the common room. The doorway has been festooned with a homemade banner welcoming us and inside, plates of cookies and bottled water await. I cross the common room borne on a non-stop round of apologies for my lateness, drop my bag in the library and, without even pausing for a cookie, go out to lend an extra-big hand in setting up.

After putting the room more or less into performance shape, the actors re-group in the library to get into costume. It is said (by me, at least) that actors have no modesty and TTT actors even less. The library is maybe 10X10 feet with two tables. One large table holds the cookies, water and Valentine goodies brought by some of the cast, another, smaller table is piled high with garment bags dumped there when each actor arrived. No mirrors, no hooks or hangers and absolutely no privacy. There we are, three men, three women, stripping down to our scanties and back into costume with nary a shrug of uneasiness. The room is bright with anxious chatter about pending Valentine's Day observances (or lack thereof), complaints about the cold weather and last minute blocking adjustments to accommodate the new space. Our director Larissa Kokernot arrives, still in the fearful grip of La Grippe, but looking cheerful and bearing lovely cards for each of us. Michelle Hensley pops in to let us know we're on in five and we scurry to finish dressing and take our places. The audience have seated themselves and the room is packed- not an empty seat to be had and people scurry to find a few more chairs. Michelle always makes a short speech to the audience, giving them a bit of background about the Orpheus and Eurydice legend and playwright Sarah Ruhl's conceit of having the land of the living and land of the dead sometimes occupy the same space at the same time. She finishes up, there is a polite round of applause, and we're off...

Next: The First Performance