Twelfth Night

So this last month I was Malvolio in Brown Box Theatre Project's Twelfth Night.



The cast arrived in Maryland with their lines memorized, and we rehearsed every day for three weeks. Then we performed the shows for a week at public locations and schools throughout the Ocean City area.

Ocean City, being a resort town, mostly shuts down as the warm months draw to a close. Brown Box intended Twelfth Night to be for the enjoyment of those who lived in the immediate area rather than tourists.

Since those in the immediate area are all business owners, Brown Box was able to raise funds to such a degree that would be impossible in a town saturated with theatre like Boston. Not only was this show of kindness very fortunate for the production, it was very heartening to me. These people clearly wanted to us to do what we were doing.



The cast and crew stayed in housing donated by local business and the director's family. I lived in a trailer on their horse farm, where rehearsal took place.

Rehearsal was new for me. I'm often used to making adjustments and internalizing them over the course of time, often between rehearsals. Since time was short and rehearsing the show was the reason I was there, I had to make changes immediately. It was hard, and it was good.

I had only been in three Shakespearean productions; two of them were Much Ado About Nothing, and none of them were professional. For someone who doesn't perform Shakespeare very often it's easy to get stuck on the text - knowing what the words mean, saying them very pointedly, but still not believing in them entirely; wearing the words like a shirt instead of letting them slip into you.

The solution, as always, is listening to your companions on stage with you. Understanding where they come from can help you get to where you're going.



The set was designed by Cory Rodriguez to fit into a goose neck trailer and be assembled and disassembled on site (and, of course, to look bad ass), and the whole cast took part in the labor. In one production I got to act AND move stuff around.

We worked hard and we put on a good show for a community that normally doesn't get any theatre.

It is one of the coolest things I've ever done.

And Brown Box is moving base to Boston.

So get ready.

EDIT:

Oh, and also. Ocean City is the site of the now infamous



Yes, much like the Phoenix Saga from X-Men, the Smirnoff Ice Saga influenced the hearts and minds of a generation. Comrade challenged comrade in a thrilling game with no boundaries and one rule: if you see an Ice, you drink it. Well, there are other rules, but the first is the most important.

If you're ever in a closed environment with a certain group of people, icing is an excellent way to build an environment of camaraderie and fear simultaneously.

Most of the Twelfth Night Smirnoff Ice saga is accounted here. Though some icing occurred in unrecordable circumstances, the album gives an idea of how everyone fared. At a score of 3 Ices given and 10 Ices received, I was the worst player by far.

* Icing is not condoned or endorsed by Brown Box Theatre Project.
** Brown Box Theatre Project is not condoned or endorsed by Smirnoff.

EDIT EDIT (10/3):

omg

Chelsea Schmidt was funny and convincing in her lead role as androgynous Viola. Laughs poured from the audience when Kevin Little and Joe Ruscio shared the stage as drinking buddies Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch. And Terry Torres stole the show as a quirky, animated Malvolio.

It's not the first time my name has been mentioned in a review, but it's the first time my performance has been!

EDIT EDIT EDIT (2/20):

#5.75. Theatre On Fire: Mojo

Well, it's been over three months since my last stage audition, and the second anniversary of 10 Headshots has already come and gone.

And I've been thinking about making some changes. I'm getting a new headshot and I'm on the lookout for new monologues.

This audition came up just before I had gotten through doing either. I've wanted to act with Theatre on Fire since I've first seen their stuff, and MOJO has a cast made up of a lot of males in their twenties - who knows when that opportunity'll come by again.

I found out about the audition slightly less than two days prior. I needed a comedic monologue, and it had to be delivered in a working-class British accent.

The first thing I set out to do was to find a new monologue. Pal Joey forwarded me a copy of The Hotel Nepenthe by local playwright John Kuntz. I looked for a good scene I remembered from having seen it, printed it out, and went to work.

Now that I had a monologue, I needed an accent.

I feel that speaking in a dialect is closer to impersonation than acting, and impersonation is something I've always been uncomfortable with - it feels like the energy it requires comes from a completely different part of the brain than playing a character from scratch does. You don't need to be an actor to do an accent, you just need a good ear and an obedient mouth. I don't know which of my parts is to blame, but accents have always wrecked me.

And everybody's got a fucking opinion when it comes to accents. No one's going to give a shit about your presence or timing if they think your accent sucks.

I didn't take the super-popular Dialects course at Emerson College because it wasn't offered the semester I had hoped to take it. But I do have a CD on British dialect that I borrowed from my old roommate a ways back. So I alternated between memorizing the Nepenthe monologue and practicing my British vowels.

PROTIP: Take regular, American vowels and then move the corners of your mouth forward. Now they're British!

The next day, while I was out running errands, I went to my favorite spot in the city to practice monologues, the Soldiers and Sailors Monument on Flagstaff Hill in the Commons.



And as I sat on one of the granite benches doing my monologue in my best accent, I realized it wasn't clicking. It just didn't feel good. Nothing against the rather excellent Hotel Nepenthe - I had merely jumped the gun in desperation and chose a monologue I was not in love with.

So I came home and put together my own monologue from Portal 2. On my way home I thought about using Cave Johnson material, but J.K. Simmons is too much to live up to. And then I remembered that Wheatley is already British!

So at the old Calderwood Pavilion I met Tim, who I work with for The Freedom Trail - we're both Redcoats in the King's Guard at Quincy Market on weekends. He was there to audition, too, and joked, saying it was a good thing that we have a place to practice our British accents every week. Well, I have a place to butcher mine, anyway.

The audition was attended by Darren the director, and Craig, who had played Blackadder in Darren's production of Blackadder II Live! I forgot to wear my contacts, so I took off my glasses and placed them on the chair behind me to do my monologue.

Darren said it was funny. Craig said he my accent was good, but it seemed rather... light.

And then there was a pause that I assumed I was supposed to fill with an explanation for my lightness other than, "Well, that's because I blow!"

Oh, and I forgot to give 'em my headshot.



Even still, 5 headshots remain.

Monologue: Wheatley from Portal 2

Yeah, this is definitely my most out-there monologue. It's not the first monologue from a video game I've considered using, but it is the first that I have actually used in an audition.

I came up with this in a mad fit, and pieced it together from two big quotes delivered early on in the game. I found them in this Portal 2 text dump compiled by GameFAQs user oblivion from aoc. Thanks, man.

I added two lines of my own; one to serve as a transition and another to serve as a more sympathetic conclusion. The original conclusion is funnier, but a little too alienating for an audition.

Never be afraid to make alterations to a monologue, especially from materials other than plays. When it comes to auditions, you're the star, not the writer.

Also, Portal 2 was written by four writers, so when asked who was the author for the monologue, I just chose Marc Laidlaw, who has the most credits of all of them.

Most test subjects do experience some cognitive deterioration after a few months in suspension. Now you've been under for... quite a lot longer, and it's not out of the question that you might have a very minor case of serious brain damage. But don't be alarmed, alright? Because ah... well, actually, if you DO feel alarmed, hold onto that. Because the feeling of alarm is the proper reaction to being told you've got massive brain damage. So if you are alarmed, then it suggests the damage is not as serious as we thought. Although it probably is really serious.

I'm really sorry about all this. The reserve power ran out, so of course the whole relaxation center stops waking up the bloody test subjects. And of course nobody tells ME anything. Noooo. Why should they tell me anything? Why should I be kept informed about the life functions of the ten thousand bloody test subjects I'm supposed to be in charge of? And whose fault do you think it's going to be when the management comes down here and finds ten thousand flipping vegetables? How are you? How you feeling? Wait. Don't answer that. Too much deep relaxation, what it does is it relaxes the gums. And the vibrations from talking -- on a rare occasion -- can make all of your teeth fall out of your head.

So just... nod if you're alright.

High School is not like Grease

When Grease was announced as the musical of my senior year of high school, I remember sighing and rolling my eyes. I hated Grease, despite never having seen it. It was enough to know that it was impossibly popular among girls while I was growing up to understand that it was worthy of derision.

But, still, I had been in my school's two previous musical productions of Guys & Dolls and The Pajama Game, and I had no plans on stopping.

As with previous productions, I went to my mother for her opinions on auditioning - namely, which role I should be shooting for. "How about Kenickie?" she suggested. "I don't know who that is," I said. "Greased Lightning!" she said. "Oh, snap," I said.

I got in contact with my brother's girlfriend's mother, who was a singer and voice teacher, and she guided me through all of the ups and downs of Greased Lightning. I auditioned with great anxiety then, as I still do with musicals, but I was called back for Kenickie, along with two other guys.

One was James, a sophomore, sweet kid with an angelic voice, but kind of goofy and not especially disciplined. The real threat was Mickey.

Mickey was a year under me, and a hair's breadth shorter, and he had great deal more social wisdom than I had. He knew how to make fun without sounding like an asshole, he knew how to gain attention without looking desperate, he knew how to be liked.

He also had a girlfriend. I saw the beginning of their relationship backstage when he leaned over to several of us and said, "Hey, she's pretty hot." At first glance they seemed like two social adepts combining forces like a company merger. On further scrutiny, there was actually something like true love there.

Not only did Mickey have the experience and confidence, he loved Grease, and his name rhymed with the character he was trying out for. He had his eyes on the prize from word one. He'd be Kenickie and his girlfriend would be Rizzo and it would be perfect.


Callbacks proceeded in the open. Everyone attended the same dance callback, then sat in the house as each person sang once again on stage in front of everyone.

James performed somewhat halfheartedly, perhaps to avoid the work of a slightly more demanding role than the ensemble.

I got a pretty good response when I went up. I think everyone enjoyed the novelty of watched someone who was usually so reserved singing like their social life depended on it.

When Mickey went up, something felt off. I knew what it was, but I couldn't believe it right away. He didn't seem to be as good as he should have been. He wasn't attacking it, not really. For one of the few times in my life up to that point, I felt that I was better than someone else.

I tried to forget about it the next day. I thought it was all in my head, that he had performed terrifically and I was just being cocky. I didn't want to set myself up for disappointment.

The moment the last bell rang, I headed to the music department to see the cast list. I saw Mickey walking toward me from down the long hallway beside the auditorium. I smiled, ready to congratulate him, then stopped short when I saw something unexpected in his eyes. He patted my shoulder.

"Congratulations," he said with a smile.

He was already walking away as I tried to understand the situation for myself as much as for him. "But... you love Grease!"

"You're a senior. Enjoy it." And he kept walking.

I watched him go, then continued toward the bulletin board. Several underclassmen parted to make room, congratulating me even before I found my name next to Kenickie's.

Maybe this was right. After all, they wouldn't cast me if I weren't the right man for the job. It may be the last musical I'm ever in, so I might as well take pride in it.

I perused through the rest of the cast, and my heart sunk when I reached the Pink Ladies.

Mickey's girlfriend was cast as Rizzo.

I felt like an accomplice in something horrible.


Memories of my time in Grease came back to me while I watched a touring production at the Wang this past weekend, mostly because my memories of Grease were more impressive than the current reality.

I knew Grease was stupid when I was in it, but I couldn't realize how stupid until I got older. I mean, the songs are great. They're catchy, they're distinctive, and they've got great lyrics. Everyone remembers songs from Grease.

But does anyone remember all of the terrible dialogue between all of the songs? Or that there's so much of it? Any line that isn't a flimsy plot device is usually a really bad joke. Not even silly "yuk yuk" bad, but the kind where you're constantly asking yourself, "That's the punchline?" It's really terrible stuff, the kind of material that would be booed out of a new play festival.

I also have no idea who the jokes are written for, because they vary wildly between suggestive "almost naughty" silliness for kids and straight up raunchy stuff for adults. Dudes constantly waver between being coy and lewd and it doesn't really make sense. Also, I think we can agree that Grease doesn't "tackle such social issues as teenage pregnancy and gang violence", unless tackle means just being like WHATEVERRR~~

Also, I fucking hate it when there are, like, twelve people on stage but only two of them are talking at a time, like in an aside. I hated it as an actor because I had to do that shitty, silent fake non-talking in the background of every scene when I had no lines. I hated it as an audience member because it's weird, it provides very little pay-off by way of characterization or jokes, and it's evident of an inability to write a conversation among a group of people.

Presumably the movie fixed these shortcomings, but I don't really know because I still haven't really seen it. If the production I saw is any indication, the revival hasn't learned much, despite taking some of the movie's ideas.

The worst idea they took is the movie's opening song, Grease (is the Word). First off, the huge problem with the song is that it sticks out like a sore thumb. In a musical that hearkens back to the 50s by mimicking the sounds of the time, it's supremely stupid to open with a song that distinctively sounds like it was written in the 70s. It's also really stupid to open with all of your 50s-fashion-clad leads singing it in some undefined void. It's an alienating way to introduce the characters because it makes them seem weirdly omniscient or self-aware when we know they're just dumb teenagers. It worked in the movie because it was matched with a distinctively 70s montage, apart from the actual world of the story. You can't do that on stage. Or if you can, clearly no one has figured out how to yet.

Aside from the opening, it was just really plain. Which is natural, because there isn't a lot you can do with Grease. If you play it safe, then the best you can hope for is a copy of the movie that's slightly more disappointing because Danny isn't cool enough for Sandy isn't cute enough. If you try to experiment with it, like with Emerson's "dark" production of Grease which I think I fell asleep during, then you see how shallow the material really is.

#5.5 Metro Stage Company: Bat Boy

I was visiting my family in New Jersey when I got an email inviting me to audition for the role of Reverend Billy Hightower in Bat Boy: The Musical.

This is literally the most unexpected thing that has ever happened to me as an actor.

For one thing I have not performed in a singing role since I was Kenickie in Grease my senior year of high school.

For two things, even when my singing voice was at its peak, I was the bottom bass of the men's quartet, not a tenor like the role of Hightower requires.

And the director mentioned she had gotten my name from Company One, whom I'd just auditioned for. I have no idea what in the hell they could have told her that suggested I could sing tenor.

I thought I'd be able to forget about it when I looked at the rehearsal schedule they forwarded me and told them that I'd probably be too busy with personal projects. Instead, they told me that they could be flexible.

Ken Cheeseman told me that if someone wants you to ride a horse for a role, you tell them that you can do it and then you sign up for horseback riding lessons the next day. Actors can't refuse roles, especially not ones with stipends, unless they are artistically or morally repugnant.

I wanted to play the role, but I couldn't. It wasn't a matter of trying or learning - I am not physically capable of playing a tenor. I can't pretend to hit the high notes anymore than I can pretend to be black or a foot taller or a woman. Someone had to have made a mistake.

I asked Facebook what I should do. Predictably, they said the same thing my mom said: "Do I even have to encourage you?" "Do it!" "You just have to try."

I looked up the song I have to sing as soon as I got the email. I played the song for my little brother - the only person I talked to about this audition with any musical experience - and asked him what he thought. He just shook his head.

I didn't have the privacy or free time to practice the song until the day of the audition. I looked up singing warm ups on YouTube and did all of the routines I could remember from Mrs. Mac from high school and Robbie McCauley from Emerson, including doing lip rolls while I pretended to drive around the room in a little putt-putt car. I warmed up for about three hours. My voice felt free and clear.

And then I started singing/yelling the song. My voice cracked on the G-flat. It was like running into a wall; humiliating and almost as painful. I laid down on the floor.

Is this a joke? Maybe it’s all been a joke, ever since Company One asked me in to read for the 40 year old man. Maybe they all think it's funny to ask me to audition for roles that I could never be cast in. Why else would they do this to me?

I will never be a sailor because I get seasick, and I will never be a singer because my voice is too low for anything but the bottom bass part in In the Still of the Night.

But I'm not a singer. I'm an actor. I'm a great actor.

The audition was in a rehearsal hall at the Huntington Boston University Theatre, the same place I auditioned for Book of Days. The difference this time was that the door was locked. I was irrationally upset by this. I was sick of obstacles. I just wanted to get in and get out. I pressed both intercom buttons beside the door, then I remembered that the director gave me the phone number for the assistant director.

She let me in and gave me an information form to fill out. When she stepped back into the audition room, the accompanist began to play the piano, and I heard someone start to sing the reverend's song. Actually sing it, not pretending. There must be a special hell for non-singing actors where they can hear someone else singing their audition piece better than they ever will with complete clarity. Something in me surrendered as I wrote "Sure" next to the question asking me if I would be in the ensemble.

The singing man stepped out of the audition room and through the exit without stopping. I didn't even get a glimpse of him. I sat down and rolled the sheet music in my hands until they came for me.

The music director and the producer introduced themselves to me. The director, who was my contact through all of the emails inviting me to audition, was not present. They asked me for my headshot. I didn't bring one. They asked me to come. Somehow I didn't think I needed one.

The music director saw that I was holding A Joyful Noise and asked if I was planning on singing it. I didn't know I had a choice, especially since he was the one that sent it to me.

I sang. Or warbled. I straight up dropped the octave when it got too high for me. He stopped me halfway and thanked me.

Yes. They definitely confused me with someone else.



Still 5 headshots remain.

#5. Company One: 1001

It's always rather exciting when Company One announces auditions. They always pick interesting shows - like this one, an interpretation of the Arabian Nights - they usually have roles in my age range, and they usually conduct mostly organized auditions with good managers, the kind of auditions that school teaches you to expect all auditions to be like; predictable, if slightly crowded.

This one was located in the artist studios at the BCA. I had some familiarity with the building while interning with SpeakEasy. I'm used to a ton of people coming and going at C1 auditions, but this one was a little more contained. I wasn't sure whether they had gotten better at scheduling or if they were more discerning about assigning audition slots this time around.

I was pretty nervous for this one, because I was using a new monologue that I had some reservations about. I believed in Lir, but I wasn't sure what everyone else would think.

I performed it along with the Candy Factory monologue - which was risky, because even though they had very different motivations their peaks were surprisingly similar when I practiced them. I played Lir with a lot of sentimentality. But the director asked me to bring out the pride hidden in him, to be more like the hero he tries to be. I gave it a shot, and she stopped me before I got too far.

I was genuinely amazed when I was called back, my first time with C1. Each of the roles in the play portray multiple characters, and they asked me to read for the role loaded with the oldest characters - the fathers, the viziers, designated as 30 to 40 years old. I thought it might have been a mistake, but I rolled with it. Maybe I had given off a mature vibe because I was unshaven, and spoke in a lower octave because of an oncoming cold? Maybe they were taking the characters in a different direction than the script suggested.

The callbacks were more crowded, it had been a while since I had to be in a room with so many people and not talk to anyone, aside from Chris, the guy who I read my side with. He thought he recognized me from Boston Casting, which is possible. He was a good partner. We read three times together, then both agreed to leave it till we were called in.

The director remembered me, which felt good. Chris stepped up his energy from our reading, a welcome surprise. I did not step up my energy, afraid I might look like I was trying too hard. Instead, I think my choices came off as weak.

As I was reading, I wondered again if my being assigned this role was a mistake, a clerical error. What if there was another role I was perfect for that the director would never see? I felt a little like I was pretending rather than acting.

Chris was given another side and another partner to read with. I waited just in view of the stage manager so that I would be ready to take a new side when it was offered to me. She stapled a copy of my headshot to my information sheet, and I wondered what happened to the print that I had given them. Then she thanked me and bid me adieu.

The script is really good, a lot of fun to read. I bet it'll be a really good show.



5 headshots remain.

#4. FishNet-Networks.net

I never heard of FishNet-Networks.net until I got an email from the creative team asking me to come in for an audition. They said they remembered me from my StageSource audition. That was nine months ago! Pretty wild.

The main problem with this one is that I took a shift to work out in Worcester for the morning before I was scheduled to audition. I had never been to Worcester, and its distance from Boston was sorely misrepresented by my superiors. On top of that I had taken a carpool out there, so my driver wasn't in as much of a hurry as I was. They did let me practice my monologue in the car for them though, and timed me to see if it was less than a minute.

Once we departed, my girlfriend offered to drive me the rest of the way to the Club Cafe on Columbus Ave. I called ahead to tell them I was late. They invited me, meaning they must have WANTED to see me, which means they shouldn't mind too much, right?

I was an hour late.

I approached the front entrance of the building and found a man on a cigarette break. "Not this way," he said, "Go around the side." So I went onto Berkeley and entered the building from there. The security guard pointed me down a hall that lead to the lobby before for the Club Cafe. I was now on the other side of the door that the smoking man didn't let me go through.

I spent about a minute wondering how I could get in to the Club Cafe when the door was locked. The thing I find about auditions in unusual locations is that they're inevitably difficult to find, and when you ask someone nearby "where the auditions are," they usually don't know what you're talking about.

Anyway, I found an alternate entrance into the Club Cafe by following the sign reading "Restrooms". I looked through a window into the adjoining event room to see a trio of people looking at something out of view. One spotted me. I waved. He gave me the "just a moment," sign.

A moment later she exited with a woman, handing sides to her and another man who was standing outside with me. "Terry, right? Just a sec."

In the time it took the two other actors to introduce each other, I was retrieved and brought before the creative team. "You were from StageSource, right? Do you plan on doing it again this year?"

Then they asked to name one great thing that happened to me. "I, well... my girlfriend drove me here."

Then I did my monologue, the only one I could fit into one minute like they requested. Despite all my practice, I remember coming to a palpable halt in the middle of it. It didn't help that I was sick with a cold.

Afterward, they asked me if I knew a joke. Fortunately, my girlfriend subscribes to the Old Jews Telling Jokes podcast, and I could remember one. I embellished a lot, but here's the essence of it.

Two elderly ladies are sitting on the front porch, doing nothing.

One lady turns and asks, "Do you still get horny?" The other replies, "Oh sure I do."

The first old lady asks, "What do you do about it?" The second old lady replies, "I suck a lifesaver."

After a few moments, the first old lady asks, "Who drives you to the beach?

After a few seconds they laughed. Then they thanked me for coming.

I walked past the two actors reading the sides and left. Through the Berkeley Street entrance, of course.



6 headshots remain.