BEHIND THE SCENES.
THEATRICAL ASIDES. i GREASE PAINT AND FOOTLIGHTS, i HUMOUR ; DRAMA : TRAGEDY. “Who’s got my powder; Joan, you have . . . will you just look at this skirt . . . that number was terrible last j night; for heaven’s sake smile . . • Phyllis, would you look and see if I’m coming undone . . . I’m scared stiff, I don’t even know the steps . . . You've got a brute of a cold; just to think another three nights . . .” This is organisation in a hurry. We are back stage and only twenty minutes remain before the opening number of “Reveille,” the Hamilton Operatic society’s extravaganza in Theatre Royal. It is a mad, colourful ! pot pourri of sticky grease paints, riotous costumes, babbling ballets and an ; over-worked stage staff whose one • axiom is that time and a producer will wait for no man. We are in the dressing rooms, deep in the maze of passages where the , hammers and “cussing” of the stage : hands, always behind schedule, are reverberating queerly in the babble of ! excited conversation. "Twenty minutes, I gentlemen,” comes the voice of the call steward to add furious haste to those who manipulate the grease paints. By half-past six they had started on | the job and it was only half completed. ! They added haste to their method. I Every mirror was at a premium. The Pace Redoubled. “Five minutes was called and the j pace was redoubled. Funny, how j everything is left to the last minute, j There were one or two stragglers still ; coming, cautiously negotiating the passages in the fear of meeting an irate producer with whom even an equable temperament must be disturbed oy multifarious responsibilities. Vague whispers came down about the house and we heard intimacies shared about a mysterious “Bill” who was sitting in the middle about half-way down the • house and a charming “Pat” and “Ray” who, Joyce was sure, would be bound to be in the third row. And don’t blame the girls. The men are just as bad. seasoned dressers describe menfolk as incompetent, vain, ignorant and helpless, and qualify the descriptions by a perfect selection of stage profanity peculiar to the devotees and hangers-on of dressing rooms. They must, we were told, look just so; they are not to be satisfied with half measures and one powder puff is a more valuable adjunct among the men than ten among the women. There was the call for the orchestra. They seemed the only performers who seemed confident, and filed out without a qualm, in marked contrast to the girls and boys who followed them. We heard the opening bars of tlie overture filtering through I lie walls and passages and but a lew moments later there was the call for all on stage. There was an immediate scramble for i the mirrors, a final touch here and I there was given to haLy and complexion and the steady trek up the stairs began. Some Private “Cussing.” Above they were being marshalled by the producer. “Make it snappy tonight,” he urged. “Look cheerful . . . just try please, hard though it may be.” (This is heavy irony hut it passes unnoticed in the bustle and excitement of arrangement.) He gesticulates madly but effectively to get them into position and they run to his bidding for we are told, the enmity of a producer is to be feared. Applause follows the overture and he makes his final gestures, transferring one hand from the buzzer to the orchestra, talking vigorously to the electricians, taking a final look at the drops, stirring .up the chorus and grabbing the ropes. “Are you ready?” Then comes the curtain. The orchestra is away and, from chattering excitement, the girls and boys are changed outwardjy into a sort of stage calm, bestowing lavish smiles upon the audience as though their appearance is purely a matter of course and that the yhave been doing the same thing l’or years. The house is intrigued hut not the producer who, if lie had bad a hut to cat would certainly be abusing his digestion. He divides his attention between about eight responsibilities, watching the orchestra, directing I lie ballets, assisting in the chorus, gesticulating madly and doing a bit of private cussing on his own account in the wings. in revue the secret of success is speed. There must be no delay and, as
the curtain drops so must it rise again with the stage prepared and the performers on for the following turn. As one number concludes, the next is behind the drops waiting for a signal and tlic performers in llic ilem to follow are packed in the wings, peering around the labs to get a glimpse of the act that is on. Between items, the producer is a man apart, pointing, pushing, waving and running and using a voice that can still 30 girls to silence . . . what a voice! The buzzer has given the musical director his cue but long before the first bar is through everything behind scenes is prepared and the arrangement of the next item is well under way. Below, quick changes are being effected and ballet skirls are being replaced by sweeping gowns or closelyfitting tights. We see a dinner-suited gentleman go in and a Chinese mandarin come out accompanied by a leisurely cowboy, complete with everything from drawl to cigarette, who we could have sworn was a minute before to be seen as an even ng dressed chorus tenor.
And so it goes on. Hurry—always hurry. Never a minute lo spare except for occasional advice, criticism or congratulation. Not till the final curtain do they relax . . . And what glorious relaxation it is!/
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Bibliographic details
Waikato Times, Volume 120, Issue 19992, 16 September 1936, Page 8
Word Count
939BEHIND THE SCENES. Waikato Times, Volume 120, Issue 19992, 16 September 1936, Page 8
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