May The Bard Be With You

Superstitions tend to be a big part of our lives. Whether we're crossing our fingers, knocking on wood, or rubbing a fat man's belly. We believe that luck can be achieved despite fate. If something sends a bad omen, we avoid it, walk the other way, step tentatively wherever we go. No crossing under a ladder, change your path when you see a black cat, and, for god's sake, don't pick up that quarter that's tails up. Perhaps superstitions are derived from common sense, or perhaps they're carryovers from some medieval remedy. It frankly doesn't matter. If you want to tempt fate, then by all means smash that mirror and see if you get that new job.
The world of theatre, much like sports, is filled with both personal and universal superstitions. I know plenty of actors who have to keep to their pre-show regimen or their performance will suffer. The cynic in me wants to tell some of them that wearing green on show day has no bearing on the fact that they suck. But try getting that point across to a tempermental diva. You'd be lucky enough to walk away with only one half of your face cat-clawed.
Of the more universal theatre superstions, there's the "Break a leg" instead of "Good Luck" well wishing that is fairly common knowledge. The roots of this tradition are as varied in myth as discovering who actually wrote "Proud Mary". The derivative is unimportant, the result is the key. Probably the most potent of the theatre superstitions is one that I personally adhere to. Never, under any circumstances, even if your life depends on it, ever, ever, ever speak the name of Shakespeare's dreaded Scottish Tragedy "Macb*#&!" In some circles you may only be mercifully sent to do a series of twists, spins, spits, and laps around the property before regaining entrance. In others, even quoting a line from this cursed play will get you black-balled and on the bus home before the final syllable has left your mouth.
In thinking about this play, which is actually a good one to see done in performance, I thought I might share some personal recollections of my experience with this particular superstion. As our theatre company is looking at including this play in our 2010 season, I think it prudent to remember some of the less-than-sterling moments from the last time I attempted this production. Sure, it may have only killed some careers, but it left an indelible mark on my psyche that shan't be erased.

A DRESSING ROOM BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD SMELL AS TERRIBLE
I had the pleasure of playing the role of Malcolm in this particular production. For the most part, the cast was a delight to work with. Though there were varying levels of professionalism amongst some of the fake lairds, there was a healthy comraderie, and a great sense of friendship that developed through the players. Part of this friendship transpired as we approached the dress rehearsals. We were doing this show in the dead of August. The average daily temperature was in the high 90's, with the humidity surpassing that of a high-powered sauna. The producers of this show wanted to have a real "authentic" look, so we were dressed in layers of wool, leather, and flannel to give us that Clan mentality. Needless to say, these costumes were not exactly climate-appropriate offstage. I think most of us were able to lose quite a bit of unwanted weight due to the constant sweat that built up through each performance.
I shared a dressing room with two other guys. One of my fellow cast members was someone who, for lack of a better phrase, smelled like broken dreams and old hamburgers. The stench that drifted away from this guy under normal circumstances was enough to cut a 10' circle of terror around him. After two hours of building up a funk that could fight the furies, our pigpen could peel the paint off the walls when he began to undress. The smell would hit you like a wave of death, and your only hope was either to run for fresh air or pass out and awake in the hospital where the smell of urine and dying would be a sweet relief.
Luckily for me, this guy was in his early fifties, and not in the greatest physical shape (one whiff and any good doctor could probably detect a handful of odorous maladies). Our dressing room was in the attic area over the front of the theatre. To get there, you had to exit the back of the building, go outside, climb some exterior stairs, and then cross through some halls before you arrived. Every night after curtain call became a race for my life as I tore through the backstage running faster than a Jamaican Bolt. I took the stairs three and four at a time, tearing at my costume on the way. I knew that I had to get in there, change, and be well clear of the room before my smelly mirror-mate could get to the hall where the fans would waft the vile reeking air into my innocent nostrils. For the most part, I was able to accomplish this safely. On one occasion, however, I was not as lucky. For some reason, I wasn't making as good time as I'd thought. I was just bending over to unlace my leather mocs to hang with the rest of my costume. Before I was finished with one shoe, the door opened, and in sauntered the agent of olfactory death. I mumbled a "good show" as I was trying to conserve precious breath. He started peeling off the first soaking layer, and then he paused. "I think something I had for dinner must have disagreed with me. My stomach has been in knots all night". He was casual in this familiarity with me. He was trying to make light conversation, but I immediately knew that it was only a preemptive apology for what was surely coming. Only moments after making this little commentary on his evening meal, he did what I can only describe as use his body to create pure, malevolent evil. I have been around farts before. I have known people to be gassy. I admit that I can find easy humor in a bathroom concerto. This was not one of those light, airy, jaunty little farts that makes you smile. This man used his bowels to concoct a green-fumed spectre that was threatening to eat away at my very existence. Seriously, my eyes were burning. The mixture of BO and BM was something that could be used to get spies to turn on their country, or cause martyrs of the faith to recant their beliefs. The rest of the changing experience was a blur as I rapidly threw my clothes on and stumbled out into the inviting summer heat, welcoming the cleansing heavy air to wash the taint of wickedness from off my skin. To this day, I still have nightmares about reliving that experience, only this time the door is locked, and I can't escape. Death then becomes welcome and appreciated.

OH YEAH, YOU AND WHAT ARMY?
During the run of the show, there were moments that our audience was treated to some great unscripted drama. I have always loved Malcolm's plan to surprise Mackers (and fulfill the Witch's prophecy that the Usurper would remain on the throne until "Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane"). As he gathers a haphazard group of ragtag ruffians to join him in the siege of the castle, his great military tactic is to tell them: "Let every soldier hew him down a bough and bear't before him. Thereby shall we shadow the numbers of our host and make discovery err in report of us." (Act V scene 4). This brilliant tactician's concept is for the soldiers to cut down some branches and hold them in front of each other so they can hide while they march towards the castle. Take a moment for that to sink in. The army is hiding behind branches! Apparently Malcolm is taking his cue from the Looney Tunes school of warfare.
Despite the great planning this scene seemed to have its' own share of constant troubles. Under normal circumstances, I would make my entrance from upstage center, while the other soldiers (about seven in number) would enter from stage left. When the lights would come up, there I would be above the rabble, ready to give them Shakespeare's version of "Win one for the Gipper". In one instance, I made my entrance and was in place when the lights came up, but there was a significant lack of soldiers for me to address. Apparently, not all of the other actors were ready to go on cue, so the lights come up on me and an army of one poor, little extra. I suppose if you're going to attack a castle with sticks, the number of men you have fighting with you is irrelevant.
On another occasion, I had my full army and I began to speak. I started the speech beautifully, and was flawless in the first few lines. After that point, however, my brain decided to shut down and take a power nap. The Bard's text completely failed me. I had absolutely no clue as to what I was supposed to say next. This is an occasional problem for actors. When faced with this situation, the best thing is to fake a line, and wait for someone to save your irresponsible ass. But, in order for this to work, you must stop speaking. This was the problem: while my brain decided to take a vacation, it never gave my mouth any instructions. I realized that I never actually stopped speaking despite the fact that I had no clue what I was saying. I began to deliver some of the most nonsensical utterances with a fiery passion. I was staying in character, but what was coming out of my mouth was utterly illogical. "And this, that thou hast once had, with thine own self, to the which, that there were, to the ends, could be mine, runneth..." I was using as much antiquated phrasing as I had in my repetoire, hoping that if I stayed true to the moment the audience wouldn't even notice. At one point, I'm pretty sure I made up a few words as I looked on my soldiers and avowed, "To the rest, mine Fero". As soon as it came out of my mouth, my brain clicked on but failed to restart. It just went right to the thesaurus in my head searching for the word "Fero". What the hell was a fero? I looked down at my fellow actors who were giving me glassy-eyed stares filled with a "You do realize none of this makes sense?" kind of look. I saw one of my friends looking down to avoid eye-contact. I noticed his shoulders shaking like someone fighting desperately to suppress audible laughter.
Eventually I ended my speech and let the scene die its' necessary death. As soon as were out of earshot of the audience, my teary-eyed friend put his hand on my shoulder and said "Well done, Fero".

HEADS MAY NOT ROLL, BUT THEY SURE AS HELL MIGHT BOUNCE
So at the risk of spoiling the plot for those of you who slept through high school, the usurper is eventually defeated and the son of the slain king is now enshrined as the new leader. In other words, my character, Malcolm, wins the play. The final scene is a nice image of Scottish patriotism as Malcolm stands ready to take the throne, and the head of the murderous king is brought in on a pike. Unless you have a slew of actors that you're willing to off to create a nice effect, chances are you're going to be using a fake head. Our fake head was a fairly realistic styrofoam conction with a tousled wig, and blood stained cheeks. From a distance, I'm sure it did the trick. Up close, it was a little odd and creepy.
In our version, Macduff enters, and with a sweeping grandiosity announces "Behold where lies the usurper's cursed head!" He then removes a bloodied burlap sack to reveal the prop head. Usually this gets a nice reaction from the audience as modern folks sure do love their dismembodied parts. One night our over-zealous Macduff decided to put a little extra mustard on his sack ripping and seemed to grab the dummy-head's wig in his handful of burlap.
A simple lesson in physics later and the head pops right off the pike and falls out of the bag. Now, had this been planned for, this would have made an outstanding effect. Unfortunately, this particular head was made to be seen and not heard. The audience was treated to a thoroughly unrealistic patter as the sound of styrofoam met wood, and the head rolled right into plain view of the audience. Once again, immediately following this cock-up is my line, so a spotlight is able to catch my bewildered expression as I try to gracefully and professionally move on with the end of the play. It's not everyday when an actor is upstaged by nerf.


Life in theatre is rewarding both in its' tangible and intangible treats. Much like battle-scars, most actors wear their bad shows as badges of honor. A good story signifies that you've experienced humiliation, and you haven't quit yet. While superstitions come and go, I have learned that Shakespeare's tragedy is certainly cursed, but not necessarily in the life-threating way that others might present. For me, the curse is that the production will never be boring, or status quo. Heads may fall, actors my stink (even when they don't show up), and imaginations may take liberties with the text, but the show must go on.