Friday, June 27, 2014


Sab Shimono, a great role model
and Asian Actor Pioneer,
on deck during tech.
Photo by BD WONG
By the end of Tuesday afternoon we indeed got through tech-ing the entire play, but there was no surplus time to rehearse anything additionally, let alone to run Le Whole Shebang before Tuesday’s dress rehearsal. This means that Tuesday night we will be running through the entire play for the first time. An invited audience will be present, which is good for finally gauging the response, but this of course means one’s adrenaline and stress are ratcheted up considerably due not only to the “unknown factor,” but to the dramatic placement of the process’s final puzzle piece—that long-awaited entrance of the actor’s cruel dominatrix: the audience and her judgment. It, of course, matters not whether the audience is made up of paying customers or your friends and family. The anticipation of judgment pretty much feels the same. There is a kind of “Stockholm Syndrome” phenomenon that often happens when you spend four weeks acting in a show (or even months working on a movie): you almost always fall in love with your captor. Any shred of objectivity you had when you entered the process is now colored by your chemistry with your fellow actors, affection for the costumes, even your comfort with the weather of your surroundings or the theater’s provided housing! I don’t think that there is an actor who, in some way or other, doesn’t become so immersed in the process of a production that she easily convinces herself it is wonderful across the board (or, at the very least, desperately hopes so). You try to be self-critical, you try to be objective about things you’d do differently (if only you were the director). But to me, these things pale in comparison to your invariable affection for what you’re doing. It’s very sweet, actually. It is your job to do your best work, it is your job to support the production and your fellow actors, it is your job to believe in every aspect of it and to, in fact, love it. Trust me when I say that most of the time, none of this is a gigantic leap.

More often than I’d like to admit, it is at this point in the process—that first fateful “open dress rehearsal”—that the gorgeous castle you’ve ensconced yourself in, complete with its impenetrable moat and frolicking koi fish, vanishes cruelly, leaving only, to your shock and dismay, you, a handful of well-meaning actors who are also all “making a go of it,” and an audience who doesn’t find the jokes amusing, isn’t moved by the drama, or simply doesn’t get it.

Julyana Soelistyo on deck during
tech and our fearless director, Carey Perloff.
Photo by BD WONG
I believe, if I am an accurate polltaker, everyone in this acting company nervously feels the same way I do: that the play holds enormous potential, but that we need the audience to tell us what we’ve got (and what we don’t got). Some of us struggle with the language as I do; some of us aren’t sure if certain highly theatrical moments in the play that we are attempting to sell with great commitment will, in fact, be “bought.” But to our core, we do believe that we have an opportunity to co-create a rather special evening of theater, if we just keep trudging up the mountain of our process with our basket of humble, theatrical belongings fastened to our back, and don’t hesitate or drop the proverbial ball. The one person who I feel unflinchingly knows that it will all be great is director Carey Perloff. Of her many gifts, enthusiasm and fearlessness are two of her most amazing. She has impressive leadership qualities. She could sell you a bridge spanning two uninhabited pieces of land with no water underneath it, cars to drive across it, or people to drive said non-existent cars.

(No, I’m not likening A.C.T.’s production of The Orphan of Zhao, or my relationship with Carey Perloff, to a bad bridge investment.)

I am constantly pondering and processing all of the above, and feeling a fair amount of tension in my
body as a result. My neck and shoulders are always stiff, often extremely so, and this condition is exacerbated by certain physical tasks in the show, which of course must be repeated. I am overwhelmed by: the play’s emotional demands, my nervousness as we run out of time to refine things before an audience comes, my default desire to give my mom and family face time, and the many press and special appearances that have come with the job (headlining in a play and then turning down the press requests because you’re too tired from rehearsal gives you no leg to stand on if your production is under-attended, so I turn down none).

I remember feeling a different color of the same tension when I was in Washington, D.C. with M. Butterfly (as well as previewing on Broadway), and during the Broadway previews for Face Value (both plays by David Henry Hwang). In both of these projects I felt some version of a responsibility to “make the play work.” I don’t mean that the plays were less than dramaturgically sturdy on their own; what I mean is that in both of those plays, I felt the weight of being central to its ideas and aspirations, and I felt, in some way, I could or would mess things up if I was sub-par. I feel a similar burden in The Orphan of Zhao, playing a character that is spinning in its emotional core. There are also feelings that naturally come with being in plays alongside other Asian-American actors; our investment to excel and prove ourselves in an industry that often shuns us is palpable. To be one of the senior members in a play that features Asian-American performers, all who are hoping to disprove the intolerable notion that Asian-Americans are inherently devoid of commercial appeal, indeed comes with some stress. And it also happens that in the three projects mentioned above, I played some of the larger roles I’ve ever played.

Stan Egi and Carey Perloff solving the
Orphan's problems, one baby at a time.
Photo by BD WONG
As I described earlier, visits from donors and/or board members are a tradition at A.C.T., not only at the tech rehearsals once the show has loaded into the theater, but even earlier as well, such as in the exploratory process of the rehearsal room (or, as in our case, the rehearsals held at the scene shop on the set). I frankly find this extremely invasive, because for me the actors’ process is one that should be as private as possible—you’re so exposed and vulnerable because of anything from early failed attempts at comedy to emoting rather messily in order to try and find a character’s pain. You’re simply not ready to share what you’re working on with anyone. The whole point of rehearsals is to provide a safe place for actors to try and explore and fail.

Having said all that, the success and existence of a theater as an institution is made or broken by the enthusiasm, hard work, generosity and engagement of its donors and board members. They are the absolutely crucial entity that makes it happen. Their passion for the theater is also most often directly related to their affection for it as a “magic place”—and the rehearsal room is the most special place to experience that magic. So the rehearsal door is usually wide open at A.C.T. and we actors must embrace it, because it is a good thing. It is not easy to explain to people why it’s so uncomfortable, though! What’s the big deal, right? I guess I keep coming back to the idea that the acting process (like the theater itself) is made on elements of magic. And there ain’t a self-respecting magician who’s gonna let you into her little workshop and expose all her stuff! But again, somebody’s gotta pay for all of it.

The afternoon of the dress rehearsal, my inevitable, mounting tension crests in a meltdown of sorts. I realize in retrospect that, aside from the stress inherent in the process (and this process is tripping along without incident, thank goodness), I am also carrying around with me constant, dark, kind-of-awful feelings that are unique to playing this particular role. I have never experienced this before, the onstage feelings manifesting themselves in “real life.” But I actually find myself almost always upset or irritable and actually weepy. The worst thing is, I don’t even notice that this is abnormal! I just walk around most of the day feeling like going back to bed and starting the day over (not getting enough sleep isn’t helping, either).

One thing adding to my stress is a fear of being underprepared. I am confident we can do the play without much messing up tonight, but I personally don’t feel the performance is ready, that the layers of material have been fully mined. Some actors believe that this is okay, that you actually use that audience time to start mining those things, and I understand that. All I can say is that regarding this particular production, I was hoping to be much further along.

Marie-France Arcilla plays the princess
with great flair, as in a Chinese Opera
production of "Sunset Boulevard."
Photo by BD WONG
My three main sources of anxiety come from 1. The language of the play, which I have memorized but I can still feel my mind reaching for (that goes away after proper repetition, rehearsal, and performance); 2. Tracking the emotional path of the character I’m playing, knowing how the character is feeling from point A to point B and so on—this is something that really needs time, but again I wanted to have tracked it better by now; and 3. As the sound department continues do its work to set our mike levels and find the proper balances, I have a mistrustful anxiety that we might be “over-miked’ (over amplified). I have no proof that we are, I’m just worried we are. I think all of these things are actually related. Like all actors, I am on a quest for what I consider to be “the truth” of this play, and if these three things are not mastered, effortless, unnoticeable, and cared for properly, a sense of “untruth” can surface. When this is happening, I don’t realize that these things are all related to the same search for something real. It is only as I look back after the fact that it dawns on me.

The only thing I can think of is to use the dinner break, before the dress rehearsal, to walk through the whole play by myself on the set, quietly say all of the words, track my physical checklist in conjunction with my verbal, and give myself a little run-thru of my own. This is a normal thing for me. It appeals to my sense of logic and really can help a person iron out wrinkles. It’s also rather meditative. When one is not feeling in control, doing something deliberate such as this creates a semblance of it.

But as I start this simple process, I am ordered off the set by a crewmember who behaves brusquely. There is a rule that people can’t be on the set for insurance reasons, and of course my defensive point of view—that I’ve worked in X amount of theaters over X years and have never heard of such an absurd thing—means nothing to anyone (nor should it). I am also even more freaked out by her demeanor and the fact that she launches into kicking me out without an introductory explanation of who the hell she even is. My frustration escalates, and I actually succumb to what feels at the time like a perfectly natural state of being: sobbing. This is wildly entertaining to me now as I look back on it. I definitely still easily maintain that the gatekeeper was unnecessarily rude, but what amuses me now is how fragile I actually was.

Remembering that a huge contingent of drama students from Lincoln High School, my alma mater, and their teachers, and oh yes, my mother, are all coming to see the “invited dress” does not buoy me. I quickly realize that the dress rehearsal will just have to be what it is; there will be no heroic, miraculous opening night–style, transcendent performance. We will be happy if 1. We don’t have to stop in the middle; 2. We tell the story clearly and effectively; and 3. Nobody in the audience throws anything wet at us.

And that’s basically what happened. When a performance begins at this stage of the process, there is a scary, thrilling sense of danger fueled by the general human fear of the unknown, and the faith that you have indeed done most of the work necessary to avoid disastrous results. One does not normally dive off a rocky cliff in Acapulco without having learned how to do so properly (I hope), and even so, there has to be a first time. Will your lack of seasoned timing at this particular task cause you to plunge headlong into the lagoon when the tide is suddenly out? Will a sudden gust of wind blow your hapless body so close to the face of the terrain that it snags your thong, stripping you naked of your dignity?

No animals, actors, or divers were harmed during the dress rehearsal of The Orphan of Zhao. If there is one thing to be said about this company of actors, and the entire crew, both groups are extremely dependable. Everyone carried her or his weight. Everything went as smoothly as possible. I felt for the first time many small revelations about the continuity of the story as we stitched it all together as a team. At the end, as I greeted the Theater Kids and my mother (who clearly was very pleased with this show that she had been waiting to see with such motherly anticipation), I sheepishly felt we could’ve done so much better, but in fact we could not have, given the circumstances of where we are in the process. It was exactly what it was supposed to be. And we were all still safe, performing for our friends and family.

Before performing, the drama of acting can create surprising, disproportionate anxiety, but I often find it really easy to shake any nervousness I feel by remembering something rather simple; that what we are doing is not so monumentally important as to warrant such fear, and that furthermore and most importantly, “no one is going to die.”

In real life, anyway.

To learn more about A.C.T.'s production of The Orphan of Zhao and to buy tickets visit act-sf.org/orphan.


Wednesday, June 25, 2014


Daisuke Tsuji, Brian Rivera, and Stan Egi
Photo by BD WONG
So we starts tech at the beginning of the play on Saturday morning and slowly work our way through every moment—the actors’ performances, the lighting cues, sound cues, scenery shifts, and costume changes (many of the costume changes are “quick changes” as there are a lot of actors doubling roles in this company)—gently folding them all together like ingredients in the batter of a soufflé. I believe the goal is to finish the play by the end of Sunday, basically one day per act, leaving time for revisions, a margin for error, and enough time for a proper dress rehearsal before the first preview performance. That is about eight-and-a-half hours to tech each of the two (approximately) sixty-five minute acts for each day. Why does it take so long?

The tech process is partly tedious because it is in a constant state of stopping and starting. Repeating a part of the show that hasn’t been entirely ironed out yet is complicated, because in order to go over any given portion again, everything in every department has to be restored to where it was at the beginning of that sequence; and, as a play like ours is always in a state of forward motion (with lighting, scenic, sound, prop, costume, hair, makeup, and music elements all constantly shifting from point A to point B to point C and so on), working through the entire production bit-by-bit requires the constant, painstaking coordination of every department. Picture, if you will, an actor rushing offstage during tech and doing a full makeup, wig, and costume quick change with the assistance of dressers and hairdressers; completing it successfully in the small window of time he has to make his next entrance; high fiving everyone—and then, just as he’s about to reenter, hearing that we are going back to repeat a part of the show right before this all happened. It can be maddening, but it’s also pretty fun.

Daisuke Tsuji, Cindy Im, Nick Gabriel
(at the gong), Orville Mendoza, Paolo Montalban,
and Marie-France Arcilla
Photo by BD WONG
Here is my attempt at recreating a typical moment in a tech rehearsal.

(This basically happened the way it is described, with minor artistic license.)

Midway through the rehearsal, the Stage Manager announces where in the play the tech rehearsal will resume and continue from.

Stage Manager (on a “god mike” that everyone in the building can hear): Okay. Thank you for your patience, we have fixed the problem with the drop rolling up and are ready to continue. So we are going to take it again from the point in the scene between BD and Julyana when BD exits the house through the curtain, so we can raise the “mountain drop” again. Can we have BD and Julyana back on stage, please?

BD reenters, finishing a donut.

BD: Hello again.

Assistant Stage Manager (stepping onto the stage from the wings): Dick, Julyana thought we were moving on. She’s making her costume change for the next scene.

Stage Manager: Bring her back please, Megan, just tell her she doesn’t have to change back all the way.

Julyana (eventually entering): Here I am! Sorry. . . . I thought we weren’t doing it again.

Stage Manager: That’s okay, we just want to look at one thing again. BD, whenever you are ready.

BD: Okay. (Speaking from the script to Julyana, who is no longer dressed for the scene as his wife, but is now dressed as an old man.) “. . . Maybe he will have some advice. . . . ”

BD goes to the curtain and opens it. Before his exit, he and Julyana share a moment of meaningful eye contact.

How tech looks from the stage.
Left, in blue, Dick Daley at his command center,
lower right, Ken Savage, director's assistant
to Carey Perloff, Ms. Perloff, and "movement
designer" Stephen Buescher conferring.
BD closes the curtain in front of him, exiting the scene, and the lights shift indicating the end of that scene. Julyana exits in the dark to go to her designated backstage quick- change area (where the dresser and hairdresser wait to assist her with her costume and wig change), but she does not change, since she already did before. Continuing to the next scene, BD starts to climb the ladder, in front of a slowly rising backdrop that is painted like the mountain in a Chinese watercolor. The Stage Manager coordinates the lighting and rising of the mountain backdrop with the actors’ movements. He cues the lights and scenery according to what has been decided/designed, speaking to the different departments with the aid of a headset. The live music is self-cued visually by the musicians. The transition represents BD leaving Julyana behind in their house, and him traveling to (the character played by) Sab’s house. When the scene shift is complete and BD has reached the second level on the ladder, Sab and Brian enter from another part of the second level to meet BD for the next scene. The Stage Manager speaks into the god mike.

Stage Manager: Can we hold please? Thank you, BD.

BD climbs back down the ladder to the stage level, assuming they will be going back again and trying to get back to the secret place where he hid his donut in the set. Sab and Brian go back offstage obediently, “restoring” to where they were before they entered.

Director (to all involved, a voice in the dark, enthusiastic about the “rising mountain effect”): It’s beautiful, guys! Hold on. . . .

Set Designer (to Director): Carey, does BD have to close the curtain? If the curtain is closed, then the audience sitting house right can’t see the mountain drop go up.

Director: BD, leave the curtain open, honey. It’s so beautiful when the mountain drop goes up.

BD: But I’m leaving the house. How can we have that “goodbye” moment with Julyana if I don’t close the curtain? Don’t I need to close the curtain?

Director: I know, but it’s blocking the mountain drop.

BD: Argh. Okay. How about if I just stand and we look at each other for a moment and I wait for the lights to go out before I move, rather than leaving with the “front door open”? The lights go out, right?

Director: Yes, the lights will go out. Yeah, do that.

BD: Okay!

BD “goes back in the house.”

Stage Manager: Okay, can we take it again from the same place?

Julyana (coming back on, still dressed as an old man): I’m here this time!

Stage Manager: Very good! Whenever you are ready, BD.

BD: “Maybe he will have some advice. . . . ”

BD goes to the “doorway.” BD and Julyana look at each other meaningfully for a prolonged moment. The lights do not go out. The mountain drop starts going up. The musicians start playing the music cue.

Stage Manager: Hold, please.

Everyone stops.

Director: BD, you have to exit and go to the ladder so Dick can call the light cue and cue the mountain drop.

BD: . . . But I thought the light was going to go out . . . argh. Can I—

Director: NO. You can’t close the curtain. It’s blocking the mountain drop.

BD: Argh.

BD resignedly goes from the “doorway” to the ladder.

Stage Manager: BD, we need to take it from the same place as before.

BD resignedly goes from the ladder back into the house.

BD crosses to his “hiding place.”

Assistant Stage Manager (popping out from the wings): You can’t eat on the set.

BD: Argh.

End of Scene.

To learn more about A.C.T.'s production of The Orphan of Zhao and to buy tickets visit act-sf.org/orphan.


Monday, June 23, 2014


Photo by Kevin Berne
Time management always baffles me. Time is so mercurial. We humans have figured out how to measure it, and we can predict somewhat how we can negotiate our way through it when faced with a time-sensitive task, but not much thought goes into how that negotiation actually happens. I suspect this is because if we do try to figure it out, our heads will explode.

So, you have a finite amount of time to tech a show. Tech-ing a show means that you take the performance of the play that the actors have rehearsed in the rehearsal room, bring it into the theater, and then spend that finite amount of time prior to the final dress rehearsal adding every remaining technical element that gives the production its physical identity. Months or sometimes years before a production goes into technical rehearsals, designers are preparing their work. Director Carey Perloff shared costume designer Linda Cho’s wonderful costume designs with me back in February. These were completed and did not change much subsequently, so Linda and Carey were undoubtedly collaborating on their ideas well before. Dan Ostling and composer Byron Au Yong probably were also in conversation with Carey sometime in 2013 (I hear Byron started doing musical sketches almost immediately, and that Carey and Dan “storyboarded” the entire play—choosing a scenic identity for each of the many scenes—for about a year). Lap Chi Chu, as lighting designer, probably does his most intensive work once an initial scenic concept is established, and his work becomes a collaborative response to that, as well as to Carey’s direction and Linda’s costumes. Jake Rodriguez is the sound designer and not only designs the entire equipment plot for the enhancement of the actors’ voices through artful miking (we have challenges balancing our particular show as the actors’ voices need to be heard over loud percussion instruments, for example), but he also works with Byron on the soundscape (i.e., sound effects). Sound design is the unfortunate, neglected sibling of the design family, as it is a design element underappreciated by nearly everyone. Perhaps this is because sound does not have a tangible entity, something you can look at or touch. There is no excuse for omitting the value of a good sound designer’s contribution to a production while one gushes over the lighting, scenery, and costumes.

Daisuke Tsuji, Paolo, Montalban, and Cindy Im
Photo by BD WONG
This process of tech is extremely complicated. The stage manager is coordinating all of the elements. Each department (wardrobe, hair/makeup, on deck/props/set, lighting, etc.) has its own crew. In the three days that we resumed rehearsing at 30 Grant after our partial week at the scene shop, the set (an imposing three-story structure primarily constructed of two-inch steel pipe, split into two large parts that are separated by a corridor running the depth of the stage) was dismantled, transported, and installed on The Geary Theater deck, where it greeted the actors when they came to work on Friday, May 30. I have no idea exactly what this entailed, but I certainly appreciate it. In order for the set to be as sturdy as it would be in the theater (and safe), it had been welded to the scene shop floor. Therefore, it must’ve had to be un-welded to transport it, for starters. However, I never saw a truck, or a wrench, or a blowtorch, or any of it ever in pieces. It was there in the scene shop when we left Sunday, and then it was there on The Geary Stage in all its glory when we arrived Friday. And, by the way, nobody directly involved in this seemingly-effortless but herculean process is doing any bragging of any sort to the naïve actors about all this magic. If you have been doing it as long as I have and are even a little observant, you come to realize that that’s precisely what makes it magical. This realization is unfortunately rather hard to come to when you are an actor at this stage of the rehearsal process, though. Steeped in your own tasks, you tend to see everything during this time as one of two things:

Everything is either about you (and your—or your character’s—track of whatever show it is that you’re doing). . . .

. . . Or everything is about you (and your—or your character’s—track of whatever show it is that you’re doing).

Those are the two choices; pick one.

This is because you are about to put yourself on the line and go out there in front of paying people in a rather exposed way, so you are somewhat vulnerable to worrying about whether or not the new elements—the clothes, what you’re standing on, what you’re hearing, everything else—is going to mess you up in any way. If something does mess you up, then you worry whether or not it will be the permanent kind of messing up or the kind of messing up that you can deal with gracefully if you make a manageable adjustment. Usually the tech phase of a production coincides with both the final stage of committing the text to memory, as well as a growing comfort with the staging after working on it for weeks, and I find that this is the time when I am the most stressed out. It’s challenging to be trying to get your brain to install the text in a text-challenging play to a word-perfect place, right at the time when the physical elements are being introduced to you—i.e., change.

An A.C.T. donor was so tickled to relate to me how fascinated she was when she was once able to attend a tech rehearsal as an observer. “And then the stage manager came out and told us, ‘Watch this, the actors are all going to complain about their props; some of the props are still being built and the actors are not going to be happy. . . .’ And sure enough, wouldn’t you know, the actors all came out and said ‘Where’s my this?’ and ‘Where’s my that?’ and ‘Is this how it’s going to be?’ It was so interesting!”

This isn’t totally fair, though. The rehearsal process is usually closed so that actors can work these things out in privacy. Furthermore, it can’t be overstated how important an actor’s familiarity with a prop that she is working with is when you consider that effortlessness is her ultimate goal. In our show, for example, there is one particular prop—an old fashioned medicine chest—that must not only hold a variety of other props within it with a minimum of “scrounging around for it,” but it must also be handled by two actors at different times in very different ways: one gets things in and out of it many times, and the other must climb the three-story set with it strapped to his back. The prop has to work for both of them, and they each in turn must rehearse with it, so that their dealings with it are not in the least bit awkward in front of an audience, or in some cases, even unsafe.

To learn more about A.C.T.'s production of The Orphan of Zhao and to buy tickets visit act-sf.org/orphan.
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