…I kinda went apeshit with the guns, but I figured, y’know, what if everyone needs guns in their show?
…For some reason, I really need corn dogs.
…I make a dare to get as many of the playwrights tonight to fit the phrase “serious assplay” into their show.
…I draw the title “Brownie Points.”
…There was a wait at The Dane, so we came back. So all our fuckaround time has been eaten up by the whole looking-for-the-bar thing.
“…Jesus Christ, that is fucking cool,” Lisa says. “I am so using a gun in my play now,” she says, running off to write.
“…Good Lord! It’s the vicar!”
…Hey! I yell. Where the fuck did all my Red Bulls go? There’s only one left.
“…I say! You had better shower; you smell like a distillery!” “How does a distillery smell?” “With its nose! Haw-haw-haw-haw!”
…Carmine, you’re the only one who understands me, I say, and pass out.
The following takes place on the second night on the first week of Blitzkrieg 3D between 12:30 pm and 8:00 pm.
If events occurred in real time, we’d be here for eight and a half freakin’ hours.
12:30 pm. I awaken to find that Carmine has left me for one of the milk crates that holds the back half of our futon up.
You just can’t trust dog puppets.
I look at the clock.
I am no longer tired, but I did the calculation in my head last night—oh, yeah, that’s right, this morning—that I really should sleep until 3pm, as that would give me the full eight hours of sleep that they tell you you should get.
But I’m not tired any more.
Which makes no damn sense.
I get up.
I walk into the living room.
I walk back into the bedroom.
My wife, Betsy, is down at the theater.
Right now, my biggest joy is that I’m at home, in my sleepy-pants (that’s what I call them, and shut up about it, you bastards) and have absolutely no decisions to make, except: Do I go back to sleep or watch t.v.?
I compromise. I pull the shades and decide to sleep while watching t.v.
But first I feel the need to check my email.
This is when my wife walks in.
Which also makes no sense, since she’s supposed to be downtown, at the theater.
What’s going on? Shouldn’t you be—
“We think we broke one of the guns,” Betsy says.
Inside, I think: Of course you broke one of the guns. The actors always break one of the guns.
That was fast, I say. What’s broken on it?
“One of the springs, I think,” she says—but I also know that Betsy doesn’t know anything about guns, and this could mean anything.
She heads into the bedroom closet, looking for clothes.
“Oh,” she says, “Daina wanted to know if you had a holster.”
Yeah. I actually brought it down there.
But, of course, only I know where it is, and plus, I’d have to show her how to put it on.
Did you want me to come down there?
Betsy is too frazzled to give me a straight answer—the roads are covered in snow, and it’s still coming down out there.
She stares at me, like she doesn’t understand the question.
Then she says:
“If you want to come down, you can. If you want to stay, then stay.”
Betsy, do you want me to come down there or not?
“I would like the company, but if you want to stay—“
I’m not asking you what I want, I’m asking you if it would be better for you if I came down there.
“Do what you want to do,” she says.
In Betsy-speak, this translates to “PLEASE COME WITH ME!!!”
At this point, I’m still in what I slept in.
1:02 pm. I’ve showered, dressed, and am now standing outside of Betsy’s car trying to get the ice off of the wipers with my bare hands, while inside, Betsy is mouthing the word “Sorry.”
1:49 pm. We’re in the car on the way back down to the theater.
Betsy’s chilled out for the most part.
I still haven’t accepted that I’m going back to the theater.
“Well,” she says, “you got your dream cast.”
Oh, really?
“Yup. All the people you wanted are in the show.”
Cool. How’s Daina?
(Daina Zemliauskas, who was my pick for Megan “The Gun” DuCott.)
“Daina’s really cool. I like working with her a lot.”
She also tells me that Many Vang (an actress Buck recommended for me) is very perky, very upbeat, and very positive, considering the situation.
The situation is that we all have very little time before the show, and that the snow is going to extend the length of everyone’s lunch break.
This was supposed to be forty-five minutes for Betsy.
It’s going to be two hours.
Two hours that she can’t rehearse.
3:07 pm. Betsy and I walk into the theater. Betsy goes ahead, as I take in the whole scene.
I walk though a group of people acting like they’re in a HMO waiting room. Two girls are practice cheerleading.
I step through a door, and I am in another hospital scene, as Mickey Crocker, an actress I know, sits in a wheelchair, muttering “Green River.” I turn to see Caleb Stone, another friend of mine, waiting to come in.
I keep walking.
I am on the stage. There is a scaffold constructed to help focus lights.
Ahead of me is the seating.
I keep walking.
3:10 pm
Buck and Aaron Anderson sit in front of a laptop.
Buck points at me, mock-mean: “I went to the bat for you, man! I got you your dream cast!”
I heard! Thanks!
I look over Buck’s shoulder. He and Aaron are working on the program.
“Did you want to check the credits on yours?”
I look. They spelled my name right, so it looks okay.
“Do you mind if I put the descriptions you had in the script of the characters in the program?”
Oh, I insist.
“Cool.”
So he enters in:
Brownie Points Written by Rob Matsushita Directed by Ray Dvorak
Megan “The Gun” DuCott…………Daina Zemliauskas (the baddest hit woman in the Midwest) Chelsea Fatt…………………………Many Vang (a talented amateur) Marsha Doe………………………Betsy Matsushita (ex-CIA, now a professional assassin) Phoebe Candice…………………Jill Kachur (a humorless psychotic)
3:20 pm.
I head back to the mezzanine, where I’ve been told that the “Brownie Points” cast is rehearsing.
As I walk in, everyone sees me and smiles.
Ray comes up to me. “Heeeey,” he says. We shake hands.
I hear we broke a gun.
“Well,” he says, “it’s just the clip. But I don’t think we—“
--You don’t really need that—
“—really need that, no.”
I fact, I shoulda just taken it out.
Betsy hands me the pieces to the gun’s magazine. I put it back together in seconds.
Okay, so—
“Oh,” Many says, “Um, we broke the knife.”
“It happened when I throw it to her, in the script,” Jill says.
Let me see it.
Many hands me the pieces of the knife.
Not a big deal, I say, I’ll tape it.
“But don’t we have to throw it again?”
I’ll use a lot of tape.
I turn to Daina.
Also, you wanted a holster, right?
“Yeah,” she says, “Did you bring one?”
Yeah, I actually had it with me last night, so it should still be here.
I turn to Jill.
Do you need a holster? Because I’ve got one for that gun.
“No,” she says, “I always have it out, so I don’t think I need it.”
Okay, I’m off to get that stuff.
3:28 pm. I walk out of the Mezzanine to see Buck wave at me.
“Does Many Vang want to go by ‘Many’ or ‘India?’ She put both.”
You got me. I can ask.
“Could you?”
Sure.
I go back and find Many.
How do you want to be listed in the program?
“Many’s fine. India’s just a nickname.”
Okay.
I walk back up.
Many’s fine, India’s just a nickname.
“Okay.”
And now I’m off to find gaffer tape and a holster.
“Oh, Rob?” Betsy asks.
Yeah?
“Can you get your leather jacket, so I can use it for the scene?”
Yeah, sure.
“Thanks.”
And now, I’m off to find gaffer tape and a holster.
And my jacket.
3:41 pm. I walk into the backstage area (where Lisa Konolipsky was writing less than fifteen hours ago) and find the gaffers tape.
Pete Le May, an actor in Kitty Dunn and Kate Hewson’s show (“Crimson Tide”) stands by, as I grab the gaffers tape.
God, I love this tape, I say, wrapping it around the broken stage knife.
“It’s great tape,” he says.
Oh, yeah, I say. Solves everything. Global warming, everything.
“Knives, too, it looks like.”
Yeah, luckily, this is just a big hunk of plastic. Should be easy to fix.
Pete heads into the scene as I head around the corner, waving hi to Meredith Berlin, who’s directing the scene.
I see the door to the dressing room where I was writing last night. The door is closed.
I knock, but I can’t hear if there’s any response, since it’s so loud around me.
I open it the door to find Micheal Herman lying on the floor as Doug Steckel points a hammer at his head.
Nearby, Craig Johnson sits, watching them.
They must be doing Dave Pausch’s play.
I see my bag under one of the tables, so I slip by them and open it.
I grab my holster and my jacket. I take the liner out of the jacket so it’ll be more comfortable for Betsy to wear on stage.
I also went as far as giving Betsy the smallest, lightest gun in the group. Betsy really doesn’t like using the guns, and doesn’t know how to use them—and doesn’t want to know, so I gave her the most user friendly gun I had.
I walk out with my stuff.
All of the scenes are in full swing, so I decide to go around the back way.
4:03 pm. I walk down the back stairs, running into a few other actors, and as I get to the downstairs door, it opens, and Dave Durbin’s there, already reading lines with David Hannes, Michael Du Fer, and Amy Bethel. I wave hi to Dave, walk a little more, and see Alex Peterson, crouching down a bit, holding a note pad, a script, and wearing a suit jacket. He’s in director mode. I wave. He nods.
I keep walking, until I get to the door to the lobby.
I open it.
“Good lord! It’s the vicar!”
Ah, they must be rehearsing Doug’s show in here.
Deanna Reed, directing, sees me and smiles. I wave to her, and say hi to John Eichenlaub.
On my way up to the mezzanine, I wave to Linda Hartay, who’s also in the scene.
I’m still chuckling over the vicar joke as I head back to the “Brownie Points” rehearsal.
4:24 pm. I enter with the shoulder holster and jacket. I hand the jacket to Betsy, and show Daina how to put on the holster.
4:55 pm. I walk backstage again, to find the comic books that I left behind earlier. I go back into the dressing room where they’re rehearsing Dave’s show (“Yellow Journalism”) to find Craig giving the cast notes.
Micheal slaps me five as they head out, moving to another space to rehearse.
I find my comics.
5:01 pm. I find a spot to crash out.
I sit down, pull out my copy of “Cage” and lay it on my face.
5:02 pm. I realize I’m not going to get any sleep.
I get up to see Mark Penner, sound designer and friend, already working on stuff.
I shake his hand.
You have gun sound effects?
“I saw your name and knew to bring them!”
Good man.
The big problem, he tells me, is the rapid-fire shots. He’s got everything on CD, and that’s usually just single shots.
“But I’m trying to find something that sounds like if. Maybe machine gun fire?”
We listen to a track. It sounds like machine gun fire.
“Well, I’ll keep looking.”
5:35 pm. I am in the mezzanine area again. Jill’s telling me that she’s happy to finally get a gun. She once marvelled that she was able to get through an entire show of mine and never got to carry a gun. Point of fact, she’s one of the only ones in it who didn’t.
She also mentions that she read the first act of Orange Murder Suit. She’s interested in acting in it.
“I didn’t realize…I mean, it’s just two people. For the whole scene. I kept thinking ‘well, he’s gonna bring someone else in,’ but no, it was just the two of them.”
Yeah, each scene has just two people.
“It’s gonna be tough.”
That’s why I’m being really selective. I’m getting really tired of drunks and people looking for drug connections showing up for auditions at Broom Street.
The rest of the cast returns. Everyone is in costume.
Daina’s shoulder holster has somehow made it around her waist, so I help her with it. The problem is that it’s sized to me, and I have a much broader back than she does.
Betsy suggests that I should call and reserve a hotel room, and I agree.
5:37 pm. I walk into the lobby to use the phone, and see the cast of “Yellow Journalism.”
Hey, I say, did you guys ever get your gun?
“No,” Craig says, “We never got one.”
Oh, great. I always get antsy when guns go missing.
I’ll find you your gun, I say, and head back up stairs.
5:45 pm. I don’t see the gun for “Yellow Journalism” where I left it yesterday.
I do see Doug Reed.
Hey, man, what are you doing here?
“I was just wondering that myself.”
5:50 pm.
I head back past the mezzanine.
“Did you call for the hotel?” Betsy asks.
Crap! No, not yet. I’ll do that now.
I walk downstairs to the lobby again.
The “Yellow Journalism” cast is still rehearsing.
Sorry, guys, I’m still looking for your gun.
“No problem,” Craig tells me, “take your time—we may have another lead.”
Well, I brought an emergency gun, just in case something like this happened.
I grab the phone book and find the number for the hotel.
I pick up the phone.
Remember to dial nine.
I dial the number, but the phone starts beeping at me.
Betty Diamond walks in and sees me.
“Ah, you’re the person I’m looking for.”
Just a second.
I try dialing the number again.
The same beeping.
Dammit.
“We have a problem with one of our guns,” Betty tells me, “and were wondering if you had another.”
Um, well, one of the other casts—I’m sort of already in the middle of another thing—and why won’t this phone work?!?
I walk over to the other phone in the lobby.
“Do you have a smaller gun, like a purse gun, or something?”
It’s in use by another show.
I don’t tell her, but it’s the one my wife is using.
“Well, can we use that one?”
No, they’re using it.
“Well, is there someway we can share?”
No. NO. Bad idea. Then the gun gets lost and the other cast is screwed.
“Well, our cast is screwed right now if we don’t get a gun.”
Nathan Caracter walks in with the rest of Betty’s cast (Shannon Barry and Karen Moeller). He waves and says “Hey, baby,” to me.
Hey, I say, grabbing the phone. What was that number?
“So we need a smaller gun. The scene doesn’t work as well with what we—“
I’ve got a whole other thing to take care of before I get to that—and do we have a phone in this lobby that works?
“No, not really,” says Craig.
“Try upstairs,” Karen tells me.
Betty still wants the gun situation resolved.
Are you guys gonna be down here? I ask Craig.
No, we’re moving upstairs.
I’ll find you your gun.
“Good, thanks,” Betty says.
I head back upstairs to the mezzanine.
The “Brownie Points” cast are all pointing guns at each other.
I pull a chrome Beretta 92F out of my backpack.
Trade ya, I say to Betsy, taking the Walther PPK out of her hands and replace it with the Beretta.
“Oh, thanks, she says, “this thing is twice as heavy—“
Not my fault, not my fault, I say, scampering away like an earwig.
I head back downstairs.
I hold up the PPK, showing it to Betty.
“Thank you,” she says.
Who gets it?
Karen raises her hand: “I do.”
I hand her the PPK.
Where’s the other gun?
“I got it.”
She hands me the gun she’d been using earlier.
It’s the gun I had set aside for “Yellow Journalism.”
So that’s where it went.
Thanks, I say.
“Oh, this gun works much better for the gag,” Betty says. “The other gun—“
Not my fault, not my fault, I say, scampering away like an earwig.
6:03 pm.
I head back upstairs, to the backstage area, and find Craig Johnson and Doug Steckel.
Here’s your gun.
They just finished their dress rehearsal.
They have to pre-tie Micheal to a chair before they start, they realize.
Doug takes the gun, thanks me, and I head to the phone as Craig pats me on the back.
I grab the phone.
I get the hotel.
I can barely hear the woman on the other end of the phone.
I tell her I need to reserve a room for toni—
Ten feet away from me, someone turns on a power saw.
I can barely make out that the woman is asking me what kind of room, smoking or non.
I tell her non. My wife just quit.
She asks if I want to get a room that includes a continental breakfast and turn down.
It’s only twenty dollars more.
I pull out my credit card.
Marcy Weiland walks up to the phone, sees I have a credit card out, and backs away.
I order the room.
Dear God in heaven, I order the room.
6:12 pm. I head back to the mezzanine area, muttering.
Never go to Blitzkrieg rehearsal.
Never go to Blitzkrieg rehearsal.
Never get out of the boat.
Never get out of the boat.
Didja see the size of that fucking tiger?
Doug is in the audience, with his friend, Fred (short for Friedrich) Petri. He introduces us.
“He called earlier and told me he couldn’t be here,” Doug tells me. “So you see, he can’t be trusted.”
Doug also tells me that Matt Cibula probably won’t be here tonight, as his mother-in-law is very sick. This makes me feel bad—it doesn’t seem right to have this go off and not have us all there.
I head down to the mezzanine.
Hey, honey, I say, walking in. I got the room. I even got a room with super cool special stuff ‘cause it’s only twenty dollars more.
“Cool,” Betsy says, hugging me, “You’re the best husband ever.”
That’s the strong rumor.
I need a corn dog.
6:24 pm. I open the backstage fridge to find that all of my corn dogs from last night are exactly where I left them.
I see Alex Petersen again.
Corn dog?
“Sure,” he says. His director-issue suit jacket is now being used in the show.
How’s the directing going? We head over to the microwave.
“I guess it’s going okay. I like the film directing more, but I’m learning a lot. I’m beginning to see the Blitzkrieg thing, and why you guys like it. I want to write next time.”
Mention it to Buck, definitely.
Our corn dogs ding.
We pull them out of the microwave.
I've been eating nothing but corn dogs for the last twenty-two hours, and yet, I'm still not tired of them.
That's a little scary.
“I’m still a little weirded out by the whole ‘well, it’s not as good as I wanted it, but it’s there and I guess I have to live with it’ aspect of this, though.”
Welcome to the world of directing, kid, I say, patting him on the back.
6:30 pm. After watching the dress rehearsal for “Brownie Points,” I turn to Daina and say Next time, I’m writing something that doesn’t take three days to get right.
She laughs and smacks me in the arm.
6:42 pm. I head to the lobby.
Matt Cibula walks in.
Matt! I didn’t think you’d be here!
“Hey, can’t miss this,” he says. He pulls out a cel phone. “But I could get a call any minute and have to run out of here. They letting us in yet?”
No, they’re still rehearsing up there.
“Because I’m having dinner next door. With my brother, and a friend.”
Mind if I join you? I don’t want to get roped into any more work.
“Sure, work sucks, let’s go.”
6:50 pm. We walk into Café MontMarte.
I shake hands with Matt’s brother, Jeff, and Matt introduces me to his friend.
Hi, I’m Rob, I say, shaking hands.
“Actually, we met earlier.” I suddenly realize that it’s Fred Petri again.
Damn, I suck.
7:15 Jeff tells us that he’s still not sure whether or not he should try acting again.
Oh, you should, both Matt and I tell him.
“But I haven’t acted for ten years.”
Yeah, but you should see some of the fuckheads in this town who think they can act.
“Seriously,” Matt tells him.
7:32 pm.
“So Doug writes,” Matt’s laughing so hard he’s nearly choking. “’You smell like a distillery!’”
How does a distillery smell? I say.
“’With its nose!’”
One second.
Two seconds.
And the table bursts into laughter.
This is our cue to head to the theater.
7:55 pm. I sit next to Doug.
“It was so not my night,” he says.
Yeah, but I hear you’ve got the funniest show.
“That may be all due to my lovely wife.”
Deanna, sensing her cue, waves to me.
We’re still laughing about the distillery joke.
Doug laughs and shakes his head.
“Not my night!”
7:59 pm. I label the tape I’m about to put in my camcorder.
The lights dim.
I snap shut the camcorder and turn it on.
Blackout.
8:00 pm. A spotlight goes up.
Buck steps out.
Huge applause.
It is twenty-four hours from when we pulled our titles.
It is twelve hours from the script deadline.
It is ten hours from when the casts read the scripts for the first time.
It is seven hours from when I headed to the theater.
It is three hours from the final dress rehearsal.
It is two hours from my last corn dog.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Buck says, “welcome to Project: Blitzkrieg 3D.”
The following is by David Hannes--another Blitzkrieg playwright this year.
Since I didn't do anything on the second weekend of Blitzkrieg except go to it, I put this here so that both weekends are represented here.
Plus, I liked his show.
It's the morning after my first "play" has been actually performed, and I am still "basking" in a "myriad of emotions"...since I'm sure I've already worn out the patience of my family, I thought I would share a few thoughts here with any interested parties.
Some background (yes, I'll try to keep this brief)--for years, I've wanted to write a play and have it produced...a few years ago, Mercury Players, a local community theater company here in Madison, WI, began doing experimental 24-hour productions, e.g. playwrights create a play from 8 p.m. until 8 a.m., directors cast plays from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m., rehearsals then until 4 p.m., tech run at 4, then makeup, costumes, etc..., and a show at 8 that evening.
I did not participate in the first such event; last year I performed as an actor, with all the writing spots--for 8 shows--filled by writers with more experience. This year, however, the project expanded into 2 weekends--so 16 shows, 16 writers. I acted last weekend, and had the good fortune to be selected as a writer for this second weekend...apparently the first true novice--all the other writers had, at some point, written and been produced before.
I often get a little anxious during "new" experiences (ironically, performing on stage rarely activates any anxiety)...Thursday night was most restless, as I wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew. Friday was like Christmas Eve day when I was 6--the anticipation was overwhelming.
Finally, 8 o'clock had arrived...I met the other writers--2 of which I had met before and knew that their work was good--also, the same duet that wrote the previous year's musical were there...gratefully, all the writers welcomed me and supported me...no competition, no anymosity, not even a "what are you doing here?" look or comment.
The topic was selected and then the title selection...I had drawn the '7,' which meant I drew 7th...as the first title emerged, we realized that this weekend's topic was "countries." The titles emerged from the hat: "Norwegian Wood," "Spanish Fly," etc.... Each writer gets to choose 2 titles...the first one I drew: "Portuguese Man-O-War." I didn't like this title, as all I could imagine was...well, a Portuguese soldier. The second time through was more kind: "Russian Roulette."
Next we had to select the number of actors...now going in reverse order, I selected 2nd, and opted for 3 females. When it came time to draw again, all that remained of the "male" cards had 'zeroes'--meaning that there were no male actors left for me.
I had desperately wanted at least one male actor for some good ol' gender conflict...One of the other playwrights asked if I would trade "Russian Roulette" for "Swedish Massage" AND a male actor...but I decided I needed all the help I could get (the premise is that we had to write a play using the title, and RR seemed easier than "Swedish Massage"). She later gave me a male actor to help me.
The writing went well...I opted to use a concept I had envisioned earlier--4 strangers in a rather hurried road trip from Chicago to New York, each with different purposes and sense of urgency. Midway through the writing, I realized that I had abadoned one of the characters and--somewhere between 3:15 and 4:00 a.m.--decided to make a sharp-turn and make her a more central character. I won't bore you with all the details, but was able to create more conflict and a surprise ending. I finished up at 5:25 a.m., just after "German Shepherd" and "Mexican Radio."
That afternoon was the longest of my life...all I kept thinking about was that 6 other people were now intimately involved in rehearsing something that I had written just a few hours earlier. Oh, I how longed to be there to watch their reactions. Finally, I met up with my girlfriend and my brother and his wife for a celebratory dinner before heading to the theater...as this show sold out last year, I insisted getting there an hour before curtain, to make sure that I could get a ticket. After another beer, we met my other brother and his wife...I still kept all aspects of the show secret from them, so as to not ruin any of it for them.
My play was to be run 3rd...I considered this a good spot. However, I was sandwiched in between 2 accomplished playwrights and conceded that my play was perhaps not as good as I had originally thought. No matter.
I did not recognize either the director or the performers, but waited...and waited. The first play was a comedic piece on psychology students utilizing a German Shepherd doll to convey issues with each other; it garnished several laughs. The next play, "Italian Dressing," was both funny and dramatic and was about a video dating service.
Finally, "Russian Roulette" came to life. A 15 year-old was cast in the role of a college-aged student and she pulled it off brilliantly...in fact, all of the performers did a phenomenal job, especially with some of the more awkward sentences I had created. The moment was magical...a few less laughs than I had hoped and a memorable stage experience...and it certainly felt weird that another voice was saying something that my inner voice was saying by itself just 20 hours earlier. I wasn't able to time it, but it seemed like it came in close to the 15 minute guideline, perhaps a bit light. I won't reveal any details, but if any of you have read this far and would like to read the script, please email me and I'll send it to you. Overall, I consider it successful, but couldn't help but wonder 'what if I had done this or tried that?'
I met one of the performers afterwards...he seemed to enjoy at least some of it...it was the first time he had ever played "an asshole." I relayed to him that his character was not based on my father like my brother had speculated, but primarily on myself. (3 of the 4 characters were, in part).
Anyway...I now have at least a little experience with the "triumphs" and"tragedies" of being a produced playwright. Just thought I'd share this with a few anonymous readers out there in cyberland.
-- ~`~`~`~`~`~ David Hannes º¿º ~ College professor, professional clown...and now playwright.
What's funny is that in his show, there in fact, is a game of Russian Roulette played--with an automatic pistol.
Not a good weapon of choice for the game, unless you're going second.
After his show, Buck came out and made the announcement:
"We have had a complaint from an audience member. A Mr. R. Matsushita of Verona writes, "At the end of that last play, the woman picked up a gun and said, 'let's put one bullet in the chamber,' when the gun in question was OBVIOUSLY not a revolver." The management regrets this error.
Which was great, because that was exactly what I was going to say.
Buck just sent this out. I'm putting it here for a group of reasons:
1. So that people involved with Blitzkrieg without email can read it. 2. As another chapter in the Blitzkrieg thing. 3. To deflect that I haven't put part two of my Blitzkrieg diary up yet even though I said I'd do it last weekend. 4. Because Buck really sums up why Blitzkrieg is such a cool deal.
At any rate, here's what Buck wrote:
First off, the now-traditional St. Crispin's Day speech (though Doug Reed unsuccessfully lobbied for Mr. Ashcroft's stirring rendition of "Let the Eagles Soar" as a substitute):
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say, 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say, 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.' Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember with advantages What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England, now a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
-- William Shakespeare, "Henry V" Act IV, Scene 3, lines 45-72
This is going out to all the people who participated in both weekends of "Blitzkrieg 3-D!" (or at least, all the ones whose e-mails I have). That's a total of 66 actors (it came out exactly even, 33 per weekend), 19 writers, 14 directors (5 of whom also wrote or acted), and 17 assorted crew members, plus me standing back and giddily watching it all happen, for a total of 117 Blitzkrieg personnel (okay, maybe 110 counting for duplication) over the two weekends. Hard to believe that this circus keeps getting bigger every year, and yet we continue to pull it off with brilliant, amazing results.
I want to thank each and every one of you for helping make this wonderful, crazy thing happen. It's always a win-win kind of situation for me, because (a) I get to work with lots of great people I may never have worked with otherwise; (b) I get to introduce my Mercury/Strollers/MTG friends to my Broom Street friends and vice versa; (c) Mercury Players makes a little money AND gets to meet lots of people who can then come back and star in (or do tech for) future Mercury productions; and most important of all, (d) we put on one heck of a show, and everyone (hopefully) has a blast doing it.
What is it about this crazy thing that I love so much? I'm going to get all theoretical and philosophical for a minute, so bear with me. For one thing, the Blitz brings back the best of what I love about improv - that magical feeling of conjuring something completely new out of thin air, with the help and support of an enthusiastic audience who is rooting for you all the way.
But it's more than just improv; the Blitz also contains my favorite facet of the rehearsal process for a regular play: that wonderful time at the beginning of rehearsals when the material is still brand-new to the actors and the directors, when nothing has had time to get tired or routine, and when the script is full of limitless possibilities to be joyously played with and explored. The actors playing out the Blitzkrieg plays are only a few hours behind the audience in terms of how fresh and new the script is, and the audience definitely senses that freshness, and responds.
And it's not just the artistic stuff that I value in Blitzkrieg - it's the people, working their butts off, putting personal issues aside, and getting this thing done with a maximum of effort in minimal time. It's Theatre Concentrate, with all the artistic fervor of a four-week rehearsal process condensed into 10 hours or so, and with no time to indulgte in psychodramas among the cast (unless, as with Jodi Cohen's play, the script is actually ABOUT psychodrama). As Rob Matsushita put it, it is the creative equivalent of sprinting - but it's also something akin to an Amish barn-raising, with everyone joining together with joy and energy to create something strong and beautiful, all in a day.
Anyway, I've gushed enough. Just let me say, thank you to everyone for doing this thing with me, four times in two years now. You all did a marvelous job, and I hope you all had a wonderful time - or, failing that, that you'll at least be able to look back on it and laugh one of these days. I feel incredibly lucky to be a part of Blitzkrieg, to gather all of you into one place and to watch everything come together (seemingly despite all odds) and turn into something beautiful, every time. You are all amazing, wonderful, talented, dedicated, golden human beings and I love you all terribly much.
Now let's do it again soon!
Love, Buck
Misty just emailed me, mentioning how cool it would be to have something like this in her area.
My advice to everyone is to create one.
Get involved with a local group, start your own, man, just do it!
Because you only regret the things you don't do.
Now, click here for a rainforest solution that's both insane and yet all-too-sane.
Comments by: YACCS