I can't speak for anyone else, but when I'm in a children's show, I like
to find new ways to reinterpret the play. If you listen hard enough,
you can make a play tell you some amazing things.
I did this last
Christmastime at Kelsey Theatre, when I played part of the ensemble in
"'Twas the Night Before Christmas." It's supposed to be a charming
little story about how Clement Moore learned about the real Santa Claus
(hint: he has a neighbor named Kris Kringle), and was inspired to write
his poem "A Visit from Saint Nicholas." I took advantage of the large
talking mouse, dancing sugar plums, and troupe of tapdancing reindeer
whom only Moore could see; and sensibly concluded that the play was
really about Clement Moore's tragic mental breakdown.
These
things generally have no effect on the play, except to give me and the
other actors something to laugh about backstage. In one or two cases,
other actors have added perverse suggestions of their own, or asked me
for more.
This time, though, I think I'm really on to something.
Middle Daughter and I are partway through a three-week run of "The Frog Prince," as adapted for the stage by playwright
Max Bush.
It's a fun little children's play, based on the story by the Brothers
Grinn, though it also draws a bit on Disney's "Beauty and the Beast."
The show is running at Somerset Valley Players in Hillsborough, through
Aug. 4. (Showtimes are 8 p.m. Fridays, and 2 p.m. Saturdays and
Sundays.)
The story centers on Prince Erik, whom a witch has
turned into a frog. The only way to break the enchantment is for a
princess to take him home with her, let him eat from her plate, drink
from her cup, and sleep on her bed. You know how the story goes. My
character is the king, who is naturally concerned that his daughter
honor the promises she makes, even if she makes them to a frog. A
promise is a promise, after all.
Now, in developing the story
into a three-scene play, Bush has necessarily added detail. First,
there's the backstory for Prince Erik and how he became a frog: He
refused to help the witch when she asked for help, and what is more, he
wounded a magic panther under the witch's protection while hunting it.
His transformation, which seems to owe a little to Disney's "Beauty and
the Beast," is meant to teach him a lesson. If he doesn't learn it,
he'll stay a frog forever.
But what's interesting is the
backstory Bush implies for the other characters. The princess'
brother-in-law, Hans, talks repeatedly about having been a bear. And
King Kiesel, when he walks on stage the first time, is hailed as "Kiesel
the Hawk, son of Charles the Wolf." Hel-lo! We have an interesting
backstory suggested here, that perhaps not only the king but his father
as well, also were taught lessons by the witch.
These are minor
things, admittedly; but unlike my games with Clement Moore and his
mental breakdown, they serve actually to define my character. Having
given these thoughts expression, I suddenly found the king viewing
Prince Erik's story in a whole new light. It's no wonder he's not
surprised to hear a talking frog, nor to see a prince appear where a
frog had been. These things may not happen all the time, but they've
happened with enough regularity that the king is prepared to accept
them.
This is an important process in acting, one that can move
an actor from merely reciting lines and trying to play the character, to
actually becoming the character. There isn't always a lot to go on, but
it's important to listen to the dialogue and explore the blocking, not
to mention understanding the chemistry with the other actors on stage.
Doing it right can make the characters spring to life in ways not
immediately apparent in the script, nor even necessarily considered by
the playwright.
Before I took the part of King Kiesel in "The
Frog Prince," I had the part of Noah in "The Grapes of Wrath," a stage
adaptation by Frank Galati of John Steinbeck's unforgettable novel. Noah
has about a dozen lines in the play before he leaves his family at the
Colorado River, and his only big scene is that one.
I read the
lines over and over again. I rehearsed them with the actor playing Tom
Joad, and slowly came to understand my character my way. Noah has dealt
with a mental disability since his birth. He isn't stupid, but he takes
longer to think things through, and has realized over the years that the
rest of the family tolerates him and feels sorry for him because of his
disability, but they don't really care for him.
Except Tom.
Noah,
you see, is the oldest of the Joad children, and Tom is second. Tom is
also the one whom Noah decides to confide in with his decision to leave
the family. By the backstory the two of us worked out, Noah has always
loved his little brother, and Tom (ever since he realized Noah's
difficulty) has looked out for and protected him.
So when Noah
decides to confide his decision to Tom, it's a gentle scene. He sits
down, waves his brother in close, and tells him. And when Tom tries to
talk him out of it, Noah becomes agitated and upset, and ultimately
takes a swing at his brother. Tom is stunned, and Noah breaks down in
tears. And then he leaves.
The first time we played that scene to an audience, I heard gasps.
When you listen to a play hard enough, you can hear it say some amazing things.
