Jennifer Carroll is a 21 year old actor and writer. She first began writing for the Uxbridge Cosmos in 2007 when she had the opportunity to share her experiences as a Canadian ambassador for an international conference for women in Dubai. At the beginning of 2008, she moved to Ireland to pursue a career in theatre and film. Far From Home is her monthly account on living and working in Dublin.
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Time strolls through adn out the other side
.
That line, borrowed from the play I just finished closing this week, probably encompasses my life as days flow away from me. I now know why stage managing and producing are two different jobs. For seven weeks this play has pulled my life in every possible direction. Between poster designs and light designs, invite lists and prop lists, radio interviews, press releases, production meetings and tech rehearsals, time ambles by and I hardly notice how quickly it's moving.
Not that I'm complaining. Far from it, in fact I enjoy the dizzying rush of being so busy that if you stop you'll lose momentum and completely collapse from exhaustion. That forward thrust is exhilarating. It makes me feel alive, and I've learned so much. The tips and advice I received from the talented technical teams of three different theatres was immeasurable. The practical aspects of maintaining a consistent show was a surprising challenge and I enjoyed measuring up to it. The task of engaging people and getting their bums in seats stretched my imagination and ingenuity to its end, but the reward of counting the heads in the audience each day was incredible.
The only disappointment is the bad, tinny taste the actress left in my mouth. The proud, independent woman I respected at our opening in March turned into a sniveling, pouting child I had to babysit each day, cradling her self-image and temper while trying to gently reprimand her for juvenile carelessness on stage. Watching her slowly begin to push and distort her performance out of boredom or resentment for a quiet audience put my patience to the test.
It's difficult, watching from the wings. My heart, my mind, my bones ache to be under the heat of stage lights again. It's painful to get up every day and watch myself erode away a little bit more, to rust from lack of use. My methodical attempts to keep my acting muscles supple and limber sometimes feel grossly inadequate. Try parching your thirst from a slowly dripping tap. It's not easy. Most days I'm eager to get out of bed and spend as much time in a theatre as I can, no matter what the job happens to be. I enjoy the technical side of theatre, I do. But to sit and run a show and watch a woman who has a chance to be on stage throw her performance away, whose only consistency is her lack of interest in her own work… it certainly tested my own tenacity and will.
Perhaps the hardest lessons are the ones you don't want to learn. This run broke me a little bit. I don't want to think that people give up a performance half way through a run. I don't want to believe that people don't care about the tingling thrill of giving a spectacular performance every single day. I don't want to believe that anyone would be too lazy or bored to sacrifice the integrity of their work. I don't want to see the lackluster shades of theatre that fails to take flight, that never lifts itself or its audience off the ground. But it happens. Those anemic productions exist and populate too many theatres. I'll encounter many more. They'll never mature past mere adequacy, and while they'll fade into the obscurity of merciful forgetfulness, I'll refuse to go with them.
Perhaps those hard lessons are worth something if you manage to separate yourself from the slimy residue and walk away with something constructive. I learned how to maintain my own creative integrity within the production. I realized there is a level of independence within this cripplingly co-dependent industry; maybe I can't control the actress on stage, but I can give her a damn good light show to sit under. Maybe I can't inject her performance with life, but I can polish the sound cues to weave effortlessly in and out of the dialogue. Maybe I can't raise her standards, but I can have standards for myself, and better than that, I can live up to them. Every moment I spent on this show was worth it. I walk away proud of what I did, and just a little bit wiser.
I don't think these lessons will get any easier to swallow, but when they get particularly difficult to keep down, I've found a new theatre to inspire me: the Mary Street market on the north side of Dublin city. If you've seen the film Agnus Brown, you know what I'm talking about. While managing their stalls full of seafood, produce and flowers, the women wear their hearts (and lives) on their sleeves. You can see every day they've lived displayed on their faces - hard lines, cutting eyes and fierce smiles. Cups of tea and cigarettes are never far from their lips, and I never tire of hearing them call me 'love' when I ask for half a dozen pears or a bunch of tulips. The drama in the air is palpable as you hear them banter back and forth between stalls, laughing, teasing, trading news, and heaven help you if you get on their bad side, they'll haul you over the coals. The real currency is gossip, and if you have a quick wit and quicker tongue you'll earn respect and some time in the action under the lights. It's a theatre that never ceases to delight me, and for now it's keeping me fed and inspired. Maybe someday soon I'll get the chance to bring that life up on stage. Who knows?
