Christopher Sieber: "Yes, My Knees Are Fine...Thanks for Asking"

About the author:
Since debuting opposite Betty Buckley in 1997’s Triumph of Love, Christopher Sieber has carved a wide swath on Broadway, equally adept at playing the dashing prince as he is the comic sidekick and earning a Tony Award nomination in 2005 for his performance in Spamalot. Taking on a regally hammy role like Lord Farquaad in Shrek the Musical might’ve seen like easy money for Sieber. Thing is, the guy stands six-foot-three, and the Lilliputian Farquaad is short enough to give even Napoleon an ego boost. And yet Sieber’s actually pulling it off eight times a week at the Broadway Theatre. Intrigued to say the least, Broadway.com asked Sieber to recount the process of downsizing his formidable frame to fit into Farquaad’s minuscule slippers. If you think there’s no new ground left to break on Broadway this far into the 21st century, well, read on…

About two and a half years ago, I was doing Spamalot in London when my friend Jason Moore e-mailed, asking me to play Lord Farquuad at a reading of Shrek the Musical. I knew the movie, of course, and I thought, “What a horrible, little, teeny-tiny, evil character to play. What a blast!” So I flew back, and a week later, we were all in this studio with only half of an Act One and a few songs. But I fell in love with the character, and the part just clicked. I knew who this guy was and how to play him. This was going to be fun!

At some point, of course, we started wondering how this was going to work. Farquaad is supposed to be very, very short. I thought maybe we’d have a trench onstage that I could walk around in with little legs in front of me while wearing black clothing. Well, that amazing idea went out the window and they said, “You know what? Let’s just put you on your knees.”

So the whole process started with knee pads—just knee pads. Our choreographer, Josh Prince, asked, “Can you move around?” And I replied, “Yeah, for about two minutes.” I suggested we move up to those knee pads that umpires and catchers wear, the ones that cover your shins and go over the top of your knees, which is basically what I wore during the first couple of workshops. Problem was, they shifted around, back and forth, before rolling off to the side and leaving you bare-kneed on the floor. Just to give you an idea of how gonzo these workshops were, we tacked on gum and tape, even furniture stoppers, to keep them stabilized.

Eventually, a designer from England came up with what we call “the Rig,” which is basically a big ol’ Frankenstein shoe that I put my knee in. It’s filled with all of this rubber shock-absorber material, and it works. It works really well. The knee pads have been upgraded, too, and run from the bottom of my shin to the top of my quad. Now I can bounce around and actually run on my knees without worrying about being hobbled for the rest of my life. It’s actually getting comfortable.

But knees—you kind of need them, you know—so I have to keep certain things in mind. For instance, when I’m in the Rig, I have to hold myself differently. So I’m in physical therapy. I also do a lot of preventative Pilates and some yoga, since I stretch for about 20 minutes prior to every performance. I’ve got a pretty strong core now, which helps me move around better in my 50-pound stagewear.

I wear special socks that separate my big toe from my other toes, which makes for better traction. I’ve got custom-made, rubber-tipped, mountain-climbing shoes with the back heels all smoothed out, so my cape won’t catch on them. The puppet legs are strapped around my shoulders and back. Finally, the cape gets zipped up and strapped in so you can’t see anything from the sides. All of this takes about takes about eight minutes to get into, a fraction of how long it takes Brian d’Arcy James to become Shrek.

And yet, I call this “The Loneliest Show” just because I can’t be near anyone when getting into costume. The production is enormous, and since I take up about six square feet when getting ready, I’m relegated to this little cubbyhole that’s offstage right, where I can’t hang out or talk to anyone. Onstage, everybody’s usually dancing behind me and my scenes with Brian and Sutton are just seconds long. For the “Ballad of Farquaad” number, which I sing while in a bathtub, I’m set in place two songs prior—just sitting alone, strapped into the Rig with the little bathtub attached, staring at the back wall of the theater.

Even during costume changes, I’m facing the wall, since it’s more convenient for Dan, my wonderful dresser. So here I am, in this wonderful show with this amazingly generous and talented cast, and I’m literally facing the wall and [pause for effect, cue tiny violins] it’s so lonely….

The fun part is working with the little legs, which are a lot like human legs, weirdly enough. In rehearsal, we discovered they could do lunges and even a layout kick, which was so funny—until I did it in the show with a big “pow!,” and blew out all the clips and snaps that hold the Rig together. It’s also fun to see the audience reaction. They get freaked out a little bit. A woman came up to me the other day and said, “I thought you were on a chair with wheels the entire time.” It’s always fun to hear how they think it’s done. But to quote Doug Henning, “Anything is possible in the world of illusion.”

And anything is possible in the world of Lord Farquaad. Even from the first reading, one thing was obvious in David Lindsay-Abaire’s script: The things you can get away with are astonishing. The level of broadness without being over the top is crazy. You can go as far as you want, and far is a long, long way. I still don’t think I’ve gone far enough yet.