Bob Martin: Modes of Communication in the Theater: Discuss!
Before his little-musical-that-could, The Drowsy Chaperone, conquered Broadway, Bob Martin was a successful writer and performer in his native Canada with numerous credits at Second City Toronto. Now he's a Tony Award-winning book writer, Tony-nominated actor as the show's witty narrator, Man in Chair and bona fide Broadway star. The theatrically savvy Martin has learned a few truths and tricks in his six months on the Great White Way, and he generously agreed to share his newfound wisdom about what happens on stage every night at the Marquis Theatre.
The theater itself is a method of communication. The writer uses actors, sets, lights, and, in the case of musicals, an orchestra, to communicate something to the world or to that portion of the world that can afford a ticket. I'm a writer myself, so I see the whole enterprise from that perspective. I suppose if I were a director I would say that I use actors, sets and, whenever possible, the script to communicate my own world view. A costume designer might say he uses actors to move his costumes past the sets and through the lights to give voice to his soul. You get the idea. But there are other forms of communication that exist within the performance itself, of which the audience may not be aware. I've listed four examples below.
Litmus Jokes
There exist within every play, musical or Germanic opera cycle lines of dialogue that, when delivered, engender an audience reaction that indicates with depressing accuracy the type of evening one can expect. I have labeled these indicators, with respect to comedy, "litmus jokes." In the case of The Drowsy Chaperone, one such moment exists early in the show, during a tap number called "Cold Feets." It takes the form of a politically incorrect joke one that I maintain is fully justified. If the people in the audience laugh, well, that's wonderful. If they lower their heads and flip silently through their programs, we know we're all in for a long evening. The performer who delivers this particular line nightly communicates the results of this litmus test to me by turning upstage and either smiling or wincing, all the while tapping away. Thus an unscripted conversation takes place.
"Going Up"
The Bows
The nightly staging of a piece of theater is an absurd dance involving actors, sets, props and union guys. The occasional disaster is inevitable. Most events pass unnoticed by the audience, but a malfunctioning set piece can bring the evening to a crashing halt. A few weeks ago our mechanical Murphy bed had a seizure, groaned aloud and died, taking a piece of the set wall with it. We had to stop the show for eight minutes. These moments are precious in their own way, because they necessitate a winking acknowledgement between the actor left standing on stage in this case, me and the audience that live theater is a co-operative enterprise, one that requires the audience to willingly suspend their disbelief, even when faced with the crew sweeping pieces of the broken set off the stage. It's an unspoken agreement; a contract unique to the theater. No contract exists between a television set and the man sitting on the couch watching it, for instance. Not a metaphorical one, anyway.
Forgetting a line is a terrible thing, akin to having your teeth filled by a student dentist, but it does have one positive side effect: It forces the actor to live in the moment like he's never lived in that moment before. He must have a clear understanding of what his character is doing, thinking and feeling in that moment, in order to write that character's dialogue on the fly. I bring this up because an actor will communicate to the other actors on stage that he is about to "go up" with a wide-eyed, slack-jawed stare that is universally recognized by Equity members. If you're not an actor, you may have seen the same expression in another context: a man caught in bed with his daughter's tutor by his mother-in-law, for instance. All three have that look.
At the end of the evening, the company takes a bow. The audience communicates its appreciation by applauding politely, or rising slowly to its feet and then applauding, or leaping to its feet while applauding, young and old alike, programs, purses and canes flying from laps. The last example is the most sought after by management. But within the curtain call itself, a conversation takes place among the actors: Hands are squeezed, smiles are exchanged, words are whispered. The evening's performance is discreetly summarized. I am fortunate enough to be the last person in the Drowsy Chaperone company to bow, first to the audience, and then upstage to the assembled cast. Often I will smile as if to say, "Good show, chaps, good show." Sometimes I'll mime retching. Either way, my message is received and understood.