... and things that go bump in the night

Posted by Bruce Miller
True story. At least I think it’s true. Sometimes I inadvertently make this stuff up. Someone please help me out if my memories fail to jive with reality.

About 30 years ago, right here in River City, an older woman (watch, it will probably turn out that she was in her mid- to late-50s, younger than I am now) died a week or so after falling off the stage into an orchestra pit in a darkened theatre.

Here name was Margaret Eddington. She and her buddy Jean Alfred used to volunteer at theatres all over town. Or maybe they were employees somewhere. I’m not sure. I guess I knew Margaret either from the erstwhile Children’s Theatre of Richmond, or Rec and Parks (at the Mosque, now Landmark), or Dogwood Dell—maybe all three.

Which brings me to the subject of ghost lights—our third theatre superstition of the week.

Almost every theatre I’ve ever worked in has had a ghost light. We have one at Barksdale at Willow Lawn and another at the historic Empire. And now that I think about it, I ought to run out this week and buy one for the stage at Hanover Tavern and another for the Theatre Gym (the new name as of two weeks ago for the former Little Theatre).

Ghost lights are basically night lights, or safety lights, but you’ll seldom if ever hear them referred to by that name by a theatre insider. The names “night light” and “safety light” have no drama at all, so why use ‘em.

Ghost lights also have their own unique look. Most of them roll on and off-stage on a built-in three-wheeled base. Traditionally, they have no on-and-off switch. To turn one on, you either plug it in or tighten the bulb; to turn it off, you do the opposite. They tend to have long cords, no shades, a single bare bulb of pretty high wattage, and sometimes a capsule-shaped steel cage built around the bare bulb to protect it.

Where does one even buy these things—at Home Depot? Pleasant’s? An occult shop?

Do places other that theatres use them? I don’t know. And if and when they do, do they refer to them as ghost lights?

Let’s face facts—theatre folk love their traditions. And if those traditions come attached to superstitions, all the better.

A ghost light has a very practical purpose. Before leaving the theatre for the night, the stage manager always plugs in the ghost light (or tightens the bulb) and rolls it out to center stage. Only then can the stage manager leave the building.

In practical terms, the ghost light is there to protect the dear Margaret Eddington’s of the world as they creep back on stage in a darkened theatre to retrieve a forgotten prop.

For the superstitious, ghost lights are uniquely theatre-centric. They are there … and I’ve heard both of the following explanations given, but I greatly prefer the first:

1. to continue to light the stage after all the Lekos, Fresnels and PARs have been extinguished, so that the ghosts of the theatre, who emerge only after the muggles have left the building, can once again enjoy their moment in the spotlight; or

2. to ward off evil spirits who otherwise would surely wreak havoc by sawing half-way through stage braces, hiding props, and removing the safety locks from trap doors once the stage manager is no longer watching.

I’ve heard many a story about the ghosts in Hanover Tavern, which surely must have them, being more than 200 years old. Jacquie O’Connor, I believe, has had a close encounter of the third kind.

I too have encountered a ghost or two in my time, but I’ve yet to do so in a Richmond theatre.

If I could only remember which Richmond theatre dear Ms Eddington was in when she took her tumble. Surely there must be a ghost there. I’d love to see her again just to get my facts straight.
Till then, I hope to see YOU at the theatre!

--Bruce Miller

The Play That Dare Not Speak Its Name

Posted by Bruce Miller
This whole "theatre superstitions" thing is old hat for many of you, I know. But for those who participate in theatre more as a spectator sport, here's a second taboo you may want to consider. For centuries, it has been considered to be in very bad form to say "Macbeth" when you are inside a theatre.

According to time-honored tradition, you must not say that name on stage, unless of course you are rehearsing or performing a line from the actual play. You're not supposed to say the name backstage, in a rehearsal hall, dressing room, costume shop, green room or lobby.

You may say "Macbeth" in the administrative offices of a theatre, but only if they are in a separate building from the theatre itself.

When you feel you absolutely must discuss the character or the play Macbeth, you have to leave the theatre before doing so. If a quick exit is not practical, you may stay put, but you have to refer to the character as “The Scottish Lord” (or “The Scottish King”) and call the play “The Scottish Play.”

Trust me. You can use these euphemisms instead of the real name, and every theatre pro in the world will know exactly what you mean.

If you forget—and I’ve seen this happen many times—and you actually speak “Macbeth” inside a theatre, you must immediately leave the facility, spin around three times widdershins (counterclockwise), spit over your left shoulder, utter a curse or a “peaceful” line from Shakespeare (preferably from Hamlet), knock three times on the theatre’s door, and then wait to be invited back inside.

If you fail to honor this antidotal ritual to the letter, then all hell will break loose and it will be entirely your fault.

You’ll hear any number of reasons for this superstition, but the one you’ll hear most often is this. When Shakespeare wrote the scenes for the three witches (the weird sisters) in Macbeth, he researched diligently and included several actual curses that he had obtained while visiting a coven outside London. Witches were serious business in Shakespeare’s day. King James, for whom Shakespeare wrote Macbeth, actually authored a book that was used throughout the 17th century to identify witches for imprisonment or worse.

When the witches from the coven that Shakespeare had visited learned that he had included exact quotes from their sacred incantations in his script, they were highly offended. They issued a curse on the name Macbeth that continues to this day.

It’s easy to understand why some people believe that Macbeth is cursed. There have been several high profile instances when tragedy has struck immediately following or in conjunction with a production of The Scottish Play.

Tradition has it that in the very first production of Macbeth (approximately 1606), the young boy playing Lady Macbeth became ill. Shakespeare stepped in to play the role himself, intending to fill in for only a performance or two. The next day, the boy who had been cast as Lady Macbeth died.

In 1672, during the first production of Macbeth played outside England, a Dutch actor playing Macbeth was so in love with his female costar, he actually murdered her husband, who was playing Duncan, during a live performance.

In 1773, a production of Macbeth ended the career of revered English actor Charles Macklin (a street named in his honor branches proudly off Drury Lane in the Holborn area of London today). Already in his 70s, Macklin decided to play Macbeth, but this time with a difference. He dressed the cast in traditional Scottish attire, including kilts and highland plaids. Prior to this novel idea, which was way ahead of its time, actors dressed in contemporary English clothing, no matter what the locale or century of the play. Reviews were decidedly mixed, and when Macklin brought a handful of the notices onstage with him to argue his case before the second night's audience, he was hissed offstage by the unimpressed crowd. A riot ensued. His production of Macbeth, now considered a landmark due to its introduction of costumes, closed within the week and ended his career.

In 1808, John Philip Kemble opened the new season at Covent Garden with Macbeth, starring himself and his renowned sister, Sarah Siddons. Eight days later, the theatre burned to the ground, costing Kemble nearly every penny he had.

In 1809, Covent Garden was reopened after being rebuilt at great expense. The new management tried to recoup its losses by raising ticket prices. This prompted the Old Price Riots, which continued nightly both inside and outside the theatre, suspending performances for nearly 3 months and practically bankrupting the new management. The production that was suspended? Macbeth, of course.

In 1849, dueling productions of Macbeth in New York City, one starring British actor Charles Macready and another starring American actor Edwin Forrest, caused the Astor Place Riot, at the time the deadliest civil disturbance in U. S. history. At least 25 people died and 120 more were seriously injured. For the first time in history, the National Guard was called out and they fired shots directly into the crowd to "maintain the peace."

In the early 1900s, the great Russian director Konstantin Stanislovsky was staging a production of Macbeth at the Moscow Art Theatre. When the actor playing Macbeth forgot a line, he approached the prompter's box for a cue, and heard nothing. After the actor again signalled that he needed a line, and again none was given, the actor looked into the prompter's box and saw the aged stagehand clutching a script, and quite dead. Never one to tempt fate, Stanislovsky cancelled the rest of the run on the spot.

In 1936, a 20-year-old Orson Welles directed Voodoo Macbeth for the Federal Theatre Project. Critic Percy Hammond was unimpressed by the all-Black cast and the Haitian setting. The voodoo witch doctors hired by Welles for the play put a public curse on Hammond, who unexpectedly died several days later.

In 1937, a 30-year-old Laurence Olivier was almost killed during a rehearsal of Macbeth at the Old Vic, when a heavy stage weight fell from the flies and missed his head by inches.

In 1942, a production of Macbeth starring John Gielgud (pictured to the right) was shaken when three cast members died—the actor playing Duncan and two of the weird sisters—and the costume and set designer committed suicide.

In 1953, Charlton Heston was playing Macbeth in Bermuda when, on Opening Night, the onstage castle caught fire and Heston himself suffered severe burns in his groin and leg area because his tights had been cleaned using kerosene.

In 1998, the Broadway revival of Macbeth starring Christopher Plummer lost three directors, five Macduffs, six stage managers, two set designers, and two lighting designers—all before Opening Night.

Need I say more.

So, if any of you are planning an upcoming production of Macbeth, please don’t talk about it at Barksdale or Theatre IV.

Otherwise, hope to see you at the theatre!

--Bruce Miller

"Break a Leg!" "Grrrrrrrrrr!!"

Posted by Bruce Miller
Happy Friday the 13th--a perfect day to think a little about superstitions in the theatre.

Over the years, I've heard of 10 to 20 irrational but nonetheless traditional beliefs that seem to have been passed down from one theatre artist to another over the centuries. There are certainly three that are observed with regularity right here in River City. Let's talk about the best known first.

Throughout the ages it’s been considered bad luck to wish an actor “good luck” before a performance. If you want theatre artists to have a successful Opening Night and/or run, superstition requires that you wish them ill fortune rather than good. Whether in London, New York, Richmond, or anywhere else in the English-speaking world, the accepted way to wish an actor bad luck (when you really want them to have good luck) is to say “break a leg.”

I’ve heard many explanations as to why this particular phrase for bad luck was chosen as the standard. My favorite explanation goes back to the Elizabethan age and the Blackfriars Theatre, the first indoor venue for Shakespeare’s plays.

In 1597, during Shakespeare’s prime, Richard Burbage (that's him to the right) inherited the Blackfriars from his father. Richard Burbage was the principal actor with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men (Shakespeare’s company), the wildly popular troupe that performed with great success in the Globe. For years the Blackfriars had been home to the Children of the Chapel, a juvenile performing company. In 1608, Burbage and several partners took over management of the Blackfriars, kicked out the kids, and opened the elegant theatre in the winters for use by the King's Men—the new name given to Shakespeare's company after King James ascended to the throne in 1603.

The big difference between the Globe and the Blackfriars, other than the fact that the Blackfriars was an indoor venue, was that the audience at the Blackfriars was often considerably more well-to-do than the groundlings who paid a penny to get into the Globe. When a show met with approval at the Blackfriars, delighted patrons tossed coins onto the stage during curtain call, aiming at the feet of the actors who pleased them the most. When this happened, the showered-upon actors humbly dropped to one knee to accept the accolades (and scarf up the tokens of appreciation), therein “breaking” the line of their legs.

With this kowtowing for coinage custom in mind, a well-wisher says “break a leg” to fulfill the requirement of wishing bad luck, all the while knowing that there is a double-meaning to the phrase, a positive subtext that actually means “I hope the audience loves your performance enough to throw money at your feet causing you to break the line of your leg to pick it up.”

No one throws money anymore, more’s the pity. But once in a while someone throws flowers, which springs from the same tradition. Of course, when we produced The Full Monty, women in the audience often threw panties. Seriously.

Another theory regarding the etymology of the phrase “break a leg” comes from the Yiddish Theatre that was so popular in New York’s Lower East Side in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. In those early days, the Yiddish Theatre District that centered on Second Avenue in what is now the East Village equalled Broadway in both quantity and quality.

A favorite phrase for good luck in Yiddish is “Hatsloche un Broche,” meaning “success and blessing.” Knowing that wishing good luck was verboten backstage, Yiddish actors resorted to the similar sounding German phrase “Hals- und Beinbruch,” meaning “neck and leg fracture.”

The wishing-of-bad-luck superstition seems to cross all barriers of language and ethnicity. On the Opening Night of Boleros for the Disenchanted, our Latino actors, in keeping with Spanish theatre tradition, wished each other "¡Mucha mierda!"—which translates roughly as “Lotsa shit!”

In Stanislovski’s day, the great actors of the Moscow Arts Theatre wished each other "ни пуха ни пера" (ni puha ni pera). This literally means "neither down nor feathers." It was the traditional Russian blessing uttered to a hunter before he trekked into the woods, rifle in hand. Apparently Russian hunters fell into the same category as actors, and the only appropriate way to wish them “good luck” was to wish them something horrible. Wishing them “neither down nor feathers” was the same as saying “I hope you come home from the hunt empty handed.”

Sure enough, when an acclaimed Russian company was in residence in our historic Empire last fall performing The Humpbacked Horse, hardy calls of “ni puha ni pera” rang out prior to curtain from the dressing rooms and the darkened corners of backstage.

Whether you are a hunter or an actor, Russian or English, tradition states that you never say “thank you” when someone appropriately wishes you “bad luck.” In Russian, they reply “к черту" (k chertu), which literally means "go to the devil." At the Comédie-Française, when someone wishes you “Merde!” on Opening Night, you are supposed to respond with a robust growl. In Italy, after hearing the blessing “In bocca al lupo,” which means “In the mouth of the wolf,” an actor's recommended response is “Crepi!” or “Crepi il lupo!”, which translates as “May the wolf die!”

With so many Opening Nights fast upon us, we should all be getting our blessings, curses and guttural rumblings ready. And when you shout one out to a beloved theatre colleague, be prepared to hear a response something akin to a friendly, grateful growl.

Coming soon, superstition #2—The Scottish Play.

Till then, see you at the theatre!

--Bruce Miller