Let there be Light

I press a small round black button on the board. Light goes out on stage. I press it again, the stage brightens. I smile.

I always had a great appreciation for stage managers, but I never really understood the job. They were around at rehearsal, not saying much, ready with a line when you needed one, then come tech weekend and they tended to disappear into the booth emerging only to call places and clean up the actors messes.

I press the light board button in unison with the space bar that starts the next sound cue, a snippet of "The Lord is Good to Me" plays over the speakers, while the light on stage narrows to a single spot. 

When Maggie asked me if I'd be interested in stage managing this production, she put it this way; "I don't know if you have any experience, but I know you like 'Penguins', and you're not an idiot." These were, in fact, the total sum of my qualifications. The last show that had my name in the program under stage manager was back in college, and that is because every Cornish Sophomore is required to stage manage. But, I'd had a wonderful time attending 'Penguins' Episodes 3 and 4, and I'd like to think my brain hasn't completely atrophied, so I pulled out a notebook and accepted the challenge.

Doing my best not to be distracted by the very funny scene happening onstage, I prepare the shows only film cue. I press play on the VCR, take out the lights, bring in the projector. 

During the rehearsal process I found my niche easily. When I talked to my friend Opal prior to starting rehearsals, she said "when in doubt, write everything down." So I did. I wrote down what time people arrived, when we took breaks, what scenes we worked on. I wrote down blocking, and dance and fight choreography, and when lines were cut, rewritten, or reassigned.  Some of my notes I typed up into rehearsal reports, some I referred back to when questions arose, and many more were never given a second thought.

I bring up the house lights for intermission. Then head backstage to strike the concealed microphone and wheel out the shrouded nuclear bomb. 

Moving from the rehearsals into tech week, I traded my notebook for cue lists, and the show traded the director and I yelling out "Slam!" "Blackout." "Screech" for actual effects. Under the care of the designers and technical director, I was introduced to two very important buttons: the space bar on the computer that played the sound cues, and that little black button that turns the lights on, off, and all the pretty colors.


As an actor mimes picking up a tray of glasses, I press the space bar, filling the stage with sound of tinkling glass. As another actor lifts his arms and mimes smashing the tray at his feet, I bring the moment to life with another click of my finger, and a cacophony of sound.

Pressing buttons is one thing, but I'm not a techie, never have been, and its hard to know what to do if the button doesn't perform properly when pressed. I've been given a few tools by the marvelous Annex crew; I can hit the escape button on the sound board, stopping all offending cues in their tracks. I know to check that the "master" sliders are in place on both boards before freaking out over unresponsive cues.   But I still feel out of my league, dwarfed by the shows technical demands, and my own lack of experience. As with any job, I want to be good. I want to be perfect, and, like any beginner, I'm far from that.

As the plays final scene begins building to a crescendo, I quickly un-mute the booth's microphone, and position myself between the two boards, a finger on the sound cue, a finger on the light cue, my face directly in front of the microphone, ready for my big moment.  

One of the things I am loving about stage managing is the feeling of power. I'm used to being on stage, at the mercy of other actors, or sitting in the audience, watching something I've written brought to life. Both are exhilarating experiences, but both are oddly powerless. Here in the booth, with light and darkness literally at my fingertips, I possess an almost giddying amount of power. This mostly terrifies me, but its fun too, especially when things go well. 

I hit the space bar, cutting off Madonna mid sentence with 'Spirit in the Sky'. I bring up the lights, the applause intensifies, the cast bows, then raises their arms to acknowledge me. I smile.