“The sweatshop transforms into the ocean.”
The Situation
Back in 2016, I was unanimously chosen by my college’s Theatre Organization (Stage II) to direct the second show of our season, Anon(ymous) by Naomi Izuka. After several years of producing one-acts and riding high off the coattails of a very successful production of Almost Maine, Stage II was ambitious. They decided it was time to produce a feature-length show directed by a single student, and they put me at the helm.
The show’s scope was massive. I ended up in charge of over 20 actors, 6 designers, a stage crew of 4, and a stage manager. Before this show, I’d only ever directed two scenes from Almost Maine. And now, organizing over 30 rambunctious college students, some of whom would rather be out partying all night than learning lines, I had my work cut out for me.
And the script? Well, the script came with its own special set of creative challenges.
The Wrench
This show pushed the boundaries of what was possible on a stage at a small state school in North-Eastern Pennsylvania. The play, which only runs about 90 minutes, has over 20 scenes, a fully choreographed sword fight, a car crash, characters jumping off of a moving train, and stage directions like “the sewing factory transforms into the ocean” and “The shroud transforms into a butterfly and flies away.” Oh, and our budget? Around 500 dollars.
Overwhelmed yet?
I sure was. But what followed was some of the most interesting work I’ve ever created. And more importantly, the lessons I learned stuck with me as I transitioned into a career in film.
The Adaptation
I knew that if I didn’t have a plan, this production was going to crash and burn. There were way too many points of failure. I identified 3 key areas I needed to focus on to give Stage II the show they were looking for:
Motivating the Crew
Keeping things Cohesive
No Easy Shortcuts
It’s no secret that motivating college students has been the struggle of college professors as long as colleges have existed. On top of that, nobody was getting paid to work on this show and scheduling conflicts made it nearly impossible to have my entire team in the same room at the same time. So to keep my team as invested in the project as I was, I got to work.
The first thing I did was meticulously craft a rehearsal schedule with my stage manager (god bless her). From day one, we knew down to the minute what needed to get accomplished, who needed to be there, and how long we had to get it done. I didn’t want anyone forced into a rehearsal where they weren’t needed. Respecting my team’s time was a top priority.
I also knew that the more ownership that my team felt over the show, the more invested they’d be in the final product. I incorporated their ideas wherever I could fit them. The truth is, good ideas can come from anyone. I didn’t care if it came from one of our run crew or the head of our department when she was watching a run-through, if the idea was good, I was putting it in the show, and I always made sure to give credit where credit was due.
That being said, with so many moving parts and a very complex script, I quickly realized it would be very easy to confuse an audience if I didn’t execute it correctly. That’s why I set up bi-weekly production meetings with my design team to share and expand upon my vision for the show. Before each meeting, I’d reread the script to have it fresh in my mind. I think by the end of the show’s run, I had the entire thing memorized. We workshopped countless iterations of sound, lighting, costumes, and set design together. We built an entire world out of scribbles on the back of bar napkins, hair-brained ideas, and gut instincts.
But to me, the most important thing to focus on during this production was not taking the easy way out. The audience doesn’t read the script. All of the airy language and difficult to execute stage directions could probably be avoided when push came to shove. Maybe the sewing factory didn’t actually have to transform into the ocean. The temptation to make things easier on myself always burned at the back of my mind.
Constraints lead to creativity. At least that’s what I kept telling myself at 2 am when I was struggling to figure out my scene transitions. I’ve always considered myself quick-witted, but when the solutions didn’t come easy and deadlines were fast approaching, panic set in. But I’m stubborn. I didn’t give in. I looked to my team for help, and in the end, after a very chaotic month, the show was ready to go up before our first live audience.
The Results
Was the show perfect? Absolutely not. I could name a thousand things I’d do differently with the benefit of hindsight. Was it better than it had any right to be? I think so.
Not to get all “New Age” on you, but there are these magical moments in the creative process when you’ve done something right. I can’t quite describe it, but when the blue fabric unfurled in the sweatshop and transformed into a mighty wave that swallowed our protagonist whole, I felt it in my chest. When our heroes jumped off of the top of a moving train and entered a cyclops’s butcher shop in under 30 seconds, I saw it on the faces of our unsuspecting audience. When my ensemble became a living wheat field, ushering Anon into the afterlife, and when he drew his sword for that climactic battle we choreographed for hours, mere feet away from the head of our department, I knew.
I knew.
I never could have done it alone. My team really made me proud. They didn’t just believe in the show, they believed in me. And that invigorating environment, that creative, magical feeling, that’s what I aim to bring to every production I work on, not just as a director, but as a PA, a camera op, an editor, a grip, an actor. And that’s why I think it’s an important story to share here.