All This Talk of Memory: Reflections on Rehearsing THE PRICE
As I stated in my last blog entry, it was my objective to provide some insight into our rehearsal room during my tenure at Long Wharf. The frequency with which I composed these updates did not happen as often as I desired; in fact, it didn’t happen at all. Now that THE PRICE has opened to wide critical acclaim, I’m taking the time today to reflect back on those wonderful days in Rehearsal Hall B. I hope it’s still of some interest.
On the first day of rehearsal, Gordon described a metaphor for approaching a play which has resonated with me since. He encouraged us to imagine an onion and, more importantly, the process of peeling an onion. Each layer is contained within the intact vegetable. We are uninterested in the hurried bite or the careless open-mouthed chomp. Instead, it is the careful discovery and exploration of each layer that becomes most illuminating. That is, in effect, how we proceeded each day though this dense, memory-leaden play. There was a patience and flexibility in the unraveling of layers and a recognition that the peeling isn’t always positive. After all, let’s not forget the tears associated with peeling onions. Needless to say, that patient and flexible approach is due, in large part, to Gordon’s inherent trust of these four powerhouse actors. He trusts their interpretation of the text and the resulting choices. Mr. Edelstein often states, “It’ll all come together.”
In my humble opinion, it most definitely came together. The set design crafted by Eugene Lee and our amazingly gifted Props department made a significant contribution to this sense of completion. These talented artists crafted a space piled high to the ceiling with objects – furniture, fencing foils, mirrors, chiffoniers, boxes and ice skates. Each object contains a memory; for some, it is even a chain of memories which produce a snapshot or short-film of life at one moment in time. I mention this set design in the context of rehearsal because it became our storage space for the memories we sought out to explore. It served as a constant reminder of the Franz family’s dense and conflicted past. Anne Bogart states, in her new book And Then You Act: Making Art in an Unpredictable World, “If you recognize that your voice contains all the voices that came before you, then you will realize that when you speak you do not speak alone.” The voices of the past scream loudly from these objects and, in our processing of that voice in the rehearsal room, we managed to address our lives.
Once the play opened, it became clear that there are moments when our emotional investment in a particular object and slice of time resonates with both artist and observer. This is the moment when life truly becomes art, when we find ourselves simultaneously attached to both a moment on stage and a memory. We own it.
And why else do we go to the theatre but to be empowered and enlightened? The theatre forces us to go to these unexplored and cavernous places in our minds, guiding us towards some sense of catharsis. It is my hope that this cathartic exploration of memory is experienced by our audience, as it has been experienced by us in Rehearsal Room B. From the general critical response and the success of our talkbacks, I believe it has been achieved. The voices of the past have connected to the voices of the present moment and, through the power of live performance, we come to understand that we’re never in it alone.
I look forward to sharing the rehearsal room with you again as we proceed into the process for LET ME DOWN EASY. Until next time, friend.