Clever Magazine, Confessions of an amateur actor (www.clevermag.com)

Wanna read the latest from Clever Magazine?
Click here and return to the coverpage!

Confessions Of An Amateur Actor

by John T. Baker

and a poem by John entitled
Vintage Ham

Acting for Orvis Grout with Colorado Springs Civic Theatre taught me two things:
first, always check your fly before going onstage, and
second, never look offstage during a performance.

The first precaution avoided embarrassment, the second, consternation - consternation inevitably arising from the disconcerting sight of the director in the wings vigorously gesticulating with that familiar circular motion of the arms that meant only one thing: "Pick it up, pick it up!"

Orvis was famous - and infamous - for his passion for pace. Actors, once accustomed to it, enjoyed the rapid-fire. Most audiences were disturbed by it, at least initially. They had difficulty following it.

"Lazy ears," Grout would say. The worst sin in the theatre in Orvis's book was for a performance to drag.

"Get the lines out!" was his constant admonition. Those new to his direction often found their lines being stepped on by others in the cast who knew from experience what was wanted. Far better, Orvis firmly believed, for an audience to strain to keep up than to strain to keep awake.

When people complained to him, as they frequently did, that they had missed some of the dialogue, he would bark, "Don't worry, you didn't miss anything important." This from a man who revered the spoken word.

Orvis had many professional arguments about pace with his peers, especially with his brother, Homer, longtime professor of theatre at Colorado Women's College in Denver.

As often as not in one of Orvis Grout's productions, the audience missed the best show going on any given evening. Usually mild and relaxed during rehearsals, Orvis generated - and communicated - electricity when the performance was for real. From his initial post just inside the curtain beside the light board, he would clock several kilometers each evening, pacing back and forth in the wings, mouthing each line uttered onstage, scowling or giggling as the situation warranted, punctuating the proceedings with semaphoric cheerleading.

Woe to the unwary actor or actress who, at a critical moment, suddenly glimpsed the frenzied routine going on a few feet away, out of sight of the audience. Nothing more off-putting!

And woe to the unvigilant player in the wings waiting to make an entrance. He or she ran the risk of being trampled or flailed.

Completely opposite was the demeanor of Bennie (Berniece) Grout, without whom any chronicle of Orvis would be sadly and inexcusably deficient.

His longtime helpmate and indispensable balance wheel, in her customary prompter spot just offstage, Orvis's spouse was a model of composure. Her eyes riveted to the flashlight-illuminated script, she never stirred except for an occasional low chuckle or faint sob as she reacted to the histrionics.
Those soft sounds were audible only to the players and inspired them to even greater dramatic heights.

Orvis was quick to praise a good performance and slow to blast a poor one. He just disappeared, leaving no doubt of his disappointment, a criticism more telling and more effective than any tirade. It was a rare and insensitive cast that failed to respond positively.

There was nothing mystic about a director's role, according to Grout. "Do a good job of casting and then stay out of their way," he would say.

During rehearsals Orvis concentrated on the blocking, seldom offering advice as to interpretation until the latter stages, preferring to let the actor find his own way. Working most of the time with amateurs or those with limited experience, he had a knack of making his performers look good, knowing instinctively what they could, and more importantly, could not do.

In final rehearsals or during the run, he would sometimes say, "Why don't you try something like this?" His suggested reading was almost invariably an obvious improvement. Brushing aside compliments on his "acting," he would grunt, "Just don't ask me to sustain it."

Very few times in 20 years did I see Orvis "blow his top." Each time, however, was unforgettable. He had unending patience and tolerance with best efforts, but a lackadaisical attitude or repeated impertinence would eventually provoke a Jovian outburst that never failed to daunt all within
earshot.

He was an extremely modest man, disclaiming all praise or redirecting it to the cast or the script. Only once did I see Orvis take a curtain call. He religiously resisted all efforts to lure him onstage. Finally, however, on the last night of a very successful "Our Town" run, still fondly remembered by local theatre-goers, several of us in the cast ganged up on him. We tipped off the fellow whose job it was to ring down the curtain, and after the customary three calls for the cast, I stepped downstage and addressed the audience.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Orvis in the wing frantically signaling for the curtain to be lowered. Our confederate kept his hand on the rope and ignored the director. I thanked the audience for its generous applause and added: "As we say in the play, the real hero of this occasion is not on stage." Then I introduced Orvis, wondering if he would come out.

He did. Maybe someone backstage pushed him. In any event, he stepped out, bowed graciously, and kept right on going, through the opposite wing and out the stage door. I stayed out of his way for a while after that. He never referred to the incident, but next show we had a new man pulling the curtain.

Vintage Ham
(A remnant of the twenty years I trod the boards)

I well recall my life on stage
And in my reminiscing
I realize that something now
Somehow is sadly missing.

I'll not forget those opening nights
When just before the curtain
My jangling nerves kept warning me
I'd lost my lines for certain.

I still can feel the butterflies
That raced around inside me
As petrified I prayed to God
For clues and cues to guide me;

And all the while I'd curse show biz
And vow anew to quit it;
And once again I'd ask myself
Just why the hell I did it!

And yet despite the agony
And mental perturbation
I must confess I've not since felt
Such sheer exhilaration.

The footlights cast a magic spell,
An ambiance harmonic;
A wondrous world held out its arms --
My kingdom histrionic . . .

But now no more will I perform . . .
You may as well unmask me;
Another play? . . . No way, Jose! . . .
Unless, of course, they ask me!