Flying

'Right here is where you start paying. In sweat.'

I love the movie 'Fame'. I really do. However, I sometimes wish they showed more of the stage management department. You know, some harassed looking techies clutching adjustable spanners in amongst the neon leotards. Or a DSM scribbling on some post-it's in a tension fuelled ballet class.

Actually, who am I kidding? There clearly isn't a stage management department. If there was, they would have risk assessed that whole dancing in the street business and organised some street cones, sharpish. Or called a swift halt to it altogether. New York traffic and musical theatre wannabes? 

Health and Safety nightmare. 

Anyway, although I did learn a lot at my drama school, (paid in sweat etc etc) I learnt even more once I got out into the big wide world. And I continue to learn. Every job and tour educates me in ways that surprise me. And this tour has been no different.

My current tour is about to end and, once again, I have been in a position where I have had to learn something new and learn it fast. The challenges you face as a stage manager vary from job to job. It might be how to make a prop or how to deal with a certain type of personality. Maybe learn a new bit of technology or call a very complex sequence.

But on this tour, I took on one of my toughest ever challenges.

Learning how to pack 10 tonnes of set, sound, lights, costume and props onto a 45 foot wagon.

When I was first approached to do this I was a little bit reluctant. Maybe very reluctant.

Okay, I may have had a bit of a strop and said I didn't want to do it.

Ever the willing professional.

It was nothing to do with being lazy or snobby or wanting to catch the last train back to London on a Saturday night where my Real Life was. It was simply because I was scared. Scared that I was going to make a fool of myself. Scared that I would simply be unable to carry out the task. Scared that I was going to be mocked for being weak/crap at packing vans/looking like a twat in a high vis jacket.

Of course none of those things happened. 

Except the looking like a twat in high vis bit.

After down-right refusing and darkly muttering about contracts and stuff, the slightly bloody-minded and curious part of me thought long and hard and then decided that, yes. I should do this. I needed to stop being afraid of the unknown and push myself that little bit harder. Okay I have spent a large amount of time just calling/propping shows. Maybe it was time to try something new.

Now I know that some of you reading this may scoff at this. You may consider packing a wagon, several wagons, to be a simple and achievable task and some of you have no doubt been doing that for years and it is second nature. But this is the sort of stage management that I have never tackled. I'm usually the stage manager with the pretty stationary and the perfect manicure who sits in prompt corners cueing shows or sits in rehearsal rooms writing down blocking all day. 

Maybe not all day. Till about 4.30pm anyway. After that you've lost me.

But yeah, sitting. Lots of sitting. 

A Saturday night 'get out' for me is usually powering down the sound and maybe packing a few props. It's been a long time since I have done physical, manual labour and the last time I held a podger was in college.

And even then it was to pass it to someone else.

But I'm never one to refuse a challenge. So I dug out my weight lifting gloves and took to the internet to order new steelies. I have to order them specially as they don't usually make them in a size three.

So I shadowed the first get out and listened carefully to my (incredibly patient) CSM and technical manager as they gave instructions and advice.

And before I knew it I was by myself on the wagon. Staring at the vast and empty amount of space and wondering how I was going to make our show go into it and genuinely wondering what the consequences would be if we just left the set where it was. 

Quite big, apparently.

My CSM, sensing my nerves, did two great things for me. She knitted me the most beautiful little hat for the long cold nights and gave me the best piece of advice.

'Make friends with your driver.'

So I did and have continued to do so on every single of my seventeen get outs since then. Our get out means there can be quite a lot of waiting around while our crew take down the large ceiling and I'm pretty happy to have a chat and a gossip about what the drivers have been up to. When it comes to get outs they really have seen it all and I found their tales pretty hilarious. Plus I enjoyed their company. Being out in a town centre surrounded by drunken revellers on a cold night can be pretty lonely, so their chat about life, love and everything in between was welcomed. 

I can't lie. At the beginning I found packing hard. Really hard. I sometimes panicked and got flustered. The crew would stand and look on whilst I took a minute to think or rearrange upon realising I had fucked it up. Sometimes I nipped inside to ask my technical manager for a bit of help. Which he did and never once did he mock or moan about my learning process. Something I will be forever grateful for. 

I would forget what had worked in previous weeks and stare forlornly at an overly tight pack whilst considering a career-move into casting.

Casting sounds good. There's no carrying in casting.

But gradually I got my head around it. How it fitted and where the ties went. The importance of getting the driver on side, having a bag of Fruit Pastilles to hand and keeping a smile on your face in the constant and unrelenting Manchester rain.

During the very first couple of packs I realised that I needed to be strong. Certainly stronger than I was. I was going home with aching arms and, whilst on the truck, I was having to ask for help with lifting flight cases more often than I would have liked. I had stepped up my fitness by running most days but it wasn't enough so, driven by my fear of looking weak and girly, I enrolled in a week long bootcamp on our only holiday week off. For six days I exercised from 6am to 5pm doing circuits that made me want to vomit and assault courses which made my cry. At the beginning, myself and fifteen other women had to explain why we were there. Most people said 'weight loss' or 'toning' but when it came to me I simply blurted out,

'Heavy things. I need to lift and carry really heavy things.'

The ex military trainers were bemused but with their help I got to a stage where I could lift and carry 'really heavy' things. When I returned to work and did the first get-out since bootcamp, I couldn't help but grin widely when I lifted a piece of steeldeck singlehandedly and slid it into place unaided. Had this been a movie, it almost certainly would have been the final shot of a montage set to rousing music (maybe a 'Destiny's Child' track) which charted my progress from girly deputy stage manager to.... erm... slightly less girly deputy stage manager.

Let's not go nuts. Yeah, I lost weight and toned up but I didn't exactly become Jessica Ennis.

Obviously there were things that made me grumpy but that happens in every job. Like the time when we went to Scotland and the entire company (including myself) put their own big suitcases on the truck, throwing my well-organised pack well and truly out. The result being that I just started forcibly kicking suitcases and guitars (actors and their fucking guitars) in amongst the furniture.

Sometimes brute force and ignorance is the only way. 

Listen, I said you could put your suitcase on the truck but I'm not bloody UPS. It will get there but whether it all gets there in one piece is another story.

After a while I realised that I was starting to actually look forward to the get out on a Saturday night. I wasn't jealous of the fact that the rest of my stage management team were going to go home or to the pub. I was kind of happy to be left behind with 'the boys'.

Yes there were sometimes girls but, in my experience, a theatre's crew are pretty much entirely made up of men with the occasional girl. I didn't mind this and quite enjoyed being able to keep up with them or sometimes occasionally being able to lift more.

The only time I got irritated was with the (very rare) sexism which I encountered. When issuing instructions on how I needed the steeldeck to be brought on (wood to my right, lugs on the top) I sometimes heard the words "Bossy, isn't she?'

It never failed to make me cringe slightly as I just found it rather patronising. If it had been a bloke telling the crew how to stack the steeldeck I doubt they would have called him 'bossy' and I didn't understand why they used that term to describe me. I thought it strange that men still sometimes found the need to comment on a woman who was in charge of a situation. 

But I soon came to the conclusion that it was them who were struggling with being told what to do by a woman and it was not my problem, nor my concern, if they were unsure of their own masculinity.

It's funny, as this whole packing lark has made me realise some stuff about myself. A few years ago I positively relished male attention of all varieties. My own insecurities probably. If men made lascivious or flirtatious comments I welcomed it, encouraged it even. 

But on the back of the wagon I just had no time for it. It annoyed me. I didn't want to be treated as 'a bit of skirt' on the get out and I felt strongly about that. I wanted to be treated as an equal. In my twenties I would have used my femininity to get men to do my bidding. Get them to lift the things that I couldn't or even the things I could. But now, at the age of 32 and with a whole new set of feminist views, I just wanted to be treated the same. 

Another time during a get out I got told (as a compliment) that I lifted 'like a cute little lesbian'. 

Jesus. 

Okay I might be 5ft 3" but I'm a little baffled at how my ability to push a flight case up a ramp can be linked to my sexual preferences.

Which is straight.

Just in case any of you ever had any doubt.

The sexism I encountered on the truck was very rare and mostly the male crews were just friendly and fun. They taught me a lot and their patience whilst I learnt was endless. The majority of them were up for a laugh and a bit of banter whilst we got the job done.

But anyway, I have also learnt a lot about bits of theatre equipment  which I never previously had any knowledge about. On one Tuesday get-in, I was recounting the tale of how I got the monster bruise on my leg to David, our relighter. Whilst clambering about on top of a layer of flight cases, clutching a boom bar, I had slipped, lost my footing, and fell down between two TW1 flight cases.

David listened politely to the story but then told me he was more impressed with the fact I could distinguish what type of flight case it was rather than with the bruise itself.

At the end of my first 'good' pack, the sense of achievement was overwhelming. I skipped home in the early hours of a Saturday night cheerfully dodging the rowing couples, swaying drunks and pools of blue WKD vomit, feeling like I was no longer just 'that kind' of stage manager. I could do something else. Something other than just cue a show. Something I had previously been scared of and said 'I can't do that' when it was suggested.

I may never have donned neon leg warmers or danced on a yellow cab, but I definitely feel like I have learnt something on this tour. And paid for it in sweat. 

Packing a truck is nothing to a lot of people. I know that. But to me it was an intimidating task to take on and one which was way out of my comfort zone. Having now achieved it is the best glow in the world. 

I guess maybe those lyrics in 'Fame' are true. In all aspects of theatre, not just performing, you can sometimes feel as if you've learnt how to fly.

Even in steelies. 

Thank you for reading this. If you enjoyed it you can share on your Facebook or Twitter by clicking on the top left. You can also follow me on Twitter at @agirlinthedark or 'Like' my Facebook page 'Girl In The Dark'

The tinyurl for it is http://tinyurl.com/kdsxrj7 if you want to cut, paste and tweet.

Jess

Xxxx

Theatricals Assemble (That's Not My Job: Part Two)

I published my last blog post, 'That's Not My Job', on Thursday morning not long after I had woken up. I guess it was around 8 o'clock in the morning. I had submitted the brief column to 'The Stage' a couple of weeks previously but was still tweaking the final, full length version right up until I put it online. Once I had decided I was satisfied with it, I hit 'Publish' on my blog and then left to meet one of my company, Natasha. I am currently on quite a long tour and last week, when 'That's Not My Job' went out, we were in Aylesbury. I had purposefully asked Natasha to do a long run with me that morning so that once the article was online, I would not be around to see the immediate reaction. It would only take one negative word for me to lose my nerve and delete it, so I decided that I needed to put it out there for a while and not hover over it, refreshing the counter and waiting for a response.

I was genuinely quite nervous. 

Not only of what people would say, but the fact that at 3,500 words, the blog was long. Longer than anything else I had written. And the content just wasn't funny.

It was not a theatrical anecdote.

Nor was it a spoof job application. 

It contained some of my very own thoughts and feelings and I felt quite wary of broadcasting them.

We ran for just over seven miles. Three and a half miles along the canal and then three and a half miles back. It took us an hour and ten minutes and we talked all the way, keeping a steady and consistent rhythm with each other. We ran past swans and ducks and said 'Morning' to other runners and dog walkers. Natasha knew that I was slightly jittery about the post so we talked about anything other than that; the Haruki Murakami book I was reading, the snakes she had encountered in South Africa, our siblings, our chocolate bar of choice, my irrational fear of cows, Canada. 

Anything really. 

When we got back we made a beeline for the Waitrose which is right next to the theatre. The sweat on our faces was drying to a salty grit and the muscles in our legs were feeling worked and heavy but awake. Fresh blood was flowing straight from my heart and my mind was in the midst of a post exercise high. We grabbed coffees and decided to share a hot cross bun and went outside to stretch. 

Well, Natasha stretched. I sat in the grass with my feet together, half heartedly pushing my knees to the dewy ground and checking my phone.

'Anything?' enquired Natasha.

'Its okay' I said, 'Nobody seems to hate me.'

I have to say, I was pretty surprised. In the hour that I had been pounding down the canal, scaring the feathered wildlife and keeping my breath steady enough to hold a conversation, the blogpost (I do feel a dick saying 'article' or 'piece') had been tweeted and shared a lot more than I had expected. Nobody was bored or horrified, just nice and supportive.

After our stretch, I walked back to my digs and received two messages from good friends of mine, Lisa and Amy, about five minutes apart. And they both basically said this;

'Let us know what we can do to help.'

As I walked I kind of frowned to myself. Help? What the fuck do they mean help? Help who do what? Are they worried I am going to need support in case of a backlash? What exactly is it they think I need help with? I've written the post and expressed my thoughts and then hopefully it will start a debate.

What else do they think I'm going to fucking do?

As the day continued, the number of hits it was getting rose at a steady pace. People were commenting on the piece itself and most people were supportive and in agreement. A lot of people had interesting opinions I had not even considered. Someone pointed out that American theatres charge an awful lot more for theatre tickets and so are in a better position to pay more staff which is something that hadn't even crossed my mind when I wrote it. People also expressed how they had tried to tackle the problem in their venues, and some people told me how they couldn't work in backstage theatre any more and were leaving. I heard from a lot of costume/wardrobe people about how much the lack of breaks affected them and also from American stage hands who told me about their experiences when they had come to work in the UK.

However, my favourite comment was probably this.

'Oh shut up.'

After 'My Application to be Artistic Director of the National Theatre' spread widely, I learnt pretty quick that even if you are just trying to make a joke or write something humorous, there would always be people who wanted to take offence, so I wasn't that surprised to have negativity. Another person wrote a lengthy comment about the post and how I just needed to accept it as part of the job. People said 'things will never change'. And I stopped and carefully considered all of these responses in the exact same way that I responded to the positive ones. I didn't want to ignore them and tried to use the way that they challenged me to improve my argument.

By Friday night I had gained 200 followers on Twitter and had been sent more tweets than I could reply to. My Inbox on Facebook still had a number of unread messages and there were lengthy comments on the post. I was trying to read them all as fastidiously as possible but you have to remember I am currently working and my week involves matinees, understudy rehearsals and evening shows. Sometimes I was only able to skim over all these messages. But I could see that not only were people showing their support by coming up with suggestions or tales of their own experiences, they were also starting to ask questions. 

'Do you think the buy out contract is working?'

'What exactly is the difference between ITC, SOLT and TMA?'

'I am on tour and we don't get a dinner break or overtime on matinee days. Is that allowed?'

'Can you tell me what the tinted moisturiser is that you use as my skin can't take a foundation?'  

'Are you really 31?'

I think I can only answer the last two confidently.

It's from 'Benefit'. Twenty seven quid but lasts for a year. And yes, I am. Although at this stage I felt about fifteen.

Interestingly, Equity also tweeted the link which I took as a sign that they know something is not right and that they did not just think I was a grumpy stage manager with a chip on my shoulder. I also got a message from one of the Equity councillors who said that they were looking at the issues that arose within stage management and would be interested to hear any suggestions from either myself or other stage managers. It was at this point it struck me that having voiced the issue and gained the support, simply walking away from it was not the right thing to do. All these new followers, these messages, these tweets.... I felt like a lot of people were saying 'Okay, yep. We agree with you. We support you. Now what?'

So on Saturday morning I started to look at the various contracts and concentrated mostly on the ITC. I found myself skimming it is as the vast majority of it seems to be aimed at actors and there is very little mention of stage management. I have even worked for small companies who do not operate on an Equity contract but still issue separate contracts for stage managers and actors. 

Which makes sense. 

We have a totally different skill set so why are we all signing ourselves to the same thing?

It was when I tried to make comparisons to the other contracts that I felt like I was hitting a very solid and high wall. I couldn't make sense of any of it and there were clauses and statements that I just didn't understand. I flopped back onto my digs bed, groaning, and wondered why the hell I had started this in the first place. And it was while I lay there on a lumpy bed, in someone's cluttered spare room, looking at a ceiling which held the childhood stickers of someone who was now probably about forty two, that I started to feel exactly the same way I did last summer. 

When 'My Application for Artistic Director of the National Theatre' came out. 

I wrote about the whole experience in 'Planet Futon' and suddenly all of those old feelings were coming back. It's very strange to write something that is then read and discussed by so many people. Initially there is a feeling of overwhelming jubilation and a thrill to get your voice heard by so many, but it doesn't take long before that is replaced by a slightly suffocating feeling of solitude. It's odd as I am not usually a person who experiences the emotion of loneliness. Not only do I surround myself with friends and family, but I am usually pretty happy in my own company and alone with my own thoughts. I suppose that working in theatre is usually so much about being in a team. But this blog is something that I do by myself.

It's just me.

My thoughts. 

My feelings. 

It's not even like my column in 'The Stage where someone can edit me. 

So if ever there are any repercussions because of something I have written, it is solely my responsibility.

So whilst I lay on this alien bed, once again feeling like it was breaking off into a separate orbit, several thoughts went through my head.

Why have I done this again?

Why am I always on fucking tour when this fucking happens?

But most importantly,

I need help.

And it was at this point that I remembered those text messages from my friends. I couldn't help but grin as I sat up and seized my phone.

Friends are just brilliant, aren't they? Lisa and Amy had offered me what I needed a whole 48 hours before I realised I even needed it.

Amazing.

For the rest of the day my mind was taken up with two shows and a Get Out, and on Sunday I travelled back to London to witness friends run the Marathon. As I stood on the pavement whooping for strangers in costumes and scanning the sweating mob for familiar faces, I received another message. This message came from a producer who runs a small but very successful theatre company which tours and also stages productions at London venues. She said that she would be interested to talk to me about my blog as her company always paid overtime and endeavoured to schedule in adequate breaks, and that sometimes it was quite a shock to see larger companies not doing the same. I was really happy to get a message like that from this particular producer as I hold so much respect for her, and I was equally encouraged to discover that even small companies were taking these issues into consideration. 

Maybe it was being at the marathon, watching all these strangers moving together towards one goal, that I started to realise something. 

I couldn't just use the help of other stage managers. 

It wasn't going to be enough. 

I needed the help and input from other people from other aspects of the profession. As much as we all think that we know about other departments (everyone in this industry seems to believe they are an expert on marketing) we really, truly don't.

I have no idea about all these different contracts and the various pressures of running a theatre company. And as great as it is to come up with all these ideas and theories, I don't really know if they would solve the problems. Just as it is important to have someone go 'Yes, you're right', it is also just as necessary to have someone say 'no, that wouldn't actually work because.....'

As I headed back to Leytonstone and let myself into the little flat with the sky blue door, I started to feel a bit like one of those characters in a Marvel comic, who gathers the most appropriate super heroes for their strength and various skills.

Theatricals Assemble.

I think the movie would be intensely dull. But very well organised with good stationery and cake.

I proposed to the producer that we meet and discuss the issues outlined in the blog with myself and other stage managers and she enthusiastically agreed. She even offered her theatre company's headquarters as a venue. I decided at this point to recruit another producer and got in contact with the woman I actually mentioned in the blog who had worked with me to come to an arrangement about my tech week hours. Again, she was completely up for it and I started to feel upbeat and positive about the whole thing for the very first time.

'Girl In The Dark' was no longer just me. I had people. 

We were people.

So now I have Lisa, Amy, two producers and also John, a West End stage manager. I think that is enough for now. Any more and I don't think the conversations will work. We have a date and a time and a meeting place.

And we are going to talk.

I want to go to Equity and I want to go with sensible and achievable ideas that I have discussed with producers, and maybe soon directors. I want to discuss the contractual issues that people are facing and I want to raise awareness about the issues of over worked stage managers. I am hearing about accidents and exhaustion and I don't think it is right.

The other night as I slugged down a post-dinner glass of Shiraz, I received a tweet from a director saying that he knew he was guilty of what I had written about and would 'try harder'. I gulped down the dregs of my glass and slurred 'if I can change at least one person's mind then all this is worth while.'

The next morning, when I woke up, I realised I sounded like a right tosser so I'm not going to say that ever again. But you get the idea.

I'm not starting a battle or picking a fight with anybody. Nobody is the enemy as far as I am concerned. I think that this is the sort of issue that can be resolved if people work together and come to some understanding and compromise. 

If there is a reason why we can't have separate contracts to cast members, then fine. 

If there is absolutely no way that backstage teams can have the breaks they are entitled to, then fine.

Explain it to me and educate me as I truly want to learn. 

But if there isn't a valid reason, then let's move forward and create a contract designed for and tailored to the needs of the backstage team.

It's not about attacking anybody or placing blame. As a lot of the comments on my blog state, a large number of backstage staff have had the experience that if you point out the issues in a reasonable manner, people can be be very accommodating.

I'm also not proposing a situation like in the US. Having a million different people for each individual job probably wouldn't work here. We don't have the money. And as much as I want conditions to be better, I am also aware that overly strict regulations could destroy companies starting out.

The Edinburgh Fringe, which we all know is run on beer and love, would collapse. And that is one of the things I want to discuss with my wonderful group. How we can change and develop without just making things difficult for everybody. 

At the moment, that really is all we are going to be doing. Talking. Brainstorming. Maybe nothing will come of it and maybe things will continue just as they are. I don't know enough about the goals and possibilities to work out how achievable they are. So maybe this focus group won't amount to anything. But I'm not ready to believe that. Not just yet.

So there you go.

That's what I have been doing since the blog came out. It's not what I planned to do and every now and again I feel very far out of my comfort zone. I have never considered myself to be political (that is the dinner party conversation I always shy away from) and I don't believe I am savvy or knowledgable when it comes to this sort of thing. I mean, I really didn't plan this. 

It just kind of happened.

And just like last Thursday morning, I feel apprehensive and nervous and vulnerable and I'm  wondering what people are going to say. Will people even care? 

Maybe not.

But I do want to at least try.

So what am I going to do now?

Easy.

I'm going to go for a very, very long run.

Thank you, so much, for reading this. 

If you want to Share it you can click on the top left hand corner of the page. 

If you want to leave a comment I will welcome it.

You can follow me on Twitter (@agirlinthedark) or you can 'Like' my Facebook page (Girl In The Dark).

The tinyurl for the post is http://tinyurl.com/otzsu2v

Thank you again.

Jess

That's Not My Job

‘That’s not my job.’

Yep, I’ve said it.

Or mumbled it.

Or maybe just thought it.

There has been many a tech period when I have sighed, exasperated, at the fact that I am being asked to do something which I firmly do not believe is my responsibility, and muttered the words of the aggravated stage manager. More and more in the UK theatre industry, especially London,  we are finding ourselves in situations where we are working on a show as a stage management team of one and expected to perform the skills of wardrobe mistresses, technicians, production managers and assistant directors. And I know that most of us have the attitude that if nobody else is going to do it then we had better just crack on, but still with those words going round and round our heads.

‘That’s not my job.’

But when I recently went and worked in New York, I found myself having to deal with a totally different issue that was, at first, just as frustrating.

‘That’s not your job.’

As soon as we arrived at the theatre in the Big Apple, it became very clear that the US theatrical unions were very different to ours. I’m sure that a lot of you have already experienced the logistics of working in US venues or have at least heard about it. If it’s not in your department then you are just not allowed near it. Any object not stage management related quickly became like Kryptonite to my ASM and I. We weren’t allowed to touch costumes, mic stands, things with plugs on or large bits of set. Even putting down spike marks on the stage became quite a complex activity with certain staff members required and protocol to be followed.

In England, there had just been the two of us backstage. Charlie, my ASM, dealt with radio mics, props and quick changes whilst I called the lights and operated AV. Once we had crossed the Atlantic however, every small backstage task seemed to require an additional crew member. An actor would exit the stage and usually just be greeted by Charlie who would check their mic, give them a prop and chuck a cardigan on them. But now they were being greeted by three different people which took some getting used to.

I did find this occasionally frustrating and felt that it over complicated things. But that was nothing compared to the dinner breaks.

In the UK we typically have an hour plus thirty minutes to allow actors in and out of costume. They had 90 minutes in the US also, but the reason for this was so that the crew had time to get down from their positions, eat their dinner, and then also have time to prepare to continue the tech.

I was very much struck by this as it really showed who was in the position of power. During the tech it was the backstage team who determined when breaks were taken, and the cast and even the director were powerless to disagree. There was just never a question of anyone working through their dinner break as the stage had to be cleared. And absolutely no mention of things like ‘well let’s just get to the end of this scene?’ or ‘do the crew mind missing a tea break?’

At first I genuinely found the system obstructive as I felt that I could occasionally have made up time by doing the odd jobs in my breaks, just as I would in the UK. But it simply wasn’t allowed. How many of us have felt compelled to work through a break to ensure that we are ready for a dress or a first preview? And how many of us have done it with no extra pay and, let’s face it, a rumbling stomach?

If I’m being completely honest I don’t think I have ever turned around and refused to miss a dinner break. I worry far too much about looking reluctant, lazy or uncaring. And I do always want the piece to run smoothly and feel it is my responsibility to ensure that.

But I do get annoyed that there now seems to be an expectance that backstage departments will work, unpaid, through dinner breaks. Often without the issue being properly confronted. It seems to be quite rare that somebody will say ‘Well to achieve this you will need to miss a break. Is that okay?’

One day in America, after the tech had been suddenly halted by the crew for a dinner break, I chatted with one of the guys about their breaks and how sometimes I found it could be a hindrance.  As CSM I was starting to worry that we just weren’t going to be ready in time for the first preview. His response?

‘We don’t do it to be difficult. We do it because it enforces good management.’

And he was right.

The producers/directors had to schedule in enough time for a tech (plus dinner breaks) and they had to employ the adequate amount of staff as there was no possibility of people performing several roles. The result of this, I have to admit, was a fresh and able crew who were always well rested, prepared and, most importantly willing.

So why, in the UK, are we still feeling obliged to work through our breaks unpaid?

If I am working on a contract where I am getting paid overtime, I will happily, gleefully, fill out my time sheet and put down every single missed meal break, every additional hour and every infringed overnight break. And I also do the work willingly. I may be tired, stressed and hungry. But I am also comforted by the knowledge that I am being rewarded. When I get my payslip the following week it makes all that extra work worthwhile and I am happy that I can use that extra cash by pushing up the numbers on my savings account or paying off that extra bit of my tax bill.

(I’m clearly kidding. Overtime means hitting the Benefit counter in Boots and stocking up on their over priced yet miracle tinted moisturiser.)

But sadly these contracts which offer overtime seem to be dwindling and a lot of London theatres do not offer these rewards. A lot of contracts I am working these days are straight buy outs.

Which is fine.

But the expectation that we will carry on working these hours regardless seems to remain.

And, personally, I do not think this is fine.

But how do we deal with this?

I have been in so many situations during a tech week where, for example, an hour’s break is scheduled between the end of the tech and the first dress. Or there will be notes onstage up until an hour before the half. But how exactly is that supposed to work? How exactly are the backstage department expected to take their break and be set up and ready for the performance in that one single, solitary hour?

So then you are left with a choice. Do you make a stand? Do you leave the building completely and take your hour’s break? Do you sit in the green room in full view of everybody, stubbornly eating your Pret a Manger salad and pointedly ignoring all show related questions? Or do you work, unpaid, and ensure that the production is ready. But feel short changed.

Because, as a stage manager, that is ‘your job’.

When I am in these situations I feel that, more often than not, there is a real expectation that the stage management team will do the dutiful ‘above and beyond’ thing. That we will work constantly and forgo these breaks and do it without complaint. But it feels that so many of us have been doing this ‘by whatever means necessary’ routine for so long that it isn’t even exceptional anymore. I have been in techs where the issue of dinner breaks for the stage management team, technicians and crew is not even discussed. And that if you choose to do something as outrageous as take the dinner break you are entitled to, you are being difficult or lazy.

Let’s be honest. You are in a situation of high pressure and high stress and everyone, including you, wants the show to be the absolute best it can be. So if you sit down and refuse to work for a whole sixty minutes do you look heroic? Do you look empowered and brave and stoic and unflinching?

No.

You look like a cunt.

And this situation doesn’t just apply to tech weeks. Even in the early stages of rehearsals I have found myself feeling unable to take lunch breaks; if you are a DSM and a lunchtime production meeting occurs, it is sometimes impossible to get someone to sit in for you in the afternoon so that you can take that much needed lunch break later. And directors have sometimes made it very clear to me that they want the same stage manager in the rehearsal room throughout the day so cover is not an option.

Also how many times have you heard this;

‘Okay, so let’s take an hour for lunch and when we come back we will go straight into a full run through of the play.’

Right.

So I need to be set up and be totally ready for a run through? And that is going to take me, what, half an hour? Forty five minutes? The full hour? And then I need to stay focussed for blocking, prompting, sound operating etc on an empty stomach and with no time to breathe.

I see.

But again, what is your option?

Well, luckily, some directors are aware of these issues and will allow time for pre-sets etc. I always love it when a director puts in time for a pre-run company warm up which allows the stage manager time to eat and take a full break as well as get set up and ready.

But I think it is a shame that stage managers do not feel as if they can confront some directors and ask for the time it takes to set up for a run plus the full dinner break.

And, personally, I take rehearsal room run-throughs incredibly seriously. Just as actors need to warm up/prepare/get into the zone, we stage managers also want to check, double check and feel ready for a run-though as, believe it or not, we really understand the importance of them and feel the pressure just as much as the creatives.

These dinner breaks which we are supposed to take are not just about food or the much desired coffee.

They are about being able to leave the room and leave the building.

Being able to take in fresh, un-conditioned air.

Sending a text or email that is not related to work.

Having a poo.

As a DSM, sitting on your bum all day staring at the script and constantly rubbing out and re-writing blocking is very tiring. However much I love a play, the words can start to jump off the page and float around the expanse of white as I struggle with weariness. I get envious of watching other people moving around the room whilst I sit, unmoving, at my desk.

There is a fringe venue in London which I work at fairly regularly and absolutely adore. It holds a very special place in my heart and I truly respect all of the people who work there. It does a lot of new writing which is my favourite type of theatre to work on (mostly because you get your name in the published script) and the sets and designs are always very ambitious on tight budgets. I always go home from a Press Night feeling elated by what I have achieved, and proud of the work that we have produced on a small budget.

However.

I did once work out the hours that I had worked during a tech week and then divided my weekly wage by that number.

It didn’t even cover the National Minimum Wage.

When they asked me to return for a fourth production I asked to speak with the producer about this issue and showed them my calculations. We spoke very frankly about the problem and how exasperating it was to work a normal week and get paid a set amount of money, and then work ridiculously hard yet still get paid the same small amount. Obviously the small venue did not have the resources to pay me the overtime that I was working during busy periods. But they were willing to discuss a compromise.

So they agreed that during tech weeks I would get paid a set bonus, regardless of how much overtime I did. Okay, it was not anywhere near the amount I would have been paid had I filled out a timesheet and detailed every infringement of the contract, but it was enough to make me feel that all that extra work was being acknowledged in some small way.

And I really want to express just how grateful I am that we came to that conclusion and that the theatre was listening to my point of view and working with me to make the situation better. In the future I would hate to lose out on work simply because people considered me difficult or demanding.

‘Jess Gow? Oh yeah I’ve worked with her before. She’s okay as a stage manager but can be pretty unreasonable. Sometimes she insists that she… you know…. eats and stuff.’

I have also done the tours when, during the interview, the twenty two year old Producer who sits before me, twiddling her hair and tapping on a Mac, proudly tells told me that there is a set ‘company wage’ and that the actors and stage management are all on the same wage.

Because, apparently, that’s ‘fair’. And means that everybody in the company is equal.

Equal.

Really?

During one of these tours I would arrive at the venue every Monday morning at 9 am to do the get-in, wash costumes and buy food for the show. It was rare that I would get a lunch break due to the nature of the performance although I would always ensure the in-house crew got a break. During the afternoon we would continue to focus lights and be ready for the cast arriving around four pm. They would tech various elements of the show before breaking at 5.30pm whilst I did the pre-set.

Then for the rest of the week, as company stage manager, I would be arriving at the venue at about 3.00pm for laundry duties, tour admin, petty cash etc before getting ready for the performance, which obviously I had cues during.

So.

You take this ‘company wage’ and you divide it by the amount of hours the actors do.

And then you take the exact same ‘company wage’ and you divide it by the hours that I do.

And then you tell me that this is ‘equal’ and ‘fair’.

I asked people on Twitter about this issue of taking breaks and, as usual, was presented with a lot of responses from a lot of different people. Most folk, including directors and actors, agreed, that people are far more productive when taking the allotted tea breaks and dinner breaks. Fatigued and irritable cast and crew are less likely to produce good work.

A well respected director tweeted me this;

‘As a director I rely on the SM to tell me we need breaks. They aren’t being difficult. It’s vital. Everyone needs breaks.’

Somebody else tweeted me that, when working as an assistant director, they had realised that once calls and notes were done, the DSM was working 12 hours a day as a matter of course. And again, I was reminded by the fact that not everyone is aware that a DSM’s day of work does not just end when rehearsals end.

Another stage manager tweeted saying that he was sometimes happy to work through these dinner breaks but only if people are recognising the extra work as nobody likes to feel as though they are being used.

Sadly I had some rather unsettling direct messages from stage managers saying that, in the past, they had decided that enough was enough and claimed a dinner break. But been told that it ‘was their job’ and that on a buy-out contract, they had no right to complain.

When I asked whether people would state ‘no pay, no way’ when it came to skipping dinners, or if they would carry on yet feeling exhausted and disgruntled, a director I know asked if there was something in between this. A happy medium.  And personally, I believe there could be. And this is the conversation that I want to open up.

I genuinely don’t believe that enough producers or directors are aware of these issues and I want to write this so that more people do know and can take these things into consideration when planning rehearsals or tech periods. Especially the venues which are providing buy out contracts.

Maybe these theatres need to start making a choice. Either your have a buy out contract and accept that the SM will take breaks which may have an impact on the production and schedule accordingly. Or have SM teams who work whatever is asked of them but with the overtime being paid to them.

And I also want people to know that in other places in the world, like the States, it is not considered acceptable for people to work consistently without the adequate breaks. And that producers/directors are forced to approach the issue and schedule in adequate time. Otherwise the crews there just stop and there is nothing you can do about it. Maybe we can discuss the issue before it gets to a point where crew/stage managers/wardrobe mistresses are just downing tools and it starts to truly damage the final product.

Of course, the blatant ignorance of rules and regulations does not just apply to backstage. There has been many a time when I have been aware that actors are being asked to work way beyond their remit, especially during previews when the usual rule of ‘ninety minutes before the half’ seems to go completely out of the window.

On one occasion I was in a notes session just before a second preview. Myself and the actors had been rehearsing all day, and had a show to do that night. We should have finished at 5.30pm but it got to 6.00pm and the director showed no sign of letting up, clearly in a zone and wanting to give the all- important notes. Any mention from me about needing to finish had been met with an irritable and snappy ‘Yes, I KNOW Jess. I know. But we need to do these notes.’

So I gave up. The actors had seen that I had tried and what else could I do?

We continued for a while. But then at 6.05pm, one of the older male cast members stood up and solemnly declared;

‘We need to break now.’

And so we did.

That was all that was needed.

It just took one more person to make that stand and then the director had to admit that the break needed to be taken. When this actor made this statement I had shrugged at the director as if to say ‘what can you do?’

Although in my head I was thinking ‘WHOOOOOOO!!! YOU GO, MAN!!! POWER TO THE PEOPLE!!’

That really is all it took. Just that one other voice, along with mine, to say, ‘No. We stop now.’

I started in this profession when I was 18 years old and was pretty content to work the extra hours and skip the usual breaks, so eager to impress and be congratulated.

But now, at thirty one, I am less willing to work extra hours with no recognition. And a nice message in a Press Night card is not adequate payment. I know that other people, too many people, feel the same way and want something to be done about it. Equity has created and stated these rules and regulations so why do we keep ignoring them?

Someone needs to take a stand. But who? Exactly whose job is it to make sure that we are no longer exploited?

I’ve said it before and I will say it again.

That’s not my job.

It’s not your job either.

It’s our job.

 

 

 

Thanks as always for reading these ramblings. You have no idea how much I appreciate all of your support and the only reason I now have a column in ‘The Stage’ is because of all of the lovely people who read and share my writing. So thank you very much.

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You can ‘Like’ my Facebook page (Girl In The Dark) and I am also on Twitter. (@agirlinthedark). This post is something I feel strongly about and something I would like to open up a conversation about. If you have a point of view or an experience you would like to share please feel free to send me a tweet.

Bathroom Cabinet

So now I’m in the second week of rehearsals for my next play. During Week One, the cast, director and DSM have mostly been sat around the table ripping the play to shreds. And I’m not speaking metaphorically. Sting would be freaking out if he could see that we were racing through the equivalent of a small rainforest on a daily basis as the play is re worked and re written and turned into paper aeroplanes which are sent across the room by fatigued actors.

But while the cast, director and DSM go on a voyage of discovery within the walls of the Rehearsal Room, Production Manager and I are racing round trying to locate all of our necessary props and furniture.

A lot of Stage Managers these days will sit at their desks and flick from Ebay to Twitter to Gumtree to Facebook. But that’s just not my style. I like to visit car boot sales at nine in the morning and queue with scores of other bargain hunters for hidden treasures in the Car Parks of Stadiums. I like to go to Smithfields Market on a Thursday morning and buy a bacon sandwich and a cappuccino from the little stand in the corner. I like to talk to the people who run the stalls and I like to take their cards and haggle with them over footstools from the seventies and corroded old garden tools. I like to look at the tables, teeming with vintage costume jewellery and tarnished cigarette cases and I like the young Australian man who runs the second hand book stall.

I like him best of all.

I don’t own a car and nor do I possess the ability to drive. So I have to make do with the next best thing. A shopping trolley. Like what little old ladies have except mine isn’t tartan. It’s not an amazing trendy one either. It cost me ten quid from Shepherd’s Bush Market and is probably the best tenner I ever spent. During the day I trundle around London with my trolley, picking up props from car boot sales and markets and trying not to hit people around the ankles.

I love my trolley. Although Production Manager does not share my sentiments.

‘You look a right twat pulling that around.’

He probably has a point.

Another reason why I am more than happy to leave my desk and go out finding props is that I genuinely love the tube.

I do.

Well, in the middle of the day I love the tube, when it’s quiet and there are whole carriages which are vacant. When I first moved to London, I found it such an adventure to work out the best route to my destination and decide which little coloured lines to follow. And I still do. When I realised that so much of my job would be spent on the Underground, I checked some stuff out online and discovered some facts about the ‘hidden underground’.

When you pass between Tottenham Court Road and Holborn on the Central Line, you can peer out of the window and see an empty and disused ‘ghost station’. It’s the old British Museum tube station and hasn’t been used since 1932. But it’s still there and completely intact. All of the tiles and the signs and the doorways. And on the Piccadilly Line between Green Park and Hyde Park Corner there is a completely bricked up tube station which used to be Down Street tube station. That also hasn’t been used for nearly seventy years and I still like to look out of the window for it.

Again, Production Manager does not share my enthusiasm for these secret train stations.

‘Jesus. You really do need to get a life.’

For this show I need an old wall mounted bathroom cabinet. I have presented Designer with endless images of bathroom cabinets from E bay and whilst at car boot sales I have taken photos on my iPhone and texted them straight over. All of them have been met with a negative (sometimes slightly disgusted) response. Once I got a text which simply read ‘REALLY?’

However, after a week of searching I have found a cabinet which Designer just adores. It is cheap and second hand and I located it on Gumtree. It is pick-up only which means that my trolley and I need to make a trip to Dollis Hill in North London to visit a lady called Lesley. We have exchanged chatty e mails and texts and arranged a time on a Tuesday afternoon for me to visit her and pick up the cabinet.

I make my way to Dollis Hill on the Jubilee Line and manage to locate Lesley’s address using The Little Blue Dot on my iPhone. I used to pack a battered A to Z in my shopping trolley but now, like many other Londoners, I navigate the streets of this city with my nose practically pressed to a tiny screen, loyally following my Little Blue Dot.

She lives in a large semi-detached house about a minute’s walk from the tube and has a gravel driveway just large enough to house a brand new Micra. I ring the brass doorbell and it’s not long before the weighty blue door is pulled open. Lesley looks to be in her late fifties with short, ash-blonde hair and she is expensively dressed; head to toe in casual Whistles and Jaeger and Monsoon. She ushers me in to the hallway which smells of Jo Malone candles, Chanel Number 5 and Shake N’ Vac. Her stature is short with a petite figure but her generous bosom pulls at the material of her shirt. There is a slight sheen of sweat covering her face and she is breathless, her chest rapidly rising and falling.

‘Come in!’ she exclaims, ‘You must excuse me. I’ve been on the Wii Fit.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll just grab the cabinet and....’

‘No, no. Come on in.’

I smile and follow her into her large kitchen which has counters full of shining and expensive appliances. It’s one of those kitchens where any white goods such as the fridge or the washing machine or the dishwasher have been hidden from view and everything just has the same solid, cupboard door.

I don’t understand why the middle classes are suddenly so ashamed to admit they own fridges. As somebody who has toured the country and stayed in a vast variety of digs, I personally hate these kitchens and despise having to open ten different doors in a desperate battle to locate the milk. Especially at three in the morning when my inebriated state means I struggle to remember which doors I have already tried and I end up going round in circles for five minutes before giving up and eating my dry Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes straight out of a bowl with my hands, softly crying and remembering my own childhood home where the fridge was not only easy to find but took pride of place in the living room.

‘Coffee?’

I realised that Lesley was looking at me expectantly. And I saw that it was not a normal coffee pot that she was gesturing towards but one of those fancy coffee machines which look like little farmyard animals. I’ve never had a coffee from one of those so I jumped up onto a Heals kitchen stool and said yes, I would love a coffee. I don’t make a habit of hanging around in middle-aged ladies houses (except my mother’s) drinking luxury coffee. But she is open and friendly and I don’t fancy the idea of clambering back onto a tube carriage straight away.

She chattered away to me while she busied herself getting chunky white cups and saucers and spoons. The cupboard doors don’t slam and the drawers all slow down just before the point of impact so that they close softly. Not only do we like to hide the existence of our fridges but we also like to pretend that wooden objects don’t slam shut.

Lesley asked me why I needed the cabinet.

‘It’s for a play.’

‘Oh! The theatre! My husband would have liked that. He loved the theatre.’ She turns round to face me. ‘He bought that bathroom cabinet when we married, thirty years ago. But he passed away last year. I had the bathroom done last month so am just getting rid of stuff.’

‘I’m sorry to hear about your husband.’ I say in a solemn voice.

‘Oh, that’s alright my love,’ she chirps, ‘He was ill for a very long time. Sugar?’

She approaches the farmyard animal coffee machine which cheerfully vomits thick, brown liquid into the cup which she is holding under its puckered 'mouth'. She then places the cup and saucer in front of me and asks me about the play. I find myself dutifully repeating the blurb on the back of our leaflets.

‘Maybe you could come and see it? See your bathroom cabinet?’ I suggest.

‘No, I won’t. I hate the theatre,’ she tells me abruptly, ‘Sitting in uncomfortable seats for hours at a time while people shout at you? Oh no. It was only my husband, my husband who loved the theatre. And my son too.’

I can’t help but laugh at her open and honest description of the industry in which I have devoted the last ten years of my life to and she laughs aswell.

‘My son might come to see it. He’s about your age. There’s a photo of him there.’ She points to a picture which hangs on the wall behind me. I admire her son who is, admittedly, very handsome. He’s leaning against a low metal railing with his hands in his pockets and grinning at the camera, obviously fond of the photographer. He has Lesley’s big brown eyes.

‘Yes, ask him to come and see it,’ I politely offer.

‘I will do. Although I don’t think you’re his type. He likes them blonde. Blonde and skinny.’

I momentarily struggle to keep the smile on my face, although Lesley doesn’t notice and carries on.

‘He’s left now though of course. Moved in with friends. I asked him if he wanted that bathroom cabinet but he said no. He said it reminded him of being a teenager, of spending hours in the bathroom trying to do something with his hair and looking at his acne.’ She giggles. ‘He was permanently locked in that bathroom. My husband would be banging on the door at all hours of the day.’

I laugh too. ‘Well, if your son likes the theatre, let me know and I can sort him out a ticket.’

‘Yes. I will do.’

Lesley smiles at me. ’But it was really Daniel, my husband, who loved the theatre. He took me to see a play when we had been together for a few months. It was dreadful. Something tragic and romantic in the West End. I felt like it lasted for hours. But in the final scene, the leading man turned round to the actress playing his lover and said ‘We love people for either a reason, a season, or a lifetime’.’

A reason, a season, or a lifetime.

Lesley’s eyes have drifted away from my face and she is staring just over my shoulder.

‘When Daniel took me to my home and we talked about the play, he talked about that line. And then the next day he proposed. Because he said he knew that he loved me for more than a reason or a season.’

She brings her eyes back to meet mine.

‘He said that he knew that he would love me for a lifetime.’

She clears her throat.

‘A few months later we got married and we bought that bathroom cabinet with some vouchers we got given as a wedding gift. It’s been in our bathroom ever since.’

She sniffs loudly and takes a gulp from her cup, obviously slightly embarrassed to have shared so much with a total stranger. I resolutely concentrate on my coffee.

‘Would you like to see the cabinet?’ she trills overly brightly.

I swallow.

‘Yes. Yes please.’

She takes me into the front room where the cabinet is stood in a corner. It’s small and cream with a round oval mirror in the door.

‘I’m glad it’s going to a good home,’ she says enthusiastically, ‘I don’t need the money but I like to see these things go to a good home. It’s fun to meet people and to use E bay and jumble sales and Gumbush.’

I don’t correct her. Instead I give her the money and thank her for the coffee and head back to the Jubilee Line where a train swiftly rushes me a hundred miles an hour away from expensive kitchens and dead, missed husbands.

On the way back, the train passes through the echoing, abandoned British Museum tube station and slows down although it doesn’t halt completely. The few people I share the carriage with are too engrossed in their Ipods and Metros’s and Dan Brown books to notice our ethereal surroundings

I look out of the window at the disused station and I think about a young man who, in the early eighties, pledged to love a girl for an entire lifetime after simply seeing a play. I look down at my shopping trolley and think about how the item contained within has spent thirty years in a family bathroom and how the oval mirror has reflected the face of a baby boy and watched him grow from acne covered teenager to striking young man. And I think about a widow who drinks luxurious coffee and spends rainy Tuesday afternoons playing on her Wii Fit, waiting for strangers to come by and give her money she doesn’t need in return for an object she no longer wants.

An everyday object which has spent a lifetime as part of somebody’s home and which will now spend several weeks being nailed to a set and admired by audience members before being casually discarded into a skip along with other bits of furniture and walls which are only painted on one side.

Eventually, the train speeds up again and we leave the British Museum station. I pull my ‘Heat’ magazine out of my handbag and read about Danni Minogue and Louis Spence for the rest of the journey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you for reading, as always. Any comments or tweets or shares are welcome. You can follow me on Twitter (@agirlinthedark) or ‘Like’ my Facebook page (Girl In The Dark) Plus, the tinyurl for it is http://tinyurl.com/ouj6aj4
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