Old-school actors at it again

Reading from their scripts, two actors transformed three metal chairs centered in an otherwise bare stage into the small town depicted in Lanford Wilson’s play Book of Days.

It was the second night of auditions.

Miles Miniaci, who loosely resembled a younger and better-looking Woody Allen in hip black glasses, read for the part of a New York director doing community theatre in a town dominated by a cheese factory. He draped his arm across a chair-back and listened to an oddly endearing monologue about cheddar.

The real director of the play, Eric Sydnor, looked pleased until the scene was suddenly upstaged by a gentle mewing. A child—there isn’t one in the script—stood just on the edge of the stage, attempting to catch the attention of his father, Miniaci. He already had everyone else’s.

“Honey,” Miniaci whispered, gently waving the child off while trying to stay in character. But the child broke all manner of theatrical protocol and shuffled across the stage to the empty chair next to his dad’s. He sat down with his mouth open in an expression of surprise before turning his attention to the last lines about cheese.

Heather Robinson, a tall blond ingénue type, had to scuttle on in her clacking flip-flops, lift the boy under the arms and whisk him offstage.

The presence of a toddler already used to hogging the limelight proved once and for all that some things had definitely changed since the last time these actors had performed in the Playwright’s Theatre at California State University, Sacramento (CSUS).

In memoriam
The idea of an all-alumni production was the brainchild of the Theatre and Dance Chapter of the CSUS Alumni Association, which has as its mission statement the goal of enriching the relationship between the departments and the alumni they’d previously nurtured.

The chapter had entered into a particularly nostalgic period with the deaths of two of the theatre department’s most beloved professors emeritus—Don Fibiger, who died in the spring, and Dr. Gerard “Doc” Larson, who died in 1999.

Larson’s wife, Georgia, is a member of the Theatre Alumni Chapter. She inspired chapter President Scott Adams, who had trained under Fibiger and Larson in the late ’80s along with Sydnor, to launch the first annual alumni-only production.

A nostalgic person by nature, Adams pined for performers who shared his educational background, his experiences in the department, his memories and his work ethic.

Asked why alumni might be willing to step up and give their all to this show, Adams thought about it overnight and came back with an answer.

“Ego,” he said.

Alumni would want to show off what they’d learned in the real world, Adams reasoned, as mature actors with graduate degrees, real-life experiences and great roles under their belts.

He suspected that based on the playwright’s Pulitzer Prize-winning status and Adams’ e-mail notices, print ads and mailings, as many as 20 or 30 actors would show up to read for the 12 roles.

But even that modest number was too ambitious. On the first night, only nine actors showed, and one of them, a non-alumni who had never acted before, had either missed or ignored the fact that cast members were supposed to have completed at least 12 units at CSUS.

Aging theatrically
“Good thing I brought my little hankie,” Sydnor sang out, wiping his brow throughout the night. He was still adjusting to Sacramento after living in Los Angeles. It gave him countless opportunities to complain both about the heat and about the fattening foods he was forced to subsist on.

“My spare tire is inflating,” he said with mock disgust, looking down at his flat tummy.

Some of the other alumni really had put on weight. Their applications read, “software analyst” or “auditor” or “outreach counselor.” Under “weight,” they’d printed answers like, “Are you kidding??”

For the first night of auditions, the actors waited in a classroom until they were sent over one at a time. The actor would enter the Playwright’s stage, which is surrounded by seats on three sides, and Sydnor, ever outgoing, would stand and introduce himself warmly, review the actor’s performance history and then listen to his or her reading. With so few performers to choose from, he needed them all.

“I’m going to call you back right now,” he’d say brightly. “Can I do that?”

Though Adams had daydreamed about working with old friends, he and Sydnor only recognized one of the actors from their own years in the department.

“No headshot?” Sydnor chastised, as he looked over the actor’s resume. “Didn’t you learn anything at Sac State?”

Erika Rawlins, who was being wooed for the difficult position of stage manager, popped her head in.

“That’s the last one,” she mouthed dramatically. She had been an actress herself along with Adams and Sydnor, and still used the exaggerated leers and snarls she’d perfected all those years ago. They would help her control an unruly cast.

But even if she took the position—she hadn’t worked in a theatre in a long time—there was still the problem of finding actresses and technical people. They would need light designers, costumers, sound technicians, props.

“We need younger women,” Adams said anxiously. Even when he was enjoying himself, he looked slightly concerned.

“You’re an alumnus,” said Sydnor, “how do you look in a dress?”

Sydnor wasn’t concerned. Even when he hummed absentmindedly, he did so with a cheeky vibrato.

But on the second night of auditions, the seven actors who were called back, plus the one non-alumni, were joined by only two others, Miniaci and Robinson, for a total of 10. Even if, by some miracle, each actor were perfect for one of the roles, they would still be short two actresses.

Apparently, the appeal of doing an alumni show did not appeal to many alumni.

Adams thought those who’d gone on to better things would want to come home and show off. But only a few did. Gregg Koski and Ellen Vincent were good examples.

The pair had met at CSUS in the early ’80s, had trained under Fibiger and Larson, but had lost contact for almost 20 years before reconnecting in Sacramento. They sat close together offstage and cuddled.

The current students, they said, were not producing the quality work the pair remembered from their own youth. Watching some mature performers might shame them into learning to project, to move fluidly onstage, to physically commit to their actions.

Koski demonstrated during auditions by jumping up and down like Yosemite Sam in a rage while reading the line, “Nobody is offended by George Bernard Shaw. It’s George Bernard Fucking Shaw!” He was obviously physically committed.

Was the swear word in the script, someone wanted to know. Sydnor said they might have to add it.

In between readings, Sydnor and Rawlins conferred quietly, communicating by a single written word or two on a notepad. Rawlins would then pair up another couple of actors, lavish them with endearments, and send them out to practice reading together.

Referring to themselves as the Birthday Twins and joking that having the same birthday meant they shared just one brain between them, Sydnor and Rawlins began to develop the close shorthand communication style that would help them through rehearsals.

It was becoming obvious that not only would Rawlins stage-manage, it would be hard to keep her from co-directing as well. As Adams had expected, she at least was excited about being part of a family of theatre people again. Already, plans for late-night drinking binges were taking shape.

At the end of the evening, Sydnor brought everyone back onstage and lined them up shortest to tallest. He and Rawlins and Adams cocked their heads and smiled at the line-up.

Like most directors, Sydnor relied heavily on looks. Sexy characters were easier to believe if they looked like the blond Robinson. New York directors were easier to believe if they looked like Miniaci in a pair of hip glasses.

One after another, the actors dropped into their slots, and with promises to call in the morning, Sydnor sent them all home.

Two female leads remained unfilled. It was a letdown after all that talk about ego and showing off. Adams stated resolutely that if the show weren’t ready in time, he’d cancel it rather than let it go up looking bad.

A couple of nights later, the cast sat around together at tables and read the play through together for the first time.

The actress Martha Kight came in cold. None of the actors had heard her read for the part, but as she did, Adams took a look around at the cast, sans one actress, and heard for the first time how their vocal habits began to solidify into that almost indefinable something that all good actors created out of thin air: character.

Actors could be compulsively hard working or they could be woefully lazy. Training made all the difference, and much of the cast had trained with Fibiger and Larsen. They needed to work hard, to act with every part of their bodies, to be risky and committed onstage.

If they carried those lessons forward, they really would pay a tribute to the department, and the two professors who trained them.