During the rehearsal, it was obvious that the acting talent varied greatly. The main roles were filled by good actors and actresses. As well as directing, Graham was playing Macbeth, with his Asian girlfriend as Lady Macbeth. No one was bothered by this historically unlikely miscegenetic match. King Duncan was a retired dealer from a gambling casino. “The blood-boltered Banquo” was afraid of gore, while Macduff was gay. It takes all kinds to make a cast.
The secondary parts were taken by competent people, while the minor characters were barely adequate. My role, of course, was very minor. I was glad there was no doubling or tripling of parts as there had been in Shakespeare’s time.
Being in only one scene, I had plenty of opportunity to talk to the people offstage and I soon discovered that the cast was not a team; rather, they were like a football squad on which everyone wanted to be the quarterback. The Nurse wanted to be Lady Macduff, Lady Macduff wanted to be Lady Macbeth …and I wanted to be relegated to the audience. This left me with a surfeit of suspects.
Much of this information I learned from the young man in charge of sets and props, a likable fellow named Rick. Unfortunately, he was a bit of a klutz — sets he built tended to collapse — so that he had earned the nickname Rickety Rick. Once, while Banquo was being murdered, he confessed to me that his last name was Little.
“Related to Orville?”
“My uncle. People say he formed this Theatre just to provide me with a job, but it’s not true. I’m told I wanted to act from the time I learned to walk and talk. I can’t remember. But Uncle Orville wanted me to start at the bottom and work my way up, learn about every aspect of live theatre.”
“Good for you.”
Eventually we reached the stage (please forgive the pun) where we were rehearsing without our scripts, even me. Accidents seemed to have stopped since I joined the group. Finally, too soon, opening night came.
“Nervous?” asked Rick, sympathetically.
“Terrified,” I admitted.
“Maybe this would help.” He offered me a flask. I seldom drink and I have no head for alcohol, but I was shaking with fear, so I took a healthy swig, then another. Rick must have had more than one flask because I noticed other cast members downing swallows of liquid courage. At least I think they did — I was feeling dizzy.
Someone must have moved an artificial bush slightly because as the Three Witches exited at the end of the first scene, one witch’s dress caught on it and she ran offstage, embarrassed, wearing only a bra and panties. There was loud male applause and whistling. In later scenes, she wore an anachronistic pantsuit.
When Lady Macbeth returned with the daggers after the murder, they were smeared with blood, but it was yellow, not red.
Then came my big scene. The boards rocked under me as I staggered onto the stage, trying not to slur my words. “Knock, knock, knock …” Miraculously I remembered my lines.
