BY: KELLINA MOORE ’18
Olivia Bagg ’19, Shea Leavis ’17, and Lindsay Nuckel ’17. Photo: Paris Baillie ’17
Peter Handke’s KASPAR, directed by Aaron Ardisson ’16, opens tonight in the JKB Blackbox. We sent staff writer Kellina Moore to one of the show’s final tech rehearsals to observe the cast and crew’s creative process. The following are her observations, presented in chronological order:
2:32 – I walk into the Blackbox and am met with complete silence and a couple of stares. I have broken into the sacred world of rehearsal, and most don’t know why. It’s 3 hours into a ten-hour tech rehearsal and the run is in full swing.
2:33 – An actor is contorted around a broom, limbs at every angle, head down. The stage is in shambles with overturned chairs in every corner of the room.
2:34 – An intense lighting discussion is disrupted by a high-pitched tone over the speakers. There is a group turn to Gabe, the sound designer. Gabe: “Sorry…” Laughter erupts.
2:36 – Aaron, the director: “Whenever you’re ready.” The tone shifts abruptly from that of workers joking around to that of a torturer and the tortured. Line: “I want to be a person like somebody else was once.”
2:37 – An actor, during a hold: “Maybe this is just like a really trippy exercise video.” Two actors semi-hidden upstage are stretching, dancing, contorting.
2:39 – I find myself drawn in by Handke’s ominous and entrancing words. Suddenly: “Hold.” While a cue is being fixed, someone starts singing Rihanna.
2:52 – My note taking is disturbed by the sound of a metal folding chair being dragged slowly across concrete.
3:00 – A teapot ascends and descends from the ceiling around 10 times. They are attempting to create a perfect metallic “clang” as it hits the stage.
3:06 – Line: “You don’t know what the word ‘hurt’ means”
3:11 – It could just be my deep-seated fear of masks talking, but this show seems kind of horrifying.
3:21 – I’m not sure if it’s the steadily building bass or the bombardment of words, but something about this show feels heavy—I can feel it weighing on my shoulders.
3:46 – In the midst of an actor fighting the black metal door of a closet, Aaron runs and places a folded up piece of paper into her hoodie pocket.
3:56 – An actor I didn’t know was in the closet emerges, scaring me half to death. During every hold there is at least one actor dancing in a corner.
4:02 – Aaron emerges with a wooden board which somewhat resembles a large nail file. He grates it against various surfaces of his outfit: first shirt, then pants, then shoes.
4:05 – Apparently its purpose is in fact to act as a large nail file. That should be interesting.
4:13 – I KEEP FORGETING THAT THERE’S SOMEONE IN THE CLOSET.
4:14 – I look up from taking notes to find that Aaron is feet in the air—he has ascended the scaffolding to retie a rope.
4:16 – Two other people have ascended the scaffolding now. I find myself suffering from secondhand fear of heights.
4:26 – Five hours into rehearsal. Everyone is sick. A symphony of coughs and sneezes fill the room. There is less dancing than earlier.
4:32 – In the darkness, actors navigate their way around the dystopian set.
4:33 – Aaron: “Quick, everyone put on blindfolds and find their places!”
4:34 – An actor emerges with a large plastic tub of animal crackers; a debate about the glowy-ness of glow tape ensues.
4:39 – Gabe is playing “Chocolate Rain” over the speakers.
4:41 – More snacks emerge! It seems like “Snickers” shouldn’t be the only source of nutrients for a human, but I’m also fairly certain that actors can run on pure sugar and willpower for at least a week.
4:45 – Line “What you can’t deal with, you can play with.”
4:53 – Lights go, lights go, lights go, stop back, lights go, lights go, lights go…
5:00 – During a blackout, the room is filled with the sound of various actors stubbing toes and running into poles. An actor kicks over an end table while doing a handstand on the scaffolding.
5:02 – It’s all completely insane, but I’m not complaining.
***
KASPAR runs through May 1st in the JKB Blackbox, with performances at 8pm. For ticketing information, click HERE.
Kellina Moore ’18 is a staff writer for the Living Newsletter.