Welcome
John William Tuohy lives in Washington DC
Carlotta Brianza, Prima Ballerina
The
most sumptuous ballet, almost “The Ballet”: At its debut in St. Petersburg in
1890 (with the Italian Carlotta Brianza on stage in the role of Aurora). The
Sleeping Beauty witnesses the development of an exemplary collaboration between
choreographer (Petipa), composer (Tchaikovsky) and the director of the Imperial
Theatres Vsevolozhsky, who also created the costumes, to reveal to the eyes of
the aristocracy of St. Petersburg the gilded and fabulous grandeur of the court
of the Sun King.
Jackalope Wives. A short story by Ursula Vernon
The moon came up and the sun went
down. The moonbeams went shattering down to the ground and the jackalope wives
took off their skins and danced.
They danced like young deer pawing
the ground, they danced like devils let out of hell for the evening. They swung
their hips and pranced and drank their fill of cactus–fruit wine.
They were shy creatures, the
jackalope wives, though there was nothing shy about the way they danced. You
could go your whole life and see no more of them than the flash of a tail vanishing
around the backside of a boulder. If you were lucky, you might catch a whole
line of them outlined against the sky, on the top of a bluff, the shadow of
horns rising off their brows.
And on the half–moon, when new and
full were balanced across the saguaro’s thorns, they’d come down to the desert
and dance.
The young men used to get together and whisper, saying they were gonna catch them a jackalope wife. They’d lay belly down at the edge of the bluff and look down on the fire and the dancing shapes — and they’d go away aching, for all the good it did them.
For the jackalope wives were shy of
humans. Their lovers were jackrabbits and antelope bucks, not human men. You
couldn’t even get too close or they’d take fright and run away. One minute
you’d see them kicking their heels up and hear them laugh, then the music would
freeze and they’d all look at you with their eyes wide and their ears upswept.
The next second, they’d snatch up
their skins and there’d be nothing left but a dozen skinny she–rabbits running
off in all directions, and a campfire left that wouldn’t burn out ’til morning.
It was uncanny, sure, but they never
did anybody any harm. Grandma Harken, who lived down past the well, said that
the jackalopes were the daughters of the rain and driving them off would bring
on the drought. People said they didn’t believe a word of it, but when you live
in a desert, you don’t take chances.
When the wild music came through
town, a couple of notes skittering on the sand, then people knew the jackalope
wives were out. They kept the dogs tied up and their brash sons occupied. The
town got into the habit of having a dance that night, to keep the boys firmly
fixed on human girls and to drown out the notes of the wild music.
Now, it happened there was a young
man in town who had a touch of magic on him. It had come down to him on his
mother’s side, as happens now and again, and it was worse than useless.
A little magic is worse than none,
for it draws the wrong sort of attention. It gave this young man feverish eyes
and made him sullen. His grandmother used to tell him that it was a miracle he
hadn’t been drowned as a child, and for her he’d laugh, but not for anyone
else.
He was tall and slim and had dark
hair and young women found him fascinating.
This sort of thing happens often
enough, even with boys as mortal as dirt. There’s always one who learned how to
brood early and often, and always girls who think they can heal him.
Eventually the girls learn better.
Either the hurts are petty little things and they get tired of whining or the
hurt’s so deep and wide that they drown in it. The smart ones heave themselves
back to shore and the slower ones wake up married with a husband who lies
around and suffers in their direction. It’s part of a dance as old as the
jackalopes themselves.
But in this town at this time, the
girls hadn’t learned and the boy hadn’t yet worn out his interest. At the
dances, he leaned on the wall with his hands in his pockets and his eyes
glittering. Other young men eyed him with dislike. He would slip away early,
before the dance was ended, and never marked the eyes that followed him and
wished that he would stay.
He himself had one thought and one thought only — to catch a jackalope wife.
They were beautiful creatures, with
their long brown legs and their bodies splashed orange by the firelight. They
had faces like no mortal woman and they moved like quicksilver and they played
music that got down into your bones and thrummed like a sickness.
And there was one — he’d seen her.
She danced farther out from the others and her horns were short and sharp as
sickles. She was the last one to put on her rabbit skin when the sun came up.
Long after the music had stopped, she danced to the rhythm of her own long feet
on the sand.
(And now you will ask me about the
musicians that played for the jackalope wives. Well, if you can find a place
where they’ve been dancing, you might see something like sidewinder tracks in
the dust, and more than that I cannot tell you. The desert chews its secrets
right down to the bone.)
So the young man with the touch of
magic watched the jackalope wife dancing and you know as well as I do what
young men dream about. We will be charitable. She danced a little apart from
her fellows, as he walked a little apart from his.
Perhaps he thought she might
understand him. Perhaps he found her as interesting as the girls found him.
Perhaps we shouldn’t always get what
we think we want.
And the jackalope wife danced, out
past the circle of the music and the firelight, in the light of the fierce desert
stars.
Grandma Harken had settled in for the
evening with a shawl on her shoulders and a cat on her lap when somebody
started hammering on the door.
“Grandma! Grandma! Come quick — open
the door — oh god, Grandma, you have to help me —”
She knew that voice just fine. It was
her own grandson, her daughter Eva’s boy. Pretty and useless and charming when
he set out to be.
She dumped the cat off her lap and
stomped to the door. What trouble had the young fool gotten himself into?
“Sweet Saint Anthony,” she muttered,
“let him not have gotten some fool girl in a family way. That’s just what we
need.”
She flung the door open and there was
Eva’s son and there was a girl and for a moment her worst fears were realized.
Then she saw what was huddled in the
circle of her grandson’s arms, and her worst fears were stomped flat and
replaced by far greater ones.
“Oh Mary,” she said. “Oh, Jesus, Mary
and Joseph. Oh blessed Saint Anthony, you’ve caught a jackalope wife.”
Her first impulse was to slam the
door and lock the sight away.
Her grandson caught the edge of the door and hauled it open. His knuckles were raw and blistered. “Let me in,” he said. He’d been crying and there was dust on his face, stuck to the tracks of tears. “Let me in, let me in, oh god, Grandma, you have to help me, it’s all gone wrong —”
Grandma took two steps back, while he
half–dragged the jackalope into the house. He dropped her down in front of the
hearth and grabbed for his grandmother’s hands. “Grandma —”
She ignored him and dropped to her
knees. The thing across her hearth was hardly human. “What have you done?” she
said. “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing!” he said, recoiling.
“Don’t look at that and tell me
‘Nothing!’ What in the name of our lord did you do to that girl?”
He stared down at his blistered
hands. “Her skin,” he mumbled. “The rabbit skin. You know.”
“I do indeed,” she said grimly. “Oh
yes, I do. What did you do, you damned young fool? Caught up her skin and hid
it from her to keep her changing?”
The jackalope wife stirred on the
hearth and made a sound between a whimper and a sob.
“She was waiting for me!” he said. “She knew I was there! I’d been — we’d — I watched her, and she knew I was out there, and she let me get up close — I thought we could talk —”
Grandma Harken clenched one hand into
a fist and rested her forehead on it.
“I grabbed the skin — I mean — it was
right there — she was watching — I thought she wanted me to have it —”
She turned and looked at him. He sank
down in her chair, all his grace gone.
“You have to burn it,” mumbled her
grandson. He slid down a little further in her chair. “You’re supposed to burn
it. Everybody knows. To keep them changing.”
“Yes,” said Grandma Harken, curling
her lip. “Yes, that’s the way of it, right enough.” She took the jackalope
wife’s shoulders and turned her toward the lamp light.
She was a horror. Her hands were
human enough, but she had a jackrabbit’s feet and a jackrabbit’s eyes. They
were set too wide apart in a human face, with a cleft lip and long rabbit ears.
Her horns were short, sharp spikes on her brow.
The jackalope wife let out another
sob and tried to curl back into a ball. There were burnt patches on her arms
and legs, a long red weal down her face. The fur across her breasts and belly
was singed. She stank of urine and burning hair.
“What did you do?”
“I threw it in the fire,” he said.
“You’re supposed to. But she screamed — she wasn’t supposed to scream — nobody
said they screamed — and I thought she was dying, and I didn’t want to hurt her
— I pulled it back out —”
He looked up at her with his feverish eyes, that useless, beautiful boy, and said “I didn’t want to hurt her. I thought I was supposed to — I gave her the skin back, she put it on, but then she fell down — it wasn’t supposed to work like that!”
Grandma Harken sat back. She exhaled
very slowly. She was calm. She was going to be calm, because otherwise she was
going to pick up the fire poker and club her own flesh and blood over the head
with it.
And even that might not knock some
sense into him. Oh, Eva, Eva, my dear, what a useless son you’ve raised. Who
would have thought he had so much ambition in him, to catch a jackalope wife?
“You goddamn stupid fool,” she said.
Every word slammed like a shutter in the wind. “Oh, you goddamn stupid fool. If
you’re going to catch a jackalope wife, you burn the hide down to ashes and
never mind how she screams.”
“But it sounded like it was hurting
her!” he shot back. “You weren’t there! She screamed like a dying rabbit!”
“Of course it hurts her!” yelled
Grandma. “You think you can have your skin and your freedom burned away in
front of you and not scream? Sweet mother Mary, boy, think about what you’re
doing! Be cruel or be kind, but don’t be both, because now you’ve made a mess
you can’t clean up in a hurry.”
She stood up, breathing hard, and
looked down at the wreck on her hearth. She could see it now, as clear as if
she’d been standing there. The fool boy had been so shocked he’d yanked the
burning skin back out. And the jackalope wife had one thought only and pulled
on the burning hide —
Oh yes, she could see it clear.
Half gone, at least, if she was any
judge. There couldn’t have been more than few scraps of fur left unburnt. He’d
waited through at least one scream — or no, that was unkind.
More likely he’d dithered and looked
for a stick and didn’t want to grab for it with his bare hands. Though by the
look of his hands, he’d done just that in the end.
And the others were long gone by then
and couldn’t stop her. There ought to have been one, at least, smart enough to
know that you didn’t put on a half–burnt rabbit skin.
“Why does she look like that?”
whispered her grandson, huddled into his chair.
“Because she’s trapped betwixt and
between. You did that, with your goddamn pity. You should have let it burn. Or
better yet, left her alone and never gone out in the desert at all.”
“She was beautiful,” he said. As if
it were a reason.
As if it mattered.
As if it had ever mattered.
“Get out,” said Grandma wearily.
“Tell your mother to make up a poultice for your hands. You did right at the
end, bringing her here, even if you made a mess of the rest, from first to
last.”
He scrambled to his feet and ran for
the door.
On the threshold, he paused, and
looked back. “You — you can fix her, right?”
Grandma let out a high bark, like a
bitch–fox, barely a laugh at all. “No. No one can fix this, you stupid boy.
This is broken past mending. All I can do is pick up the pieces.”
He ran. The door slammed shut, and
left her alone with the wreckage of the jackalope wife.
She treated the burns and they
healed. But there was nothing to be done for the shape of the jackalope’s face,
or the too–wide eyes, or the horns shaped like a sickle moon.
At first, Grandma worried that the
townspeople would see her, and lord knew what would happen then. But the
jackalope wife was the color of dust and she still had a wild animal’s
stillness. When somebody called, she lay flat in the garden, down among the
beans, and nobody saw her at all.
The only person she didn’t hide from
was Eva, Grandma’s daughter. There was no chance that she mistook them for each
other — Eva was round and plump and comfortable, the way Grandma’s second husband,
Eva’s father, had been round and plump and comfortable.
Maybe we smell alike, thought
Grandma. It would make sense, I suppose.
Eva’s son didn’t come around at all.
“He thinks you’re mad at him,” said
Eva mildly.
“He thinks correctly,” said Grandma.
She and Eva sat on the porch together, shelling beans, while the jackalope wife limped around the garden. The hairless places weren’t so obvious now, and the faint stripes across her legs might have been dust. If you didn’t look directly at her, she might almost have been human.
“She’s gotten good with the crutch,”
said Eva. “I suppose she can’t walk?”
“Not well,” said Grandma. “Her feet
weren’t made to stand up like that. She can do it, but it’s a terrible strain.”
“And talk?”
“No,” said Grandma shortly. The
jackalope wife had tried, once, and the noises she’d made were so terrible that
it had reduced them both to weeping. She hadn’t tried again. “She understands
well enough, I suppose.”
The jackalope wife sat down, slowly,
in the shadow of the scarlet runner beans. A hummingbird zipped inches from her
head, dabbing its bill into the flowers, and the jackalope’s face turned,
unsmiling, to follow it.
“He’s not a bad boy, you know,” said
Eva, not looking at her mother. “He didn’t mean to do her harm.”
Grandma let out an explosive snort.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! It doesn’t matter what he meant to do. He should have
left well enough alone, and if he couldn’t do that, he should have finished
what he started.” She scowled down at the beans. They were striped red and
white and the pods came apart easily in her gnarled hands. “Better all the way
human than this. Better he’d bashed her head in with a rock than this.”
“Better for her, or better for you?”
asked Eva, who was only a fool about her son and knew her mother well.
Grandma snorted again. The
hummingbird buzzed away. The jackalope wife lay still in the shadows, with only
her thin ribs going up and down.
“You could have finished it, too,”
said Eva softly. “I’ve seen you kill chickens. She’d probably lay her head on
the chopping block if you asked.”
“She probably would,” said Grandma.
She looked away from Eva’s weak, wise eyes. “But I’m a damn fool as well.”
Her daughter smiled. “Maybe it runs
in families.”
Grandma Harken got up before dawn the
next morning and went rummaging around the house.
“Well,” she said. She pulled a dead
mouse out of a mousetrap and took a half–dozen cigarettes down from behind the
clock. She filled three water bottles and strapped them around her waist.
“Well. I suppose we’ve done as much as humans can do, and now it’s up to
somebody else.”
She went out into the garden and
found the jackalope wife asleep under the stairs. “Come on,” she said. “Wake
up.”
The air was cool and gray. The
jackalope wife looked at her with doe–dark eyes and didn’t move, and if she
were a human, Grandma Harken would have itched to slap her.
Pay attention! Get mad! Do something!
But she wasn’t human and rabbits
freeze when they’re scared past running. So Grandma gritted her teeth and
reached down a hand and pulled the jackalope wife up into the pre–dawn dark.
They moved slow, the two of them.
Grandma was old and carrying water for two, and the girl was on a crutch. The
sun came up and the cicadas burnt the air with their wings.
A coyote watched them from up on the
hillside. The jackalope wife looked up at him, recoiled, and Grandma laid a
hand on her arm.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I ain’t got
the patience for coyotes. They’d maybe fix you up but we’d both be stuck in a
tale past telling, and I’m too old for that. Come on.”
They went a little further on, past a
wash and a watering hole. There were palo verde trees spreading thin green
shade over the water. A javelina looked up at them from the edge and stamped
her hooved feet. Her children scraped their tusks together and grunted.
Grandma slid and slithered down the
slope to the far side of the water and refilled the water bottles. “Not them
either,” she said to the jackalope wife. “They’ll talk the legs off a wooden
sheep. We’d both be dead of old age before they’d figured out what time to
start.”
The javelina dropped their heads and
ignored them as they left the wash behind.
The sun was overhead and the sky turned turquoise, a color so hard you could bash your knuckles on it. A raven croaked overhead and another one snickered somewhere off to the east.
The jackalope wife paused, leaning on
her crutch, and looked up at the wings with longing.
“Oh no,” said Grandma. “I’ve got no
patience for riddle games, and in the end they always eat someone’s eyes.
Relax, child. We’re nearly there.”
The last stretch was cruelly hard, up
the side of a bluff. The sand was soft underfoot and miserably hard for a girl
walking with a crutch. Grandma had to half–carry the jackalope wife at the end.
She weighed no more than a child, but children are heavy and it took them both
a long time.
At the top was a high fractured stone
that cast a finger of shadow like the wedge of a sundial. Sand and sky and
shadow and stone. Grandma Harken nodded, content.
“It’ll do,” she said. “It’ll do.” She
laid the jackalope wife down in the shadow and laid her tools out on the stone.
Cigarettes and dead mouse and a scrap of burnt fur from the jackalope’s breast.
“It’ll do.”
Then she sat down in the shadow
herself and arranged her skirts.
She waited.
The sun went overhead and the level
in the water bottle went down. The sun started to sink and the wind hissed and
the jackalope wife was asleep or dead.
The ravens croaked a conversation to
each other, from the branches of a palo verde tree, and whatever one said made
the other one laugh.
“Well,” said a voice behind Grandma’s
right ear, “lookee what we have here.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”
“Don’t see them out here often,” he
said. “Not the right sort of place.” He considered. “Your Saint Anthony, now…
him I think I’ve seen. He understood about deserts.”
Grandma’s lips twisted. “Father of
Rabbits,” she said sourly. “Wasn’t trying to call you up.”
“Oh, I know.” The Father of Rabbits
grinned. “But you know I’ve always had a soft spot for you, Maggie Harken.”
He sat down beside her on his heels.
He looked like an old Mexican man, wearing a button–down shirt without any
buttons. His hair was silver gray as a rabbit’s fur. Grandma wasn’t fooled for
a minute.
“Get lonely down there in your town,
Maggie?” he asked. “Did you come out here for a little wild company?”
Grandma Harken leaned over to the
jackalope wife and smoothed one long ear back from her face. She looked up at
them both with wide, uncomprehending eyes.
“Shit,” said the Father of Rabbits.
“Never seen that before.” He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the air.
“What did you do to her, Maggie?”
“I didn’t do a damn thing, except not
let her die when I should have.”
“There’s those would say that was more than enough.” He exhaled another lungful of smoke.
“She put on a half–burnt skin. Don’t
suppose you can fix her up?” It cost Grandma a lot of pride to say that, and
the Father of Rabbits tipped his chin in acknowledgment.
“Ha! No. If it was loose I could fix
it up, maybe, but I couldn’t get it off her now with a knife.” He took another
drag on the cigarette. “Now I see why you wanted one of the Patterned People.”
Grandma nodded stiffly.
The Father of Rabbits shook his head.
“He might want a life, you know. Piddly little dead mouse might not be enough.”
“Then he can have mine.”
“Ah, Maggie, Maggie…You’d have made a
fine rabbit, once. Too many stones in your belly now.” He shook his head
regretfully. “Besides, it’s not your life he’s owed.”
“It’s my life he’d be getting. My kin
did it, it’s up to me to put it right.” It occurred to her that she should have
left Eva a note, telling her to send the fool boy back East, away from the
desert.
Well. Too late now. Either she’d
raised a fool for a daughter or not, and likely she wouldn’t be around to tell.
“Suppose we’ll find out,” said the
Father of Rabbits, and nodded.
A man came around the edge of the
standing stone. He moved quick then slow and his eyes didn’t blink. He was
naked and his skin was covered in painted diamonds.
Grandma Harken bowed to him, because
the Patterned People can’t hear speech.
He looked at her and the Father of
Rabbits and the jackalope wife. He looked down at the stone in front of him.
The cigarettes he ignored. The mouse
he scooped up in two fingers and dropped into his mouth.
Then he crouched there, for a long
time. He was so still that it made Grandma’s eyes water, and she had to look
away.
“Suppose he does it,” said the Father
of Rabbits. “Suppose he sheds that skin right off her. Then what? You’ve got a
human left over, not a jackalope wife.”
Grandma stared down at her bony
hands. “It’s not so bad, being a human,” she said. “You make do. And it’s got
to be better than that.”
She jerked her chin in the direction
of the jackalope wife.
“Still meddling, Maggie?” said the Father
of Rabbits.
“And what do you call what you’re
doing?”
He grinned.
The Patterned Man stood up and nodded
to the jackalope wife.
She looked at Grandma, who met her
too–wide eyes. “He’ll kill you,” the old woman said. “Or cure you. Or maybe
both. You don’t have to do it. This is the bit where you get a choice. But when
it’s over, you’ll be all the way something, even if it’s just all the way
dead.”
The jackalope wife nodded.
She left the crutch lying on the
stones and stood up. Rabbit legs weren’t meant for it, but she walked three
steps and the Patterned Man opened his arms and caught her.
He bit her on the forearm, where the
thick veins run, and sank his teeth in up to the gums. Grandma cursed.
“Easy now,” said the Father of
Rabbits, putting a hand on her shoulder. “He’s one of the Patterned People, and
they only know the one way.”
The jackalope wife’s eyes rolled back
in her head, and she sagged down onto the stone.
He set her down gently and picked up
one of the cigarettes.
Grandma Harken stepped forward. She
rolled both her sleeves up to the elbow and offered him her wrists.
The Patterned Man stared at her,
unblinking. The ravens laughed to themselves at the bottom of the wash. Then he
dipped his head and bowed to Grandma Harken and a rattlesnake as long as a man
slithered away into the evening.
She let out a breath she didn’t know
she’d been holding. “He didn’t ask for a life.”
The Father of Rabbits grinned. “Ah,
you know. Maybe he wasn’t hungry. Maybe it was enough you made the offer.”
“Maybe I’m too old and stringy,” she
said.
“Could be that, too.”
The jackalope wife was breathing. Her
pulse went fast then slow. Grandma sat down beside her and held her wrist between
her own callused palms.
“How long you going to wait?” asked
the Father of Rabbits.
“As long as it takes,” she snapped
back.
The sun went down while they were
waiting. The coyotes sang up the moon. It was half–full, half–new, halfway
between one thing and the other.
“She doesn’t have to stay human, you
know,” said the Father of Rabbits. He picked up the cigarettes that the Patterned
Man had left behind and offered one to Grandma.
“She doesn’t have a jackalope skin
anymore.”
He grinned. She could just see his
teeth flash white in the dark. “Give her yours.”
“I burned it,” said Grandma Harken,
sitting up ramrod straight. “I found where he hid it after he died and I burned
it myself. Because I had a new husband and a little bitty baby girl and all I
could think about was leaving them both behind and go dance.”
The Father of Rabbits exhaled slowly
in the dark.
“It was easier that way,” she said.
“You get over what you can’t have faster that you get over what you could. And
we shouldn’t always get what we think we want.”
They sat in silence at the top of the
bluff. Between Grandma’s hands, the pulse beat steady and strong.
“I never did like your first husband
much,” said the Father of Rabbits.
“Well,” she said. She lit her
cigarette off his. “He taught me how to swear. And the second one was better.”
The jackalope wife stirred and
stretched. Something flaked off her in long strands, like burnt scraps of
paper, like a snake’s skin shedding away. The wind tugged at them and sent them
spinning off the side of the bluff.
From down in the desert, they heard
the first notes of a sudden wild music.
“It happens I might have a spare skin,”
said the Father of Rabbits. He reached into his pack and pulled out a long gray
roll of rabbit skin. The jackalope wife’s eyes went wide and her body shook
with longing, but it was human longing and a human body shaking.
“Where’d you get that?” asked Grandma
Harken, suspicious.
“Oh, well, you know.” He waved a
hand. “Pulled it out of a fire once — must have been forty years ago now. Took
some doing to fix it up again, but some people owed me favors. Suppose she
might as well have it… Unless you want it?”
He held it out to Grandma Harken.
She took it in her hands and stroked
it. It was as soft as it had been fifty years ago. The small sickle horns were
hard weights in her hands.
“You were a hell of a dancer,” said
the Father of Rabbits.
“Still am,” said Grandma Harken, and
she flung the jackalope skin over the shoulders of the human jackalope wife.
It went on like it had been made for
her, like it was her own. There was a jagged scar down one foreleg where the
rattlesnake had bit her. She leapt up and darted away, circled back once and bumped
Grandma’s hand with her nose — and then she was bounding down the path from the
top of the bluff.
The Father of Rabbits let out a long
sigh. “Still are,” he agreed.
“It’s different when you got a
choice,” said Grandma Harken.
They shared another cigarette under
the standing stone.
Down in the desert, the music played
and the jackalope wives danced. And one scarred jackalope went leaping into the
circle of firelight and danced like a demon, while the moon laid down across
the saguaro’s thorns.
.jpg)
*** OPPORTUNITIES FOR PLAYWRIGHTS ***
The Frank Moffett Mosier Fellowship for Works in Heightened LanguageMonetary award to playwright: $3000 for works with a running time of at least 40 minutes.Submissions must be in a heightened version of the English language in order to provide a meaningful challenge to the actors. This includes, but is not limited to, works using meter, verse, rhyming schemes, pidgins, creoles, and code-switching.***The 2022 Sylvia Sprinkle-Hamlin Rolling World Premiere Award will facilitate five rolling world premieres for the winning play at the following theatres: Hattiloo Theatre in Memphis, NC Black Rep, The Ensemble Theatre in Houston, St. Louis Black Rep, and Westcoast Theatre Troupe in Sarasota. The award was created to assist in Black Theatres working together to discover and nurture the next generation of great African-American playwrights.***For our third season, the Denizens Theater Company will be exploring the theme "Fear the Future", an examination of how people react to and navigate change. This includes:-Personal vs Social changes-Re-entering the world, post-covid-All the ways tech helps or destroys-What it means to be on the "right" or "wrong" side of history-What stays the same as things change.-How change ties into race, identity, politics, relationships, revolutions*** FOR MORE INFORMATION about these and other opportunities see the web site at https://www.nycplaywrights.org ****** UNARMED STAGE COMBAT ***“It’s okay, just slap me. I don’t mind.”Those words strike fear into the heart of every fight director I know.Right now there is a trend that I have been seeing, one which might be called an attempt at "realism" in theatre, or more likely a money-saving attempt by a theater company to cut the "staged" part out of staged combat moments. In other words, when it comes time to slap someone on stage, directors, actors, producers, choreographers, whoever are becoming more and more comfortable with really doing it.I have met very few fight directors who approve of this measure, so my only way of justifying it is to say that theaters are less and less willing to hire a fight director for a show. A notion that I get suspicious about especially at Equity theaters where they are required to do so. Often I find the director is trained, or even "trained" and does it for his or herself. Now I'm not one to doubt the abilities of someone, but as a fight director, I will simply say this: I hope you're the Michael Bennett of staged combat if you're going to play that card.More...https://www.neddonovan.com/blog/the-art-of-the-stage-slap-a-call-to-arms
***Actors are often taught that all one needs to do to safely slap someone in the face is to cup the hand slightly, keep the fingers and wrist very relaxed, and go for the fleshy part of the cheek. It is true that most of the time it causes no injury, which is why many assume that it is safe. But when this contact technique goes wrong, the results are devastating.In a perfect world, the slapping hand will strike at exactly the same spot every single time, but that is simply unrealistic. If the hand is perfectly flat, the hand is also tense, therefore has become rigid. When a hand is relaxed, the palm forms a slightly shallow cup shape. When that cup strikes the cheek, the air inside becomes pressurized and searches for release in the line of least resistance, which makes that satisfying popping sound as it slips by the fleshy skin of the cheek. However, if the hand drifts a mere inch closer to the victim, the ear is now inside the coverage of the hand. The pressurized air is still looking for a means of escape, and it’s found it – right down the ear canal. At the bottom of the canal is the tympanic membrane – the ear drum – which easily bursts. If the membrane doesn’t heal properly [all too common even with immediate medical attention] or if an infection develops [which is highly probable] the actor can expect temporary or permanent, partial or complete, hearing loss in the affected ear. Even one finger tip tapping the ear canal can pop an eardrum.More...https://weaponsofchoice.com/extras/stage-slap/
***
It’s important to remember that few people want to fight. What they want is to win. Acting a fight requires careful investigation of all the beats leading up to the moment violence becomes a necessary tactic. Often the moments before and after a burst of violence are just as if not more important than the violence itself.Good acting is vital to playing a fight. The moment a character shifts from using their words as weapons to using their fists is similar to the transition from text to song in musicals. In both cases, speaking alone is no longer enough to accomplish one’s objective, so a dramatic shift is necessary.Consider the following questions before you embark on the physical elements of a fight.How many times does my character try not fighting?What is the trigger that causes my character to fight?Does my character know how to fight?Has my character ever fought before?How is my character different at the end of the fight? What has been learned? What has changed?More...https://dramatics.org/slaps-punches-and-kicks/
***It has only been six weeks into the semester and I have learned a great deal in my Combat for Actors class thus far. Not only do I know how to throw a fake punch now (having taken karate in the past puts all these new skills into perspective—i.e.: Don't hit your scene partner!), but I have also gained some general rules to follow in life. Most of these are lessons I have already acquired through the years, but these five have particularly made an impact on my everyday life—as well as on my midterm scene as Kate from Taming of the Shrew.Life Lesson #5: Sell, Sell, Sell.The ability of making something look good even when it doesn't look great is a tremendous skill. Even if a punch doesn't look great, if you sell the impact, the action is sold. I hear a lot about plays that are not-so-well-written, but under certain circumstances, they can be transformed into remarkable productions. Being able to sell a scene evokes a kind of confidence unlike any other. Knowing that you've hit the mark, or brought an audience to tears or to their knees with laughter, is like a hit of caffeine or adrenaline into your system. However, it doesn't work in reverse: a wonderful play that isn't well-produced will not have good reception—same with a punch. A great punch that isn't sold is, well… Like my professor says, "A punch without a knap (the sound that sells an attack) is like a day without sunshine."More...https://www.theatermania.com/philadelphia-theater/news/five-life-lessons-ive-learned-from-stage-combat_63140.html
***“In Australia, we are really physical. We’re really open as people in general. We’re enthusiastic, we’re engaged, we’re energetic, and we have a great sense of humour. And, I’ve found there’s much more movement here, many more physical performances as opposed to talking heads. So, we should be really leading in areas like motion capture performance.”But part of the current problem, she suggests, is a lack of appreciation or understanding of what goes into a good, choreographed stage fight.Dr Grant recounts an anecdote that she believes highlights the lack of attention to craft. An actor, who shall remain nameless, went against her advice and insisted that an actress actually slap him in the face, refusing to use stage combat techniques, even though the story didn’t require a slap.To Dr Grant’s mind, this was largely down to ignorance about the craft and how it’s used. As well as a cultural tendency for some actors to want to come across as ‘tough’ – feeling that they don’t need ‘choreographed’ violence. The actress, however, was quite distressed at being asked to slap another actor.“He ended up saying ‘Well, if I can’t do an actual slap to the face, I want to take it out then’. So, I said ‘Great. I think that’s a great idea. Let’s take out that slap’, which didn’t need to be there in the first place.”More..https://pursuit.unimelb.edu.au/articles/pulling-no-punches-the-underrated-art-of-stage-fighting
***Dear directors,If you ever hear yourself say the words “it’s just a slap,” please pause. Reflect. Then google “fight director [your city].”I understand the temptation not to. It’s one slap in a two-hour show. There’s probably someone in the cast who could figure it out. If they put together a good-looking stage slap, where everyone feels safe and in control, great! But if it doesn’t look good, you may be tempted to scrap it — or maybe there seems to be no way to hide a stage slap in the first place.I am writing to tell you that a contact (“real”) slap is not your only recourse. Hand meeting face on stage isn’t a real slap, anyway; it requires more control than a non-contact slap, and more rehearsal, not less. The motion is so close to being natural, it’s usually happening in an emotional moment, and there’s less than an inch of leeway in each direction: you don’t want to hit the ear in the back, the nose in front, the eye above, or the jaw below. If a contact slap is really the best choice, a fight director will take your actors through a series of lead-ups and help them communicate in order to keep them comfortable and safe — yes, both of them: the slapper needs confidence in the process as much as the slappee. It’s also entirely possible that a small adjustment to the orientation or hand placement will make a stage slap work.More...https://notgonnahityou.wordpress.com/2013/04/08/the-just-a-slap-fallacy/***A guide to slapping a character on stage. This video includes demonstrations and proper techniques for safety, knaps, and partner connection so that you can effectively and safely create the illusion of violence on stage.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jefgy6sM2iQ
--You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "NYCPlaywrights" group.To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to nycplaywrights_group+unsubscribe@googlegroups.com.To view this discussion on the web visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/nycplaywrights_group/8f8072a2-145f-4061-93df-a787bf29b9d1n%40googlegroups.com.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)