Back in the 1980s, while I was working as a reporter and photographer, the Southampton Press regularly published a column entitled The Press Box. It contained the musings and ramblings of various staff members. This is one of my contributions.
Pools of pale blue light barely illuminate the inky blackness. Shadowy figures move around in the gloom, bumping into chairs, props, and each other. Some are mumbling their lines, others silently smoking, the glow of their cigarettes looking like beacons in the distance.
It is opening night and the tension backstage at the Bridgehampton Community House is almost a physical presence. The principal characters pace restlessly, holding conversations with invisible counterparts. Upstairs in the dressing room, someone tells a joke and other actors putting on makeup or adjusting their costume laugh nervously.
“QUIET,” the stage manager snaps, her whisper like a shout in the darkness. “The house is in.” This is theaterese for the audience is entering and finding their seats. A growing murmur from beyond the heavy dark curtain just increases the tension backstage.
The play is The Caine Mutiny Court-Marshal and it has a cast of about 20 men. Standing in bunches in the dressing room in our uniform costumes, we look like a convention of airline pilots with nothing to do. Backstage in the hushed, blue gloom, we’re all as nervous as cats in a rocking chair factory.
“Two minutes to curtain,” the stage manager shouts her whisper. “Places everybody.”
We’ve all banged the walking stick against the wall three times (an old Greek theatre custom to bring good luck), we’ve rehearsed until we know our parts in our sleep,; now there is nothing to do but wait. The silence is deafening and almost worse than the murmuring, smoking, bumping of moments before.
I’m lucky. My part is that of one of the jurors. This means that for perhaps an hour and a half I sit at a table on stage and watch the other actors act. I sometimes look surprised, amused, or angry at the goings on on stage, and I make an occasional note. But I don’t have to worry about goofing a line this time…because I don’t have any.
It’s a unique and fascinating situation. I’ve seen the show in rehearsal and five public performances, and the show hasn’t been the same twice. I can tell if one of the actors is sick or feeling down. I watch as another flubs a line and covers very expertly. One actor interchanges a few lines and I watch another mentally fighting off the mixup in cues for the correct response.
“Ready…bring the house lights down.” the stage manager whispers into her headset. “To,” she tells the actors.
Lieutenants Greenwald and Maryk are the first on stage and, as they set the scene, we in the wings start moving nervously, getting ready for our entrance. Then our cue comes and the jury troupes onto the stage. Coming out of the darkness backstage onto the brightly lit stage is always a shock. I look around at the other characters to cover my blinking, and head for my seat at the table.
I’m now regretting that huge hamburger I had for dinner. My uniform jacket is already one size too small and after a big dinner I can hardly breathe. Another juror passes me a note telling me that my fly is open. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to check but I know I can’t. Besides, I checked before coming onstage…didn’t I?
The audience is out there. I can hear them stirring and breathing, but I can’t see anything through the bright haze of the lights except the knees and laps of the people in the first row. One set of knees is especially well turned, I notice, and my eyes keep straying back to them. A large, hairy hand creeps over and touches the knee. It doesn’t resist and my attention is attracted back to the action on stage.
I’m reacting to the testimony given by the characters now almost out of habit, and I wonder if maybe the audience can tell how borderline bored I am. Then an actor introduces a new bit of business and my boredom evaporates. I feel as if I am really witnessing a court-martial and weighing the facts. Do I send this guy to the gallows? Is this witness stretching the truth?
Suddenly it’s time to go. The judge raps his bell, proclaims a recess, and the jury troupes out, off the brightly lit stage and into the never-never land backstage. My moment of glory is over until tomorrow night. Did any Hollywood directors see my performance? Maybe next time they’ll give me a line.