CascadeMasquerade

Drawing on a rock How long until graffiti becomes heritage?

It was all Harvard could do to retain his character as he looked Everard in the face and told him pacifically: “O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now was heavy upon me--” That much was true. Harvard fancied that MacBeth’s visage, hooded as always, the faceless character of envy and impassioned greed twitched slightly. For certain, there was some kind of insinuation in his voice when he spoke his lines to Harvard: “Stars, hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires--” Everyone onstage was relieved when that scene was over. There was a peculiar tension in the air that hadn’

On opening night, everyone’s nerves returned in full force. The commencement of the Center and its first ever theatrical performance was so hyped and its audience consisted of the social and political elite. Tensions ran very high: Sarah Ruben shut herself in her dressing room to quietly compose her emotions, the actor playing Banquo was thoroughly sick in the men’s room, and Mike Pole went around smiling and clapping people on the back, advising them to break their legs. The only people who did not seem affected by the turbulent atmosphere were Everard Esnidore and Harvard Hoover. The latter sat in his dressing room before the m

The date of the first tech rehearsal finally arrived. The New England Center for the Performing Arts was in an exuberant, slightly hysterical mood as the lighting designer ran through his cues, and the director re-read the prompt book for the hundredth time. Backstage was little more than a barely restrained riot as high strung actors gathered in packs and suddenly became hyper-critical of every gesture and word. It was home to Harvard Hoover. He’d always liked the adrenaline rush of anticipation as a production finally started to come together. It was the point in time when all the horsing around ceased, and people began to take the t

For the next couple of weeks, Harvard backed off. He concentrated on his part, tolerated Mike Pole’s obnoxious enthusiasm, and mentioned nothing about Everard Esnidore to anyone. With the tech rehearsals quickly approaching, Harvard didn’t have time to ruminate over him anyway. He knew when he was outmatched, but he was far from discouraged by it. Everywhere he went, he heard stories of Everard Esnidore, how lucky the Center was to have him, how brilliant his performance was certain to be. And the longer it went on, the more Harvard felt himself being pushed into the background, Everard’s shadow. He put his best face forwa

The next few days, when Harvard wasn’t rehearsing or stealing backstage with the other actors, eager to see the set slowly materialize, he spent in hours of careful, grueling research. Sitting in front of a computer at the library (he didn’t make enough to purchase one for his own use) Harvard Hoover trawled through databases and web sites, looking for Everard Esnidore, the man so revered that he had clinched the role of MacBeth and refused to show his face. He had been every bit as irritating as Harvard had assumed he would be, and had quickly earned the respect of all the cast members. Yet, through every rehearsal, he had refu

That put paid to that conversation, and for the remainder of the time before rehearsal, the three of them whiled away the hours. Mike Pole went over some of the lines he thought were bound to give him trouble while Sarah and Harvard alternately corrected and prompted him. They discussed their favorite plays, comparing this actor to that one, swapping funny stories about their own work; how part of a set broke during Mike Pole’s performance as Mr. Linden in A Raisin in the Sun, and the way he had improvised to save the show: “Those people never laughed so hard in their lives! Even onstage, nobody could keep a straight face!”

The play had been chosen, the cast assigned and now the real work could begin. The scene shop suddenly exploded into a frenzy of activity as blue prints were decided upon and construction could commence. For the first several weeks, there was nothing but the frantic sounds of saws cutting wood, drills screeching rebel screws into place, the BAM! BAM! of the staple gun as it descended upon the luan and plywood, opening fire in systematic, execution style. The air tasted of wood and sawdust was everywhere. Overhead, the catwalks were crowded with electricians stringing lights, connecting them to outlets, fitting gels, focusing beams. Lengths of

He froze in horror as he heard that fateful word, that legend of an ill-starred personage. Ill-starred because he was not the focus of the play, ill-starred because Harvard Hoover was destined to play him, and the one thing Harvard Hoover was most certain of was that he should not be confined to the role of under-developed, un-enlightened, born with a silver spoon in his mouth Duncan, King of Scotland. It was an insult. “Who,” he hissed to himself, “dared to take the part of MacBeth away from me?” “I beg your pardon?” Harvard started. He had been so shocked that he had completely forgotten he was still on

In the founding years of the twenty-first century, the New England Center for the Performing Arts was opened. It was a momentous occasion, symbolizing the underlying spirit of the theatre in all its long history, and the mere fact that it had been built in the United States was a testament to the fact that even if the Americans did not appreciate culture, they at least understood the importance of pretending to do so. This new building, which boasted an enormous stage along with the best and newest technological equipment and the finest facilities, was intended from the first to be a shrine to the most elite that theatre had to offer. It ooze