The Awesomeness That is KidsPlay

We're doing a collection of modernized fables we call "Aesop 2.0".  I picked this script after we read some of them in the Greenfield-Central Theatre Arts class.  I thought they sounded cute.  And although 'cute' is an adjective I never want attached to a KidsPlay production, I thought it would be a fun and easy show to do while I worked on the CrazyLake show.  Thought the humor fit the kids.  Thought, since there were seven fables, that more kids would get to have larger parts, therefore, more 'lead roles'.   All of this has turned out to be true, but for some reason, I've been a little dissatisfied with the overall results.  Maybe I'm too much of a perfectionist.  Maybe I'm not taking into account that I have an unusually young cast.  Of course, some of the fables are better than others.  Of course, there are moments of brilliance in all of them.  But a friend delicately pointed out to me that KidsPlay is becoming something other than what it started out to be--that we seem to be doing an awful lot of fairy-tale spoof stuff lately, shows with juvenile themes--and we're getting away from our roots of scripts that showcase the kids' acting, not just their cute kid-ness.  He's right.  

But in the meantime, we have this show, which is cute, but possibly not our best production ever, and possibly, with the lack of substantial whole-show parts--not the best one on which to send out my wonderful 8th graders.  Still, there's some amazingly strong performances in it.  And I see growth.  We got rave reviews from our matinee audience of first and second graders yesterday morning...and this is where my doubts are put to shame, when I begin to see how awesome the show--and the kids that are in it--really is.


There are several places in the seven fables that call for audience interaction.  Audience interaction is a wild card.  A cross-your-fingers moment.  A major issue is not being able to see the audience.  The lights are so bright that when the kids are trying to pick out individuals to respond, they can't see them.  Another issue is that you never know if the audience is going to respond or if they will leave you hanging and awkward on the stage.  Thirdly, if you do get a responsive audience, getting them back into 'audience mode' can sometimes be a challenge.  But I'm here to say that my actors--my kid actors in the 3rd-8th grade--are pros with ice water in their veins.  

• Ariel--encouraging the audience to say the dog's name that she didn't like to say ("Scab") by pulling her ear, and then pulling from them the moral of the story.  The primary-aged kids began yelling stuff out all as one.  It sounded like noise to me, but somehow, her sharp ears picked out something she could grab onto to finish the show.  "That's right!" she said, "be happy with what you have or you may end up with nothing!"  She didn't miss a beat.  Kept the show going.  Kept her cool.  Her composure.  And total control.  She was completely in charge and completely as ease.  No sweat.  Perfect.  And amazing.
• Rebekah--charged with pulling the audience up out of their seats to do jumping jacks with her.  When no one moved after her first entreaty during the Tuesday night Preview, she put her hands on her hips and said, "I DON'T joke."  Boy, you can bet they jumped to their feet in a BIG hurry after that.  Queen of the Calisthenics and Queen of the Stage.
• Aubree--the cheerleader who excitedly asks the crowd, not just one, but TWO questions:  "What's your favorite 'aminal'?" followed by "What would YOU spend that much money on?"  225 first and second graders responded; then changed their minds and yelled out a different answer, and then changed their minds again.  She struck her 'no nonsense' pose and they quieted right down--before she replied, with great boredom, "That's nice.  *I* like chickens..."

And then there were the inevitable live theatre occurrences to cover.   

• The pacifier attached to the bone--that makes it easier for Reuben, the dog, to more easily carry it in his mouth--came off and he had to make his last entrance without the bone he was to throw in the pond.  He came out slowly, and angled himself in such as way that the audience didn't really notice that he dropped nothing into the pond.  Quick thinking and nerves of steel.
• Colin's cool fox hat will just not stay on, now that we've added ears.  And after the third time it fell off, he kicked it--in a straight line to a space between the flats.  Good kick.  Out of sight and out of mind of the audience.  Problem solved.  

Such quick thinking.  Such calm.  Such improvisation.  And the chatter on the headsets was admiring and approving as we patted our collective selves on the back that we're part of the program that has THESE children, part of the program that shaped them into young stage veterans, part of the program where these kids make four months of planning, training and details look like a cakewalk, a romp in the park, like dancing in the sun.
 Such awesome kids.  And I'm chagrined.  They take my doubts, my concerns, my faltering opinion on the show--and they SHOW me that I should not be comparing it to previous productions, to previous actors--but to where THEY were when we started this together way back in January.  They show ME that their energy and enthusiasm--for even a walk on-part, a spot in the dance group, the chance to run sound--is why they're here.  They make me smile.  They make me proud.  They make me believe.  The theatre is where it's at and that, from top to bottom, KidsPlay rocks. 

The Marvels of "Grease"

So, the DramaTeens finished up the 2010-2011 theatre season at the high school with "Grease", a play of dubious message--summed up by one as "moral pestilence", and by another as "sex, alcohol, vandalism are all okay if you just stay in school"--but a classic and very popular play with much fun music and dance.

A week long party to which I attended only in wishful spirit, but just try and keep me away from the performances--where I saw many wonderful and amazing things.  Here is what I saw:

1)   I saw a young woman who made her theatrical debut by tripping off the stage prance confidently around in 5" (or was it 6") heels with never a misstep.  I
2)  I saw a young man who missed his chance behind a bouquet of flowers, plant one on her in the front seat of an engine-less car before God and everybody.
3)  I saw a boy who came to theatre way too late, create a character from words on page into flesh and blood and p-e-r-s-o-n-a-l-i-t-y.
4)  I saw a girl who once did a commercial for Mother Claus's Mints practically steal the show with her hilarious antics and who was obviously having more fun with her small part than should humanly be allowed.
5)  I saw a guy who'd spent his entire theatre career lurking backstage, suddenly find the limelight in the final theatrical production of his high school career.
6)  I saw the biggest kid on stage run full-throttle through the auditorium, and you better believe I stayed out of his way!
7)  I saw an emotional girl, who long ago found a home in the theatre, pour it ALL out in a song that left us breathless--again--with her ability to totally immerse herself into a role.
8)  I saw a fabulous girl with pink hair, and a boy with broken glasses demonstrate their versatility of character. 
9)  I saw a boy with no lines who was, indeed, the best dancer.
10)  I saw a boy walk on in the dark, already in character, already mentally preparing to flip off the front of a car.

I saw much more than these few mentions, but mostly I saw an extraordinary group of kids--who must have been exhausted and stressed beyond belief--band together to put on a production that betrayed nothing of the nail-biting down-to-the-wire efforts of the preceding week.  On that stage, there was not one iota of anything less than the joy of youth, their boundless energy, and the desire to entertain.  They made it look fun, easy, and effortless.  Oh, ha-ha.  But THAT, devoted readers, is the theatre.

Love Letter to Shazam

First, can I tell you that I think you’re one of the bravest people I know.  You amaze me.  In fact, all of you kids on the stage amaze me.  Do you know that you have WAY more acting experience than I have?  I did just one show in high school, two shows in college, two in Indianapolis a long time ago, “Fiddler”, and then “Steel Magnolias” with your dad, and that’s it.  Think of all the shows YOU’VE been in.  I get so nervous before a show.  Everyone makes fun of me.  And so I admire your courage to go on stage again and again.  You have more courage in your little finger than I have in my whole body.  When I think of you, I think of nerves of steel.  I remember what you did in “Peter Pan”, and I remember one rehearsal when kids were dropping lines left and right and you filled in and fix every mistake.  And you are brave to stand in front of me twice a week and listen to me tell you everything you’re doing wrong.  Very brave. 

As I’m writing this, I’m thinking to myself, “Why do I always give lots of bad notes and very few good ones?”  And then I think of you, Aubree-the-actress, and I think:  because it would take way too long to tell you everything that is wonderful about your performance.  We’d be there all night.  It’s easier—and shorter—to just tell you the handful of things that need fixing than it is to list the countless wonderful things about you.

You are wonderful in so many ways—wonderful because I can hear you on stage, wonderful because you’re enthusiastic about acting, wonderful because you obviously love being there, wonderful that you’re not afraid of me, and wonderful because you take theatre so seriously, and you are directable.  That makes you wonderful, too.  Do you know what that means?  It’s a good thing.  It means that I can tell you what I need you to do, and you can fix it.  There are some kids in theatre that, no matter how many times I tell them, show them, and tell them again, they can’t make the change.  They’re not aware enough of themselves, their bodies, their voices to know what to do to change it.  You, my dear, are VERY directable.  And not afraid to try the things I want you to do, no matter how silly.  Brave and talented.

And now we come to what you need to do to fix “The Country Maid”.  You already know what it is, so I won’t say it again.  Tonight in rehearsal, I have a suggestion for you that I’ll save until I see you.  Until then, keep your chin up, my little KidsPlay star.  I adore you, and I’m sorry that I pushed you to the point of crying at rehearsal. I felt very sad when I realized that.  It’s my job to push you, but sometimes I go a little overboard, and I apologize for that.

Onward and upward.  We have many shows behind us and many more ahead, but for now, let’s make this one (say it with me) the Best. Show. Ever.  ;-)

The Long Day

It is what it is--the long day.  There are many, many tasks to accomplish:  dismantling the set in the Dungeon, packing it and EVERYTHING else we might possibly need (costumes, props, make-up, shoes, hats, concessions, headsets, backstage box, extension cords, power tools, paint, etc,) into the KidsPlay trailer (thank goodness we have it), moving it the theatre, unpacking, sorting, reassembling the set, dressing up the lobby, costumes in the dressing room, concessions under the table, make-up station, sound checks, under the lights for the first time.  It's a day I anticipate--a huge milestone in the life of the production--and a day that I dread, dread the pressure of it--dread being confronted, however innocently--with things I hadn't thought of, or worse--haven't yet had time to accomplish.  I dread technical difficulties which set us back an hour or two, and dread the reproachful look of parents who have long since gotten over the novelty of the demands of theatre.  Their mouths smile but their eyes say, "And HOW long did you say this would take?"  "WHEN can I take my child home?" And, "Seriously, you want to run it AGAIN?"  It's a stressful day, a day when the worst has happened and the best has happened.  Ask me.  I'll tell you.

It's always a blessing when it goes smoothly.  Set fits in nicely.  A limited number of times back to the Dungeon for what we forgot.  Parents smiling and laughing.  No ghosts in the machines.  People show up when they're expected and everything stays on schedule.

So, you're asking.  What's the point of this entry?  What went wrong?  Right?  What anecdote do you have for us?  Here it is.

Water.  There was no water at the theatre on that Sunday afternoon, on that Long Day.  They were working on the water lines in the street, confident that on a Sunday, businesses would be closed and not be too inconvenienced by no water.  The streets were empty, the shops wre closed, except for the hustle and bustle of the Little Theatre That Could and the 42 children in the cast....  42 children who needed to use the restroom....repeatedly, constantly.

And I thank god for my stage parents:  the one whose child is long gone from KidsPlay, but pulls our trailer and helps with our set; the one who engineered the decoration and design of our fabulous award-winning (well...it SHOULD be award-winning) lobby; the ones who manage the costumes and 'wrangle' the children; the ones who are involved for the first time and get totally caught up in the KidsPlay magic; and the one who walked those children over to Little Italy's Pizza and back EVERY time someone needed to go to the restroom.  How many times do you think 42 children NEED to go to the restroom between the hours of 9 a.m. and 6 p.m.?  Hmmm?  Have you done the math on that?  I hate to think.

Was I made aware of this?  Really, not until late in the day.  Because the Little Theatre That Could is made up of Parents Who Can...and Do.  Why bother Chris with it?  She's worrying about other things--we'll handle restroom duty.  In fact, we'll handle everything.  Don't you worry.  Sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labor.  We've got this one. 

An amazing group I'm blessed with.  Truly.

Shelby's Face

Our original dance teacher was preoccupied.  She was in "The Producers".  She was going to Italy.  She was thinking about starting a family.  In short, she was busy.

Another dance teacher we tried, as it turned out, had other obligations also.

So I went to rehearsal that night prepared to tell the dancers that there would be no dance.  No teacher.  No pre-show entertainment.

But God watches out for the Little Theatre Group That Could.  Although I didn't know it yet, there was a reason that I didn't just call everyone and cancel rehearsal.  If I've learned one thing in theatre (and theatre has taught me everything I need to know), it's to wait.  Wait and see.  Wait to see what happens, wait and problems will solve themselves.  Wait and a miracle may walk through that door.   At five minutes until six, in walked Shelby.

A freshman in high school.  Barely a year older than some she would be leading.  I had my doubts.  What did she know about leadership, about working with kids?  About KidsPlay, for that matter?  Oh, I knew she knew dance.  But...could she lead?  Could she inspire?  Could she gain the confidence of my little non-dancers?  Would she be able to teach even them?

She spent the first ten minutes learning their names.  Wow, I thought.  That was a really smart way to start.  Especially considering that *I* don't often learn ALL the dancers names until the performance.  The actors, yes, but the dancers--they belong to the dance teacher.

The interim dance teacher had given Shelby her choreography.  Shelby looked it over, ran them through it, and picked up right where she left off.  A difficult task.  The tendency would be to start over and make it her own.  As it turned out, that wasn't a problem.  At all.

And so, Tuesdays and Thursdays, in 30-minute stints, she drilled them, taught them, loved them.  Praising, hugging, counting out the measures in 8-counts.  Worked in small groups.  Worked in large groups.  Kept plugging away, dancing, reteaching steps as needed, tightening the weak parts.  Creating a dance number.

Usually, during the dance segment, I am busy--answering questions, getting stuff together, preparing announcements, talking to parents.  But every once in a while I would stop and look up and see miracles happening.  Our rag-tag bunch of non-dancers, most of whom had never danced before, were dancing.  Counting.  Smiling.  Putting together a terrific dance number.

And Shelby was dependable.  Always there on time.  Always ready.  And always going over time.  So into what she was doing that 40 minutes would go buy before I'd finally look up and say, "You have one minute.  It's time for the actors now..."

Last night, with her permission, I asked if I could have the dancers one at a time to try their costumes on them.  So first went Jillian, into the restroom with a hanger and a bag.  She came out in her leotard and cowgirl printed vest and skirt.  Shelby turned and saw her and her mouth dropped open.  "Oh, she's so CUTE!"  she said.

She couldn't take her eyes off the young dancer in her costume, who would soon stand next to twelve other dancers, all in that same costume.  And dance on the big stage.  The dance that Shelby, herself, had taught them.  And I saw in her face the big picture.  You know the one.   That vision of the future that keeps us all going.  In that moment, she knew then that it wasn't all sweat and toil, drilling and counting.  That there was a bright spotlight ahead for the girls, for her.   An opening night in the future.  That she was part of a something bigger than herself.  That we all are.  And what we do touches lives that touch other lives and other lives like ripples in a pond, ringing out farther and farther...perhaps far into the future.  She looked at Jillian, she looked at me and she grinned from ear-to-ear.  And turned back to the task at hand.

The shining face of Shelby.  One of the sum of the parts that is greater than the whole.

Lake Crazy

Well, it's been a not-so-quiet week at Lake Crazy.

It's been a long week, a short week, depending on how you look at it, but for all involved, it was a week that marked the culmination of months of planning and preparation for this bunch of fiercely independent theatrical types.  All of us gathered together--in assorted capacities but with a single purpose--to bring laughter, to bring tears, to transport Greenfield theatre audiences to a small carport beauty shop in Chinquapin, Louisiana.  

It went well.  No one said 'chicken' when they should have said 'dog', or 'gun' or 'baby' or 'tomato'.  A glass broke, the coffee had enough sugar, and issues with purses, coats, hats, food, doors, shoes, and hair all remedied themselves through the weekend run.


 The captain of our ship was all smiles--he and the first mate handing out hugs, notes, flowers, and praise like candy.  Our audiences were modest, but enthusiastic.  Their laughter and applause--music to our ears--encouraged each of us to bring what we each needed to bring, and in doing so, we earned their ovation at curtain call.

It was quite a week.  We all learned something.  We learned there's no need to be a high-maintenance diva because the stage crew treats us like royalty.  We learned that we enjoy being nice to each other.  We learned the chicken walk and that the show goes on--even after a mistake--and that life goes on.  We learned that audiences full of the ones we love are the best audiences.  We learned that it's what we have inside that matters.  We learned how much it takes to do what we do.  We learned that it's OUR opinion of ourselves that matters most.


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It was an amazing weekend.  The Mama brought a year's worth of grief and joy to her performance and left us weeping in our seats and wondering at the strength of the human soul.  The daughter left the tatters of a paper bag on the Dungeon floor, broke a glass in her realistic portrayal, and broke through the fourth wall into the hearts of the audience.  She had point to prove and did so with no reservations.  The mouse showed us that she was ever so much more than Daddy's Girl.  She's theatre's child.  And even one-word lines can bring a chuckle.  The former mayor's wife acted with such a natural presence that if she showed up at your door with a tin of pecan tassies, you'd mistake her for your grandmother and invite her to stay through the holidays.  The laughter of the singer turned actress turned hairstylist was the glue that held it all together, as she brushed and teased and primped for two hours and 15 minutes, holding ever fast to her tenet that "There's no such thing as natural beauty".  And that grouchy ol' broad in the wacky hat finally learned to relax, delegate, and enjoy the ride.  If she's not careful, she'll get too comfortable in that back dressing room.


We all shared.  We wept together as sisters on stage and shared hugs as a cast, as a production team, as CrazyLake Acting Company, where the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.  That's what we know and we do what we do, and next weekend, we get to do it again.  We'll be heading back to Chinquapin Friday night and Saturday. Come and go with us.  Get your hair done at Truvy's.  Share the love.

The Machine

All this time, we've called it 'the KidsPlay Machine'.  By 'machine' I mean the tried and true, tightly efficient, time-perfected way that we band together to accomplish anything huge--Move Day, the performances, our day-time matinees, community projects--anything we do.  It always amazes me the parents who come out of the woodwork to 'make it happen'.  And it does.  I'm always amazed at their willingness to work hard, the above-and-beyond the call of duty and detail that putting on a production is--and how we make it happen.  Whatever we've done, whatever grand schemes we concoct, I know that the ever-amazing KidsPlay machine will be behind us and it will be successful.

But I may have to rethink this a little.  We are most of the way through the 'heavy-lifting phase' of "Steel Magnolias".  Our director (Dennis Cole) and our assistant director (Christy Laudig) assembled a team of more than 25 people for building, painting, set, props, costumes, moving, lobby, tickets, concessions--and a good number of them have never worked on a KidsPlay production.  They are a CrazyLake Machine.   Every bit as efficient, dedicated, and HARD-WORKING as the KidsPlay parents, and every bit as amazing.

In fact, I have to say, that following our very long day of Tech (the one day where we dismantle our set in the Dungeon rehearsal space, load it onto a trailer, reassemble it in the theatre, work with sound and lights and all the technical  aspects for the first time, and finish with a full run-through of the show), I was quite touched by the number of Facebook posts commenting not only on weariness and the length of the day, but by what a good time they had, what a good group of people with which they worked, the camaraderie of the team, and the 'good tired' feeling of having worked hard to accomplish a common goal.  I was moved by that.  It made me smile.

And I think that's what sets us--KidsPlay and CrazyLake--apart from the others:  the sense of team, the sense of family, the sense of appreciation from those of us who plan and dream and see the vision of what we're trying to accomplish.  Without these good friends, this strong support, this theatre family that is willing to band together to move the mountains we imagine, we are leaders of nothingness.  Without them, it would not happen.  And without them, it wouldn't be nearly as fun.  So here's to you, Bill and Joe and Ted and Jim and Rachel and Amelia and Pat and Johnny and Aaron and Amanda and Lex and Beth and....  You are the power behind the dream.