How to Produce Amateur Plays: A Practical Manual

by Barrett H. Clark

Then the other acts are rehearsed in like manner. Each act, after it is finished in this way, must be rehearsed at least every three or four days. When all the acts have been worked out, then each rehearsal is devoted to going through the whole play. Minor points in acting, minor "business", rendering of the lines, voice, gesture, etc., must naturally be insisted upon. Special cases must be dealt with outside the regular rehearsals, for the play should be interrupted as seldom as possible, because it is wise to let the actors become accustomed to going through the entire piece. It will be found expeditious, too, for small groups of characters who have scenes together to rehearse by themselves. The full rehearsals of the play are valuable both to actors and the director, for the latter is given a general view of his stage pictures which could in no other way be afforded him, and he is in a position to judge of his general and massed effects. At the same time the actors will more readily enter into the spirit of the work if they are permitted to play without interruption. Where the actors forget their lines, they should be prompted without other delay, but if they do anything actually wrong, or if the director wishes to make an important change, the performance must, of course, be stopped for a moment.

The number of rehearsals necessary for the production of a play by amateurs depends largely on the attitude of the amateurs themselves, and the amount of time at their disposal. It is safe to say that ninety-nine out of a hundred such performances suffer noticeably from need of rehearsing. Nor is this to be wondered at, for the average professional play usually requires four or five weeks' rehearsing—seven to eight hours daily—for six and sometimes seven days in the week! Of course, an amateur is an amateur because he is not a professional, and he cannot afford very much time for work which is after all only a pastime. One other point should be well borne in mind: the average amateur has not the patience of the professional. If he is rehearsed too long or too steadily, he will grow "stale", and lose interest in his work.

Still, no full-length play can safely be produced with less than four weeks' work, on an average of five rehearsals of three hours each, per week. (This does not include special and individual outside rehearsals.) Four weeks is the shortest time that can be allowed, while six or seven should be devoted to it. So much time is not necessary in order that the company may attempt to become professionals; that would be impossible and not at all advisable. The amateur, if rightly trained, should be able to impart a certain natural, naïve, unprofessional tone to the part he is impersonating, but this can only be done by constant rehearsing. The director usually finds that the amateur's first instinct is to imitate the tricks of the professional actor, and not allow himself to feel the character of the rôle. The professional quickly assimilates mannerisms which are only too likely to become mechanical, but which the amateur, because he is an amateur, is not likely to learn, if at first he is trained to avoid them.

There is no particular excuse for presenting plays which can be seen acted anywhere and any time by professionals; amateurs should strive to produce classics, or modern plays which for one reason or another are not often seen, and impart to them that peculiar flavor which charms as well as interests and attracts. Nor is there much use in the amateur actor's striving to become professional in manner: he cannot hope, in the short time he can spare for his work, to become a good professional; or, if he gives signs of becoming such, then he no longer belongs in amateur dramatics. Allow the amateur plenty of leeway in the matter of interpretation, if he has any original ideas of his own; but of course these must never be at variance with the general idea of the play. Let him work out his own salvation: here lies the value of amateur production, both to the actor and to the audience.

Often amateurs are called upon to portray feelings, actions, passions, of which they have no knowledge or experience. Love scenes, for instance, are invariably difficult. In this case, the actors must be taught a few conventional gestures, attitudes, and tricks, but they should not be permitted—except in rare cases—to lay much stress on the acting. This also applies to such purely conventional matters as kissing, dying, fighting, etc., for which a set of recognized technical tricks has been evolved. Any competent director can train actors to do this.

One more point before this part of rehearsing is dispensed with: amateur productions suffer largely from a lack of continuous tension and variety. Often the action is slow, jerky, and consequently tedious. Constant rehearsing, with a view to inspiring greater confidence and sureness in the actors, under a good director, is the best means to overcome these great drawbacks. The last eight or ten rehearsals, after the cast are familiar with their lines and "business", are the most important in the matter of tempo. Details of shading, well-developed and modulated action, and a well-defined climax, are what must be worked for. When the actors are no longer thinking of when they must cross or sit down or rise, they are ready to enter whole-heartedly into the spirit of the play as an artistic unit.

As an example, on a small scale, of how a scene may be modulated and shaded, two pages from Meilhac and Halévy's "Indian Summer" (published by Samuel French) are here reprinted with marginal notes explaining how these effects are obtained.

Slowly and quietly.	ADR. Just a moment ago I forgot that such a thing was out of the question— BRI. Why out of the question—? ADR. Why, because—
Slight increase of speed and tension.	BRI. Because what? How much did that American family pay you? I'll give you twice as much—three times as much. Whatever you want! ADR. Only to read to you? BRI. Why, yes.
Slowly rising tension and speed.	ADR. That wouldn't be so bad—there's just one thing against it—it might be just a wee bit compromising! BRI. Oh! ADR. Really, don't you think so? Just a bit? BRI. At my age? ADR. (gaily). Oh, it's all very well—a young person like me—alone with you. (Seriously.) Oh, if you only didn't live alone—! BRI. If I—? If I weren't alone?
Staccato.	ADR. If you only had some relatives—married relatives—your nephew, for instance, with his wife—then I might—
Emphasis	BRI. Once more, don't speak to me of—! He's the one that brought all this trouble on us—that letter that forces you to—that letter came from him. (ADRIENNE makes a quick movement of protest.) 'Tisn't his fault, I know, but I hold a grudge against him as if it were—
Momentary pause.	ADR. And yet, if I told you— BRI. (stopping her). Shh! If you please. (Pause.)
Diminuendo. Tense, but quiet.	ADR. (moved). Then I must go. That was the only way; and you don't want to do that. I'm sure I don't know what will happen afterward. I still hope—But for the moment, I must (Mild access of crying). Oh I'm sorry—so sorry—(Falls into chair at side of table).
Slight increase again.	BRI. (excitedly). Adrienne! ADR. (recovering mastery over herself). I beg your pardon—there! There! (Brushing away her tears). See, it's all over!

Quickly increasing rise. Quickly.	BRI. Adrienne! ADR. (rising). Monsieur! BRI. It's true, then, if there were some way, you would—? Not the way I mentioned just now—but another—you wouldn't leave, would you? You'd stay here—near me—always—and be happy? ADR. (lightly). Oh yes, it's too—I say it from the bottom of my heart! BRI. Very well, you shan't go. ADR. I—? BRI. No, you shan't go. ADR. But—how?—Why?
Moment of suspense.	BRI. I have found a way! ADR. And it is?
Climax.	BRI. To make you my wife! ADR. (Sits down again, overcome).
High tension after the climax, and preparatory to another climax later on.	BRI. I'll do it!—Go and speak to your Aunt—Here! Come here! (Enter NOEL, right, carrying a bundle of papers). Come here! Don't be afraid! You may go and get your wife. Bring her here! I'll forgive her as I forgive you! (Shakes hands warmly with NOEL). NOEL. Uncle! BRI. You were right—now I know it! What do I care if she is a watchmaker's daughter? Go and get your wife—bring her here—and we'll live together, the four of us us— NOEL. All four of us? BRI. Yes, all four! (To ADRIENNE). I am going to speak to your Aunt—I'll be back at once. (Exit Center).