Where would the budding musical performer be without that nurturing institution? Can you imagine how many talented young neophytes earned their eventual entrance to the big time (New York and London were the destinations of choice in my day, and are still I’m sure), because of summer stock training. And what a training ground. For the alumni -- the graduates of Theater Under Stars -- the training received from our talented theater directors, music directors, choreographers and producers was professional all the way. Those years, and the numerous productions we appeared in, gave us a theatrical education to be envied. Beneath warm night skies -- stars obscured by powerful klieg lights -- we sang and danced our way into professional productions from Broadway's Great White Way to London's West End.
Summer outdoor theaters sprang up all across North America after the Second World War. With the austerity of the war years gone, blackouts a thing of the past, open air theater was the perfect place to celebrate this freedom. The proscenium lights blazed out across the night the spirit of a new beginning. Old operettas, the mainstay of summer theater for so many years, were now being moth-balled, eclipsed by an exciting new musical genre, vibrant with the energy of the post war years. Fresh young talent, ready and eager, flowed into the theaters of New York and London, and the renaissance of the musical, transformed for the times, began.
8.25.2010
8.23.2010
A WORD KIND READER
It may seem as though I've wandered away from the litany of my life, but no, I am still adding bits and pieces which will be posted as I go along. I wanted to mention the rise of summer theater in the years after the war. So I've put down a few thoughts dealing with the importance of entertainment in peoples live after the years of restrictions and cares necessitated by a conflict which seemed bent on consuming the world.
8.10.2010
GEORDIE'S DAY
Miss Blackwell needed a pencil. She asked her class of eight-year-olds for a volunteer to get one for her. Geordie's hand shot up. Overly eager as always to help, he misunderstood his teacher's request. Off he went, running home as fast as he could manage, knowing there was a newly sharped pencil lying beside the phone, on the desk in the entrance hall.
Surprising his mother by his visit, confusing her by his strange request, she reluctantly gave Geordie the pencil. Head shaking, she watched from the window as he quickly pedaled his little legs across the tram tracks which passed in front of their house. A moment later he turned a corner and was gone. Clutching the pencil and running for all he was worth, Geordie raced himself down the road and up the hill to the old, gray, clapboard sided school.
Breathless, hair askew, proud of his effort, he held out his trophy to Miss Blackwell.
She looked at the pencil, at the clock, then at Geordie.
"I believe, Geordie, that the office is still next to the teachers room?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Then perhaps you could tell me, and the class, why it took you so long?"
As her question slowly sank in and snickers and giggles began to build from the desks behind him, a light clicked on in his head.
Wide eyed, stunned by the realization of his error, crimson cheeked he stuttered out his shame."I...I...thought you meant for me to get one from...my.. .my home."
Miss Blackwell regarded him silently, with the concentrated curiosity of a botanist fascinated by a flower known but rarely seen.
"Your home? Am I to understand that at no time did you question what you were doing?"
"No Ma'am. You needed a pencil, so I went to get one for you."
"Hmm. Well, I find it strange you didn't realize the school keeps spare pencils in the office."
"I knew that Ma'am. but. . .I. . .I thought teachers brought their own things. You know,. . . pencils and stuff. . .and that you'd just forgotten yours, and I, well, because we had a couple of new ones at home. . ."
"Geordie! Teachers are attended to in this school as equally as the children, the office does not ignore requests from either party, rest assured. Now, as to your other error, a much more serious transgression. Surely you must know, that if you leave the school grounds when school is in session you will be punished. Parents expect the school to know where their children are at all times. You put me, and the school, in the unfortunate position of being liable if anything had happened to you after you left!"
"I'm sorry...I didn't know that Miss Blackwell, really. I just wanted you to have a pencil."
Confronted by an honest error commited by a sincerely contrite little boy, Miss Blackwell was torn by rules which stipulated punishment for his misdemeanor--even if it were the product of misguided chivalry--and the boy's innocent desire to please.
"What you did, Geordie, was wrong, even if it were for the right reason. Do you understand what I mean when I say that?".
"I think so, Ma'am."
"Good. Think about it, and after class this afternoon we'll discuss it further. Perhaps writing it out a few dozen times will get it into your head. Now, please, return to your desk."
Sliding into his seat, upset at his foolishness, aware that the entire class was waiting to have a go at him as soon as the bell rang, he wondered if maybe, someday, he would again do the wrong thing for the right reason, and if so, would he know.
"Oh, and Geordie."
Shimmying quickly out of his seat, Geordie stood stiffly beside his desk, arms pressed tightly against his sides, eyes trained on the floor, afraid to look at his teacher, afraid to show his fear of what might be coming next.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Thank you." He looked up in time to catch a twinkle in her eye.
Grinning from ear to ear, Geordie settled proudly into his seat.
Copyright © 2010 by Gordon B Wales. All Rights Reserved.
Surprising his mother by his visit, confusing her by his strange request, she reluctantly gave Geordie the pencil. Head shaking, she watched from the window as he quickly pedaled his little legs across the tram tracks which passed in front of their house. A moment later he turned a corner and was gone. Clutching the pencil and running for all he was worth, Geordie raced himself down the road and up the hill to the old, gray, clapboard sided school.
Breathless, hair askew, proud of his effort, he held out his trophy to Miss Blackwell.
She looked at the pencil, at the clock, then at Geordie.
"I believe, Geordie, that the office is still next to the teachers room?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Then perhaps you could tell me, and the class, why it took you so long?"
As her question slowly sank in and snickers and giggles began to build from the desks behind him, a light clicked on in his head.
Wide eyed, stunned by the realization of his error, crimson cheeked he stuttered out his shame."I...I...thought you meant for me to get one from...my.. .my home."
Miss Blackwell regarded him silently, with the concentrated curiosity of a botanist fascinated by a flower known but rarely seen.
"Your home? Am I to understand that at no time did you question what you were doing?"
"No Ma'am. You needed a pencil, so I went to get one for you."
"Hmm. Well, I find it strange you didn't realize the school keeps spare pencils in the office."
"I knew that Ma'am. but. . .I. . .I thought teachers brought their own things. You know,. . . pencils and stuff. . .and that you'd just forgotten yours, and I, well, because we had a couple of new ones at home. . ."
"Geordie! Teachers are attended to in this school as equally as the children, the office does not ignore requests from either party, rest assured. Now, as to your other error, a much more serious transgression. Surely you must know, that if you leave the school grounds when school is in session you will be punished. Parents expect the school to know where their children are at all times. You put me, and the school, in the unfortunate position of being liable if anything had happened to you after you left!"
"I'm sorry...I didn't know that Miss Blackwell, really. I just wanted you to have a pencil."
Confronted by an honest error commited by a sincerely contrite little boy, Miss Blackwell was torn by rules which stipulated punishment for his misdemeanor--even if it were the product of misguided chivalry--and the boy's innocent desire to please.
"What you did, Geordie, was wrong, even if it were for the right reason. Do you understand what I mean when I say that?".
"I think so, Ma'am."
"Good. Think about it, and after class this afternoon we'll discuss it further. Perhaps writing it out a few dozen times will get it into your head. Now, please, return to your desk."
Sliding into his seat, upset at his foolishness, aware that the entire class was waiting to have a go at him as soon as the bell rang, he wondered if maybe, someday, he would again do the wrong thing for the right reason, and if so, would he know.
"Oh, and Geordie."
Shimmying quickly out of his seat, Geordie stood stiffly beside his desk, arms pressed tightly against his sides, eyes trained on the floor, afraid to look at his teacher, afraid to show his fear of what might be coming next.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Thank you." He looked up in time to catch a twinkle in her eye.
Grinning from ear to ear, Geordie settled proudly into his seat.
Copyright © 2010 by Gordon B Wales. All Rights Reserved.
8.07.2010
HOW IT CAME TO PASS
Six years of Theatre Under the Stars, conjoined with three years in the Winnipeg Ballet, condensed just like that, in one page! Those years were the defining years of my life. I grew up during that time, the innocent young man that I was changed. Innocence slipped away (snail paced), but naiveté, like gum stuck to the bottom of a desk, proved difficult to remove. I had the unfortunate attitude of believing that everyone was basically good. Yes, sad but true. Many heavyhearted tears were shed before I came to realize that deep down inside, where it really counts, some folk are rotten to the core. (I imagine there are those who would agree). I paid for that foolish fancy, and the price was high. Now here's a simple phrase which takes a lot of living experience, and lot of good loving to believe: "The price of living is worth the cost." At one time I would have contested that phrase as being simplistic, yet now when I look back at the decades which have numbered and labeled me I am pleased to say, putting into perspective the underbrush of thorns that often covers our path, hiding the easier road, every bit of that living and loving molded and formed me into what I am. I would wish that it had not demanded so much. But, oh! I would pay it again for what it gave me. I do not refer to money, for of that I have little, or to fame, which has skillfully eluded me, and which in itself is of small value, but to the love of those whose future is in their making, whose promise is in their deeds, and whose completeness is in the nobility of their minds. My children. Had I lived another life and never known them, it would have been akin to living in a world in which only the dark side of the moon could be seen. A world without sunlight.
“Now herein let the tale unfold.”
Summers of long ago, as we look back through the haze of time, and visualize them in our minds eye, seem to have had a special halo hovering over them, Yet I'm certain that my remembrance of the weather during those long ago summers is correct. I will allow a give or take that on certain unfortunate nights a performance had to be canceled because of an unscheduled--and unkind—deluge. But summer nights then seemed to roll by, show after show, year after year, star filled, moonlit and exciting, devoid of a single obscuring or rain filled cloud. What a magic brush is memory, it can paint in, or paint over, many a could have happened, or unnecessary piece of the past.
The collage of TUTS programs above gives a colorful illustration of 12 of the 30 shows I was in during my years with TUTS. Shows that were my training ground, and gave me the necessary confidence to tackle London’s West End, which, outside of new York, was the only place to go if the theater was to be my career. The hard work that was demanded from each of us in the Winnipeg Ballet, and TUTS was the reason, no question about it, that gained me access to almost eight uninterrupted years of employment in theater, TV, and film while I was in England.
Oh, yes, in case you’re wondering, centered in the surrounding programs are a few of the dancers, waiting to be called on stage during a run through rehearsal. There were many such moments while the stage sets where being placed, and props and such were being organized. I could find a few such photos taken during the evening dress rehearsals as well, which were begun as soon as the earlier show finished its last performance. That was when the lighting of the show was finalized and the costumes paraded and discussed, and last minute glitches fixed.We would arrive late, often very late, at our various places of rest after those final (before opening night the next evening) rehearsals.
I've written of the year I joined the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, September 1950, a couple of years before the Queen bestowed the gift of "Royal" to be added to it’s name, and in the process created acute consternation among hopeful British Ballet companies. They were in tutto, each and every one, mortified that a young, upstart Ballet company, in the middle of the boondocks, should receive that much longed for, and expected, appellation when old, established, and terribly English companies, were more deserving. Now it was lost to them forever. Much weeping and wringing of hands among the world of the English dance elite welcomed in the winter months of that year. There was another Canadian company that felt as the British, but they, like their English cousins had no recourse other than maintain a brave countenance, and curse fate in dark, resin scented rooms.
The 50s arrived and my career begins to extend my life away from home and family to other cities, and eventually countries. The days became months, months turned into years, and those overflowing years slid silently into decades. My home town family, those childhood places and familiar faces were seemed destined to become faded memories, yet my longing to be among them again, before I lost them forever, never left me; then, by a move decided for me by fate, and an honest mistake, I and my new family walked through
Image via Wikipedia
the Vancouver International Airport arrivals doors, on June 2, 1976, to stand at the threshold of another life for them, and a nostalgic homecoming for me.
“Now herein let the tale unfold.”
Summers of long ago, as we look back through the haze of time, and visualize them in our minds eye, seem to have had a special halo hovering over them, Yet I'm certain that my remembrance of the weather during those long ago summers is correct. I will allow a give or take that on certain unfortunate nights a performance had to be canceled because of an unscheduled--and unkind—deluge. But summer nights then seemed to roll by, show after show, year after year, star filled, moonlit and exciting, devoid of a single obscuring or rain filled cloud. What a magic brush is memory, it can paint in, or paint over, many a could have happened, or unnecessary piece of the past.The collage of TUTS programs above gives a colorful illustration of 12 of the 30 shows I was in during my years with TUTS. Shows that were my training ground, and gave me the necessary confidence to tackle London’s West End, which, outside of new York, was the only place to go if the theater was to be my career. The hard work that was demanded from each of us in the Winnipeg Ballet, and TUTS was the reason, no question about it, that gained me access to almost eight uninterrupted years of employment in theater, TV, and film while I was in England.
Oh, yes, in case you’re wondering, centered in the surrounding programs are a few of the dancers, waiting to be called on stage during a run through rehearsal. There were many such moments while the stage sets where being placed, and props and such were being organized. I could find a few such photos taken during the evening dress rehearsals as well, which were begun as soon as the earlier show finished its last performance. That was when the lighting of the show was finalized and the costumes paraded and discussed, and last minute glitches fixed.We would arrive late, often very late, at our various places of rest after those final (before opening night the next evening) rehearsals.
I've written of the year I joined the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, September 1950, a couple of years before the Queen bestowed the gift of "Royal" to be added to it’s name, and in the process created acute consternation among hopeful British Ballet companies. They were in tutto, each and every one, mortified that a young, upstart Ballet company, in the middle of the boondocks, should receive that much longed for, and expected, appellation when old, established, and terribly English companies, were more deserving. Now it was lost to them forever. Much weeping and wringing of hands among the world of the English dance elite welcomed in the winter months of that year. There was another Canadian company that felt as the British, but they, like their English cousins had no recourse other than maintain a brave countenance, and curse fate in dark, resin scented rooms.
The 50s arrived and my career begins to extend my life away from home and family to other cities, and eventually countries. The days became months, months turned into years, and those overflowing years slid silently into decades. My home town family, those childhood places and familiar faces were seemed destined to become faded memories, yet my longing to be among them again, before I lost them forever, never left me; then, by a move decided for me by fate, and an honest mistake, I and my new family walked through
Image via Wikipedia
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