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BEHOLD now how many and what
different results a little thing will accomplish. A
fat man in soiled white shirt sleeves, standing just beyond the right edge
of the curtain, presses three electric buttons, one
after the other, with his pudgy forefinger.
One of the buttons rings a bell up above in the
electrician's gallery. The electrician, whose blue
shirt is open at the neck — it is hot behind the
scenes — throws three or four switches and all at
once the auditorium lights flame out, the footlights
blaze up, strip lights hanging in the scenery are
lit, and bright spot lights, at each of which a man
is stationed, begin to make circles of especial
brilliancy in various places on the stage.
The second button pressed by the stage manager
rings a bell down in the musicians' room under the
stage and a dozen hot and perspiring men stop their
games of pinochle, put on their coats, and climb up
the stairs which lead to the orchestra pit. For
answer a red electric bulb glows on the little shelf
before the stage manager and he knows that order has
been obeyed.
The third signal summons all the stage carpenters
to stand by the pieces of scenery to which they are
assigned in readiness for the quick change at the
end of the first scene.
Meanwhile, a tall youth in an evening coat that
is far too long for him goes running down into the
deep basements, where the supers dress, and up three
or four or five flights of stairs by the
dressing-0rooms of the principals, wailing,
"Overture! Overture!" He is the call-boy, and it is
his duty to sound the warning to every actor half an
hour and fifteen minutes before the performance
begins and also when the orchestra
begins to play the overture. Meanwhile the actors and actresses in fashionable
clothes and lacy summer costumes begin to gather in a
crowd on the stage. Mingled with them are property
men, clearers, grips, and carpenters, giving the
last touch to some detail of the stage setting. The
stage manager gives a final glance at the big clock.
He notes the exact time on the blank schedule
hanging on the wall before him, claps his hands,
calls, "Clear the stage" and all the people you
don't see vanish into the wings.
But they work behind quite as hard as the actors
are working before the scenes. A property man sets
down a bottle of beer and two glasses in the wings,
just where it can be found by the stage waiter, who
will need it in five minutes. Nine stage carpenters
are standing, each with a firm grasp on a certain
piece of scenery. Other property men are placing a
lot of furniture and made pieces in an orderly row
behind the last set at the back of the stage so that
they may move it all forward when the time comes
without an instant's delay. High up in the fly
gallery, fifty feet above the stage, nine husky men
in overalls and shirt sleeves are pulling away at a
long series of big ropes that run up as high as the
rigging loft and down again over pulleys to the
corners of various heavy pieces of scenery.
Something like the ringing loft of a big church
belfry is this fly loft, with its orderly rows of
huge ropes and its men pulling and straining as they
raise and lower heavy canvas ceilings, walls and
flies into position.
Presently an actor speaks the last line of the
first scene. At the cue the stage manager presses
some more electric buttons. Every light in the
house, back and front, goes out for a moment and a
light auxiliary curtain drops down and cuts off the
stage. Behind this curtain some dim lights are
turned on. But even while it is still dark the fifty
men who help to make the show a success, though they
are never seen or heard, have jumped into their
proper places and are hard at work. One gang pulls
the old scenery out of the way and piles it up
against the walls of the stage in certain defined
places. Others rush forward, each man carrying a
certain piece of new scenery to exactly its proper
spot. The clearers carry away the old properties and
the property men set in place everything that is
needed for the second scene. The flymen have hauled
up the old stuff out of sight and let down the new,
and the electrician has rearranged his spot and
strip lights.
The stage manager claps his hands again, cries,
"Clear the stage!" presses the buttons that turn on
the lights and raises the curtain, and the second
scene is on.
"We're a little slow today," he says, as he writes down the exact minute
on his schedule — which is like a railroad time
table. "It took us a minute and a half to make that
change."
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Now there are some fifteen minutes to pass before either property men
or stage hands will have anything to do, and they
scatter to spend the leisure time in different ways.
Altogether, for the handling of an elaborate product, like "The
Suburban," fifty-five stage hands and property men
are required. The stage hands are under the direct
command of the stage carpenter and his assistant.
They are divided into carpenters and grips and
flymen, there being eleven of the first class and
nine of the second. There are two property men and
ten clearers, the duty of the latter being to clear
away in a hurry what the property men have placed
with care. Then there are an even dozen electricians
who have to look after all the many different
electric and calcium lights, which are used in
various scenes. Add the call boy, the stage door
man, and half a dozen minor positions and it is easy
to count up the company of fifty-five which the
stage manager has under his command.
When there comes a wait which gives stage hands a little leisure a
crowd of them are likely to get together in the
carpenter's room under the stage, where a game of
lotto, a first cousin of keno, or some other game is
in operation. They pack the little room to
suffocation and the excitement sometimes runs high,
but the instant the stage manager's warning bell
sounds everything is dropped and each man gets into
position without delay. for delay is the one thing
which can never be forgiven in a stage hand.
On hot afternoons and nights others of the stage workmen go out into
the alley about the stage door when they get a
minute's rest and get a breath of fresh air and
other cooling refreshments. But always they are in
sound of that warning bell.
Some rivalry exists between the property men and the stage carpenters,
or at least the line between them is closely drawn.
Not for his life would a stage carpenter or grip lay his hand on any
of the properties, even in an emergency, nor would a
property man or clearer touch a piece of scenery,
though it never were moved into place. The union
rules and the pride of the profession both forbid
such intermingling of functions.
Severe and unsparing critics of the speaking actors are these dumb and
invisible "artists" of the stage. Let a new star go
on for the first night and there will be enough
biting and uncomplimentary tings said about him and
his work by the critics in dirty shirt sleeves who
look down from the flies or stand in the entrances
to make anything the newspaper may say the next
morning sound like the sweetest flattery. They spare
nobody. A great reputation will not cover faults to
them. And at that many of them rarely if ever see a
play from the front of the house. They look at bits
of a thousand plays from between the wings and form
their opinion from what they see.
Most of the responsibility for the stage effects rests upon the
head carpenter and the property man. Every morning
the stage carpenter has to make what is called a
"pack" of all the different pieces of scenery. That
is, he has to arrange it all in its regular order in
a great pile leaning against the wall, so that the
next piece wanted will always be next in the pile.
On the outside of the pile stands the first piece
needed in making the first change. On it in big
letters are printed the words, "Keep alive," which
is stage talk for, "Don't bury this piece under
anything else."
If there is a matinee the stage carpenter has to make a second
"pack" between the afternoon and evening
performances. The property man is charged with
seeing that every little thing that is needed during
the play is on hand and ready for instant use. over
them all reigns the stage manager. After each scene
is set he casts a rapid and critical eye over it to
see that everything is in exactly the right place
and that carelessness has not marred any of the
effects.
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