the timboucher experience

In my experience, auditions are never held for bit parts. Whoever happens to be on hand gets drafted into them whether they like it or not. One day while working in the scene shop, the production manager walks up to me and asks casually, “Hey Tim, can you dance?”

I hesitate for a moment, with some idea of where this may be headed. “Kind of.”

So began my forty-five show production of Chekhov’s “The Cherry Orchard,” at Everyman Theatre in Baltimore using the Michael Frayn translation. Our show re-contextualized this classic Russian tale of the end of the oligarchy into what might be described as a not overtly stated post-Civil War America where a wealthy black merchant buys the plantation where his grandfather was a slave. I played the part of the Postmaster, a character without any lines who acts as basically a warm body to further the action in about five or six scenes.

I signed a contract as a stagehand - not as an actor - had to grow a beard, and was paid $1700 for my troubles. Which were in fact, no trouble at all. It was a great joy and a wonderful learning experience to be a part of that show. I worked with about a dozen wonderful real actors who, unlike me, had years of experience on stage (and in some cases on the big screen) under their belts. Observing them up close in action taught me a great deal about how to compose myself physically on stage. I realized, quickly, that acting is all about reacting. Or at least partly. I’ve not yet landed anything but bit parts. Bit parts are more like living scenery, set pieces or props. You wear a costume, walk from here to there, do a dance step or two and “try not to run into the furniture,” as I heard one of the older actors utter in the dressing room one day.

My on-stage responsibilities during “The Cherry Orchard” involved bringing some luggage on and off-stage, moving a couple big set pieces, standing in the background looking upset while one of the main characters has a big freak-out moment, one fully-choreographed group waltz, one mini partial waltz, and one scene as an assistant in a magic trick. Two magic tricks actually, one was a tip-over trunk which we wheeled out and leaned forward, revealing to the audience an empty box. When the box returns to its resting position a false floor rests at an angle, underneath which an actress was hidden. At the count of three in German (Charlotta, the conjuror, was raised by a German governess), my co-assistant and I open the box again, and Anya pops out wearing a stunning white dress. We help her out, and move into position for the next trick. I believe it’s called the King Tut illusion, and involves rolling out a shimmering piece of beautiful fabric. We circle the stage with it, showing the audience there’s nothing hidden behind the fabric, and then return to position, with the fabric held high. It appears to the audience that Anya is then wrapped up in the fabric. But instead, she actually switches places with Varya, who is hiding behind a column near us. At the count of three again, Varya is unveiled in her place, wearing a black dress and the illusion is complete. We exit, rolling the tip-over trunk back to its offstage position.

Learning to waltz was rather more frustrating. They showed me the step one day during rehearsal, which I picked up after not much practice. And my girlfriend at the time helped me polish it up one weekend. But it took several rehearsals before I got to actually dance with a partner. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but partner dancing without a partner makes no sense after a certain point. You have to be able to react to your partner’s movements, and as a male lead those movements. In our case, the choreography called for six or so couples to twirl around in a circle, waltzing until a certain note is struck in the music – at which point we switch partners with a hand-over-hand maneuver around the circle until we return to our original partner, break the circle and each couple dances off on their own path around the stage.

My second experience as a bit part actor was much simpler. I played the headsman (ie, executioner) in Gilbert & Sullivan’s only tragic work, “The Yeomen of the Guard.” Again, I was drafted into the part under very informal circumstances. I walk out of the costume shop one night where I’d been drinking with my sister and the other costume girls, and the director stops me on my way to the bathroom.

“You know you’re gonna be in my show, right?”

Knowing by now exactly how this works, “Sure thing,” I say and continue to the bathroom. When I come back, I inquire about the details of the performance I’ll be required to execute.

“Oh, it’s super simple. You walk on stage following one of the actors and then stand still while a bunch of action happens around you. It’s very dramatic – it’s very you!”

“Sounds good,” I say and get back to my drinking.

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