it’s an a-team plan montage
When you here “training montage,” you probably think of Rocky. But really I think of “The A-Team,” where our brave heroes on the lam have to tweak a cabbage thrower so it’ll bag bad guys harassing the heart-of-gold migrant workers. It’s totally DIY.
Anyway, this weekend I lived a kind of Headless Sullivan Theater training montage. I really tried to push a cabbage tosser onto the directors, but neither saw a need for one on the set.
On Saturday night I contacted 11 regional newspapers and submitted press releases or filled out online calendar entry form. Image: me feverishly typing with alphanumeric codes reflecting off my glasses.
And then, Sunday. Race out the door to pick up Charley Temple’s pick up truck. Thanks, Charley! Back home, pack wife (director) and kid (gaffer?) into car and headed out to look for off-the-shelf stage solutions: boxes, crates, chairs. Michael’s, Jo-Ann’s, Lowes, nothing. Rush home and eat lunch. Zip off to Billsboro Winery to pick up 38 blue chairs, run to theater to drop them off. The directors meet at the theater and Zora and Bibi (key grip?) run around and create their own play, or something. “You’re the director so you have to tell me what to do.”
Ingrid and Gabi lay out the theater. We think we can fit about 35 seats in comfortably so everyone can see the action. It started to look really cool taped off with chairs all around. I’m totally digging the yellow and blue thing.
We did a little experimenting with some guerilla stage lighting, clip lamps! And I unscrewed 100 fluorescent lights so that only those over the stages are lit. Cheap solution, and, it looks pretty cool. I love it when it plan comes together!
Back to the montage: Get to coats and hats back on the kids, Gabi takes everyone but me home. I take Charley’s truck to Lowes (a different one) and buy 9 8-foot by 4-foot masonite sheets and, with the help of two helpful Lowes employees (who appear to be absolutely phobic about rain (“Um, could you pull up to the door?”) we wedge them in. “Drive fast,” one of them says. The masonite was getting wet. “Yeah, or I’ll have tissue paper when I get there.” And I was off. Park in front of the theater, why did I do this alone?, prop open the door, pause to listen to a radio story on the new book “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,” decide I have to read it, and then wrestle the masonite into the theater. In the wind, I almost become a caravel.