no_sin_but | (no subject)

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Welcome to Romeo and Juliet, of the New Burbage Theatre Festival.

It is back stage.

Sarah thinks the Iguana that broke the ex-director's back may be back in the building. Patrick can't find his FUCKING tights. Cyril is telling stories about the time he played Mercutio when it was just a tent, and the pigeon flew in right in the middle of Queen Mab, and attacked Benvolio. Maria is on the warpath about god knows what. One of the giant silver balls has made its way back stage, and is rolling in one of the too-narrow hallways. One of the ladies in waiting has shown up in a red bra by mistake, and is in tears because it's visible through her costume, and she doesn't know if she can find a new one in time.

Jerry grabs Darren the minute he arrives through the door.

"Darren! This is important. There may be, um, barbed wire in the entrances, depending on whether Geoffrey..."

Sarah screams. Then goes bright red.

"Sorry, just a sock. Sorry."

Jerry pushes on.

"...it was MacBeth, you see, and Henry wasn't doing it..."

Darren breathes deeply through his nose.

"Jerry, I assure you, Geoffrey's attempts at guerilla theatre have been successfully dismantled. All entrances and exits are fully available. Just... watch out for nails."

Jerry nods and walks off, and Darren looks over his shoulder at Kit.

"Well. Welcome to my play."

Marlowe grins at him. "Thank you, my dear man."

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"Oh, listen, ducky," Cyril again, approaching fast, despite his costume, "it's a Londoner."

"A gardener? We don't need a gardener."

"A LONDONER."

Darren puts his hand on Kit's arm. Can't remember what he was supposed to call him again, so just introduces the other pair instead.

"Cyril and Frank. They've been in the company,"

"Since it was just a tent, ducky."

"Kit Archer," Marlowe says smoothly, offering a hand.

Cyril shakes it firmly, and looks him up and down with a little smile like he knows something Kit doesn't. Frank smiles too, more cordially, and gives him a little nod.

"How long till places?" Darren asks Cyril, kind of desperately, and Maria, storming past, snaps "Twenty fucking minutes, Darren, I announced two minutes ago, and if you didn't hear me it's not my fault. If I wasn't dealing with Geoffrey's stupid tree..."

"Tree?" Darren, concerned, "what tree? Maria!"

She's gone again. Cyril winces apologetically at Marlowe.

"Here to see the play, are you?"

"That I am."

"And let me guess. You've worked in theatre before."

Frank pats Cyril's arm, and heads off in the direction of hair and makeup.

Sarah, who had been standing on a chair for fear of iguanas, jumps off and towards Darren too, who had been half heartedly pursuing Maria.

"Sarah, this is Kit, do you know anything about a tree?"

"Darren, about the balcony scene, I have a question about pronounciation. It's just I saw the Zefirelli yesterday at a party and-"

Darren puts his hands on Sarah's shoulders, and pushes her in Marlowe's direction.

"This is Kit. He will answer all your questions. I need to solve the tree problem, Sarah. And the director tripped and fell off the stage, completely naturally someone's being lying to you. The lizard killed no one. This season. That was Ophelia. Kit, I'll find you in a-- will you be alright for now?"

Marlowe slants Darren a faintly bemused look.

"If I'm not, I'll run away. I'm very good at running."

"He has worked in theatre," says Cyril fondly, "go on Sarah. What's your question."

Darren moves off, in pursuit of his stage manager.

Sarah swallows and looks at Marlowe kind of nervously.

"I only bite when asked, Sarah," he says, kindly enough. He can do kind, he can do friendly and charming. Just...

Never harmless. Not with that eyepatch.

Cyril smirks, but puts a friendly hand on her shoulder.

"I play J-Ju-" stammer.

"Ju?" Cyril, cutting in, "the Jew of Malta? Am I in the right play? I knew I'd go senile one of these days, I could of sworn this was some sort of love story."

Sarah laughs, and recovers a good deal of her poise while he's talking. She does have a lot of it, when not being terrified out of her wits by lizards and strange men in eye patches. She took Darren on once or twice.

"Juliet."

Marlowe...can't quite hide a snort at Cyril's comment, even if he does buzz a bit. They still know his plays. Still play his plays...

"Ah, young Juliet. Very strong-willed girl."

"Well. Yes. She's in love. But that's not the point right now."

This is not a serious question, this is preshow anxiety and jitters. Where you can't think about going on stage in front of all those people so you focus on minutiae instead.

"My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of thy tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Thy tongue's uttering, ten syllables or eleven? Does it slur or do I play it off kilter. Because, you know, she's upset because she's in love with him and she doesn't know him, so self doubt is pretty... ten or eleven?"

"Do you think she would be doubting?" He asks, thoughtful.

"I think she thinks she should be doubting. But she isn't. Because she's in love."

Sarah is wide eyed and young, and Juliet.

"Try it both ways."

There is a wall behind him, and he leans against it; arms crossed, head bowed slightly forward, slightly to the side.

"My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of thy tongue's ut-ter-ing, yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of thy tongue's ut'ring, yet I know the sound.
Art--"

A thoughtful pause.

"She's really pretty sure of herself. God, I wish things made half that much sense."

Sarah, it seems, likes it with ten syllables. Cyril pats her shoulder again.

"That is why we act, so we can pretend that they do."

Sarah beams at him.

"Thanks for the help. I've got to. Hair."

Whoosh, gone. Things move fast backstage. Blink, and you'll miss them.

"I do not need to get my hair done," supplies Cyril, who is happily bald, "so don't worry. Want to meet anyone in particular? See the sights?"

He spreads his hands wide.

"I know no one, so I do not object to sights in the slightest."

"We'll just go visit the wings then, shall we?"

Except Patrick, a young man in a loose shirt with curls and a frown has emerged, fighting with his bootlaces and trying to keep moving at the same time. Which is proving difficult.

"Cyril, have you seen Sarah? Oh, hello."

Helpfully,

"She ran away to fix her hair."

He's missed the theatre.

"Juliet, Juliet, wherefore art thou Juliet." Patrick sighs, and closes his eyes. "She was really worried about some line. Did she find Darren? I'm Patrick by the way."

"Romeo," Cyril supplies, helpfully, "she sorted that one out, ducky. Maria was looking for you, did she find you?"

Patrick nods, and offers Kit his hand.

"What are you doing back here?"

His hand is calloused like most folk's hands aren't anymore, and it doesn't quite match the voice.

"Observing the pre-show mayhem. And I'm Kit."

"It's not usually this bad. But Geoffrey decided that Henry was too complacent or something, so last night he just built stuff everywhere. Doors, so when Henry was supposed to go on stage left he had to crawl up through the trap door. Just to actually scare him. Geoffrey's insane."

Patrick sounds very, very admiring.

It gets a wicked laugh.

"He is a genius."

"Well, yeah." Patrick shrugs, he takes that for granted. "Cyril's in Mackers. Ask him to tell you about it. I need to find Sarah."

Gone again, and Cyril puts his hand on Kit's arm to get him moving in the direction of the stage. Momentum will help their progress a great deal.

Very, very amused,

"Care to tell?"

"The problem with actors," Cyril says, blandly, "is they occasionally believe they know more than their directors. Now, sometimes this may be true, but once in a while you get someone like Geoffrey Tennant. Or rather, since it is the job of an actor to pander to the director, someone like Geoffrey Tennant gets someone like Henry Breedlove, who has played MacBeth successfully, three times, and will do it his way or no way at all."

Cyril smiles. He looks practically sweet and elderly.

"Geoffrey just put up a few obstacles, is all."

Calmly enough,

"I know the type."

"Geoffrey just put up a few obstacles, is all, and had the fight scenes totally reblocked without telling him so he was swinging away, practically at his wit's end, and had dear Lady M go on stage, and true to Goeffrey's vision, wash the blood from her husband's body. I don't know that this festival had seen a play with actual male nudity before."

Pause, as he opens the stage door.

"Except Darren, but he's a different case now, isn't he?"

"Usually." Say little, keep eyes open and don't sliiiiiip.

"Here we- Nahoum."

The security guard pushes past in the narrow hallway, carrying what must be Geoffrey's tree, pursued by Darren.

"It needs to be anywhere where my actors won't trip on it. Oh, hello, Kit."

A quick grin.

"The tree saga continues?"

"Not for long," says Nahoum, cheerfully. It takes a lot to stress him out, "and on the grand scale of things..."

Darren snorts.

"There is no such thing as a minor problem the size of a tree! Keep going."

Nahoum is too polite to roll his eyes, but keep going he does. Cyril... is not too polite to roll his eyes. He does so, and pushes open the stage door for Kit as Darren tears off.

Marlowe watches his ~~lover~~ roommate dash off madly, just barely manages to turn a laugh into a cough, and steps through.

Catiously, mind. The tales about Geoffrey may have made him nervous.

The set is practically normal. Hugely so, given Darren. It's all warm wood. There's a bed in the wings, waiting to be wheeled on, occasionally. A stool, a few candlesticks. Baskets and things for people to carry on for the various markets.

Someone's left Macbeth's bloodied head in the corner by mystake. Cyril gives it a fond pat.

Not pig's blood? Tch, tch, tch.

The wings are full of members of the young company. Fluttering and telling each other the few lines they do have, dazedly going over blocking and just kind of being nervous at each other. They're dressed in warm colours, perhaps the cuts of the necklines are a little immodest... but you need to attract crowds somehow.

Several pairs of eyes turn to look at Kit, like he might have some sort of answer for why they're putting themselves through this anxiety voluntarily.

That would require him being helpful. So, he just gives them a quick, cheerful kind of smile.

They can take that as they will.

"House doors are..."

Cyril peers out from behind the curtain,

"Just opening. I'd best take you back around, then."

"I'm in your hands." Theatre is theatre, but this isn't anything like the ones he knew.

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