Trinity College School - Record Yearbook (Port Hope, Ontario Canada)

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goers are shuffling from the lobby to their seats. Once seated they are greeted with an open dark stage before them. There is no curtain used in That Championship Season. Bulbs on forty-five, bank one-fifteen, barks Jake Things have started to move. Three men dash to the massive lighting bank and pull down the giant levers which point skyward from the black iron frame. A technician moves to the master dimmer control, which looks more like an IBM computer, turns it to forty-five percent power, and presses a button labelled “source one-fifteen.” After a single metallic click, a glance over our shoulders reveals the stage bathed in a mysterious, flowing orange light which occasionally changes to blue and then to green. “ Roll sound. Another switch is thrown and the eerie muffled sounds of high school cheers are piped out into the audience. “Special effects, beams Joe Hill proudly. ‘This really sets the mood. The clock says 8:15. Start in fifteen minutes? I ask. Naw, think we ll start at 8:35 tonight,” says Jake casually. Now the noises of the gathering audiences begin to filter into the backstage area. The tempo begins to increase. ‘ Bulbs fifteen-thirty up to seventy.” Another lighting bank flashes on and the stage grows brighter. Jeez it’s loud out there. Turn up the sound!” A technician raises the volume control. Jake now ' picks up a phone connected directly with the chief usher. Starting at 35, he says coolly and replaces the receiver. Joe takes his seat by the curtain and opens his script to prompt. The seconds tick slowly by on the old stage clock. Give em five, Jake calls over his shoulder. One man goes to each of the six dressing room doors and knocks five times. Five actors emerge and walk through the darkness to the edge of the stage. Tucker has not yet appeared. Outside, bells are ringing and the lobby lights are flashing. The last arrivals are scurrying to their seats. A hush is slow ly coming over the audience . ‘ Doors closed, goes the calm command into the telephone. ‘ Tell him we re ready A stage hand moves to Tucker’s door. ‘‘Lights full! Cut sound. The stage is glowing brilliantly now. Forrest Tucker is coming hard through the darkness. He strides by us without a sound and without a pause walks onto the stage. The audience applauds strongly. He has not even missed a step. Colin Brown

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The Stage In the cool and silent night the theatre sits, stoic and cold in its stately emptiness. It seems very dead standing there in the cold, yet long before the out- side floodlights are switched on, before the first fur- coated patrons arrive to mingle about the great dark doors, deep inside, life has begun. Inside the old east end stage door, past the snarly old guard nurs- ing his coffee cup, and beyond a single red sign de- claring “Silence”, lies the backstage world of the Royal Alexandra Theatre. Jake has worked at the Alex for thirty years. He sits with his feet propped up on a small table just off stage. “Sure, I’ll show ya the place,” he says. “Just be sure not to touch anything.” We go out onto the stage and I gaze out into the emptiness. From this viewpoint, with the theatre lighted only by the red glow of the “EXIT’ signs, one cannot discern any depth ahead of him. There is nothing but a wall of red velvet seats, stretching from your feet to the high arched ceiling. There is a total silence. It is very eerie. Jake escorts me around the massive living room set, chattering idly about amusing incidents that have occurred in the play so far. “Openin’ night,” he giggles. “Ya see the beer cans over there? Well, seems the trip up from De- troit didn’t agree with that there beer and Jeez, did she blow! Sprayed the cast, the lights, some of the audience, too. Missed a lighting cue I was laughing so hard.” I ask of the whereabouts of Forrest Tucker, The star of the production, who plays the coach. “Locked in his dressing room. Goes in coupla hours before showtime and no one goes near him. We knock on his door ten seconds before the lights go on and when he comes steamin’ out that door he is the coach and nobody better get in his way.” Soon on our tour we meet up with Tucker’s under- study, a giant man bearing a striking resemblance to George C. Scott, named Joe Hill. He sports green overalls and carries a well dog-eared script. “My bible,” he says. “Prompt ’em every night.” I ask him what it’s like being an understudy in a tra- velling company. “Hell, it ain’t bad. Get paid bout as much as the “bit part” actors and there’s really not that much work.” “Better clear the stage, men,” says Jake. “They 11 be opening the doors soon.” Outside the lights come on and the first theatre- 10

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Stratford ’74 On September 18, sixty-five third formers board- ed the buses for the two-hour trip to Stratford, On- tario. Along with Mr. and Mrs. Dale, Mr. Gordon, and Mr. Lawson, we were to see William Shake- speare s “ Love s Labour’s Lost”. Upon arriving at the theatre, we found that we had about two hours of free time to eat our box lunches and explore the surroundings and scenery. After a couple of hours of freedom most of us were ready for the play to begin. We were very pleased to discover that we had some of the best seats in the house, after we had fought our way through the crowds of other students. The lights dimmed, the crowd hushed, and the play began. We soon found out that the play was both a co- medy and a tragic love story — a mixture of crude Shakespearean humour and emotional Shakespear- ean drama. Although hard to describe in a few words, the play was summed up beautifully by the director, Michael Bawtree, who said, “. . . the young men, under the mocking fire of the girls, be- gin the real task of learning what it is to desire, what it is to love, and what it is to make a vow and keep it. All too soon the play was over, the lights flicked on, but the crowd remained silent. A ques- tion period was to follow, involving the world fa- mous William Hutt, and a young Stratford boy who had gained a part in the play. Like a shot from a gun, the crowd snapped out of its dazed state, and for the next twenty minutes the theatre was drowned in a torrent of questions. The bus trip home was a quiet one as sixty-five young men reflected on the lesson they had learned at Stratford. Michael Guy Victor Vasarely This school has been blessed with some very impressive art displays in past years, but Victor Va- serely’s display really shows a lack of imagination, I feel. It shows talent, but his ideas are all alike — starting with the basic black and white checkerboard patterns and moving into cir- cles and even a three dimensional effect; examples of which were worthwhile viewing. However I see nothing more than this in his art; no inner meaning, no beautiful landscapes or faces, just dots staring out insanely. It’s all too plain, with the only redeeming example being the three dimen- sional work; superimposing dots on dots by use of clear plastic. But it becomes so monotonous that you become hypnotized, something that I doubt he had in mind when he created it. Steve Jarvis 12