Scene breakdown
Part 1
I can’t describe what goes on during the Prologue for two reasons: there’s far too much of it, and most of it I’m not even consciously aware of. The entire ensemble is on stage in this scene, and director Haskell has divided us up into various groups, each of which has its own little story line to play out. For example, the Landlord stands behind the barrel at stage left, serving drinks to the characters nearby. A pair of rogues work their way through the crowd, picking pockets. The Lovers stroll through the middle of it all, oblivious to everything but each other. And so forth. I only pay attention to the other characters that I interact with, so there are undoubtedly other bits of action being played out on the far side of the stage that I don’t even notice. I can’t really stop and watch the play, can I?
So let me just describe what the Prologue is like from my own highly subjective point of view. In my mind, the scene breaks down into a series of shorter encounters:

1. The other quartet members and I enter, move to downstage center, and perform our “Love, Joy, Health, and Peace” song-and-dance number. At the end of the third verse, the red drape rises, revealing the townspeople. The quartet performs another dance routine, which ends with Anne and me downstage left as the Schoolmarm enters, downstage right, with her pupils behind her. Anne and I don’t like the Schoolmarm, so we hightail it upstage and join the knot of revelers around the Landlord’s barrel.
2. The Schoolmarm and her pupils are the focus of attention now, and the rest of us react as they interact with a pair of street urchins. (These kids are the same ones who play the Mouse Ponies and the Young Prince.) Then Mother Ginger (the town baker) enters with a tray of cookies, and the children crowd around while she and her assistant hand them out. We react to that too (much rubbing of stomachs, licking of lips, and sniffing the imaginary aroma of freshly-baked prop cookies).
3. The whole ensemble gathers at center stage to admire the Christmas tree and chatter about how lovely it is. Inspired by this, the quartet does another song-and-dance routine: “Here’s to thee, O Christmas tree, we wish thee all good cheer . . .”
4. As soon as we finish, we scurry out of the way of the Wooden Shoe Girls, who are already moving downstage. These lovely ladies perform a traditional holiday dance while the rest of us clap and cheer.
5. After the girls come the Hobbyhorses, two of the town’s youths in pantomime knight-on-horseback costumes. They play out a thrilling jousting match while we spectators choose sides, make hasty wagers, cheer one champion and boo the other, and go wild when one of the knights finally slays the other.
6. The entire ensemble now sings and dances a reprise of “Here’s to thee, O Christmas tree,” after which we all join hands in a long line that snakes back and forth across the stage and then play Crack the Whip, still singing, until we exit stage right.

End of Prologue! As the ensemble members troop down the stair to the dressing rooms, the Fairy Helpers finally come down from their pedestals (where they have been pretending to be statues throughout the prologue), and sing a song introducing the Fairy Godmother. At first they can’t find her, but they finally figure out she’s inside the Christmas tree, rotate it so that the opening in the back is exposed, and she emerges to sing another song with them. While this is going on, members of the running crew (who are hidden behind a backdrop) grab handles attached to the Christmas tree and move it off, stage left. (I describe this because the tree’s location becomes important later.)
Down in the dressing room, it’s time for the ensemble members to remove their prologue costumes and makeup and get ready for the Ball. As with my preparation for the prologue, this is a race against time, but I no longer pay attention to the clock. What’s important now is not what time it is, but what scene is currently being played out on stage. As I work on my makeup, I keep one ear cocked to the sound of the monitor speakers in the dressing room ceiling. Through these speakers, we can hear the dialogue and songs of the current scene (and since we all have the scene breakdown memorized by this point, this is all we need to keep track of where we are in the play). Here’s what I’m doing as the scenes prior to the Ball progress:
“Hi Diddle Dee”: I remove my prologue costume: first the top hat and hood, then the ruff collar and shirt, and finally the pants and jazz shoes. All of these get hung up or stowed on the shelf above the hanger rod. The white socks also come off, leaving me in my briefs and undershirt. I put on a pair of drawstring sleep pants and go across the hall to the men’s room. (I can’t walk around in my underwear, and I’m not ready to put on my pants for the Ball. The sleep pants are loose and comfortable — especially in the dressing room, which sometimes gets a bit hot and stuffy.)
“What’s to Become of Me?”: I peel off the stick-on earrings and toss them in the trash. Using a facial cleansing wipe, I remove those parts of my makeup that aren’t compatible with the Ball: the teardrop lines, eyebrows, and eyeliner (which is the wrong color for the Ball), the lipstick, and the circles of rouge on my cheeks.
“Get to Work”: For our Ball characters, we have to put on Restoration makeup, which begins with a very light (but still skin-colored) base. After experimenting with different types of makeup last year, I ended up using highlight makeup from my starter kit over my entire face. I needed something very pale, but not as pale as Clown White, and that fit the bill. Since last year’s prologue makeup had a darker, more natural flesh-toned base, I just cleaned it all off and started over when applying makeup for the Ball.
But this year, I’m wearing Clown White for the prologue. I don’t really have to clean that off; I just have to make it a bit darker and more flesh-toned. So I take my prologue base from last year (the darker, more natural-looking stuff) and dot it on over the Clown White. Then I use my fingers to blend the two together, producing a pale flesh-toned base suitable for the Ball. I spread this over the holes I created with the cleansing wipes, then blend it all until my entire face is a single, even color.
“King Darling the Third”: I apply eyeliner similar to what I wore for the prologue, but this time with a blue eye pencil (to match my Ball costume, which is blue). As before, this means drawing a line along each lower eyelid and high, arched, blue eyebrows. I apply mascara again, since most of it probably got wiped off when I was removing the black eyeliner after the prologue.
“If I Gave You A Silken Ribbon”: Time to apply lip color. This is the same lipstick I used for the prologue, but now it only goes on the middle third of my lips, in a heart shape. I’ve already blended the pale base makeup over the remainder of my lips. Creating this heart shape takes a little more precision than applying lipstick to the entire mouth, so I use a small brush to put the lipstick on.
“Knock! Knock! Knock!”: The Fairy Helpers are now delivering invitations to the Ball, so I’d better get busy if I’m going to be ready to attend it. I apply rouge to my cheeks, but this time it follows the natural line of my cheekbones instead of forming circles as it did in the clown makeup. Finally, I brush on a layer of translucent powder, and the makeup is finished.
“At the Ball”: Instead of painted-on beauty marks, we use glitter appliques from a party store, which come in various shapes (stars, moons, hearts curlicues) and colors. These are attached with spirit gum. John, who sits to my left in the dressing room, is a wizard with spirit gum (his prologue costume includes a fake mustache and beard), so I have him glue two heart appliques to my face. I make one more visit to the men’s room, then start putting my Ball costume on. Removing the sleep pants, I pull on a pair of white tights, carefully working them up each leg and pulling them taut so there are no wrinkles or sags. Over the tights go a pair of blue satin knee pants with suspenders. Next, I put on a pair of ordinary black dress shoes and add shoe trims — elastic bands with gold metallic flowers attached, which snap on over the instep and transform the plain shoes into fancy footwear suitable for the Ball. I’m now wearing the bottom half of my costume.
“By My Fire”: The ensemble sings during this number, but we do so invisibly from the stage left wings. I go down the hall, up the stairs, and join the other ensemble members who are congregating in the wings as Cinderella sings the solo part of the song. Once we’re all in place, we sing our verse as Dennis, who plays one of the Ugly Stepsisters, directs us. (We can’t see Jane or hear the orchestra over the sound of our own voices. Dennis stands at the edge of the stage where he can see and hear, and relays the tempo to us so we stay in step.) After the song ends, I go back downstairs to finish getting ready.
As the Fairy Godmother is transforming the pumpkin into a coach and the mice into horses, I put on the rest of my costume: a striped vest, a frilly jabot that fastens around my neck, and a jacket that matches my knee pants. A lace handkerchief is required for one bit of the “Sneeze Polka” scene, so I fold mine up and tuck it between two of the buttons of my vest (my costume has no pockets). Finally, I take a white yarn wig off the styrofoam head on my makeup table and place it on my head. My costume is complete, and I climb the stairs to the stage-right wings, from which I’ll be entering for the Ball.
When I get there, Cinderella’s scullery-maid dress has been magically transformed into a ball gown, and the Fairy Godmother is instructing her helpers to go with Cinderella to the Ball. Numerous other ensemble members are gathering in the wings, but we have to be careful where we stand. In a moment, the Stepmama’s House set will separate into two halves, which glide offstage into the wings (guided by a track that’s attached to the floor). We actors have to stay out of the path traveled by these set wagons. No problem: while I’m waiting for my entrance, I stand inside the Christmas tree, which is nearby in the wings, upstage of the track that the set wagons run on. From inside the tree, I watch while the running crew techs move the wagons off, secure them, and then move away. At this point I step out of the tree and advance to the edge of the stage, where Gina (my initial dance partner for the Ball) is already waiting. I’m behind her, so I touch her shoulder to let her know I’m there. We’re in place and ready for the Ball.
As the Mouse Ponies pull the coach offstage with Cinderella inside, the ensemble sings: “Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella, now it’s time your every dream came true!” The last note has to continue until the coach is offstage, so we hold it until the Fairy Godmother signals our cutoff. The FGM says, “I see by the stars that it’s time I was getting to the Ball as well! But of course I must remain invisible — for now.” As Jane plays the opening bars of the Ball music on her keyboard, Gina and I (and the rest of the ensemble) rush out onto the stage, take our places, and start to dance the Polonaise. The Ball has begun.

Now that I’ve given you the scene breakdown for Cinderella, I want to describe what I actually do in the show. Although the play is now over, I’ll write this in the present tense for simplicity. I’ll describe a 7:30 p.m. weekday performance, but this timeline is also valid for a 1:00 or 5:00 weekend show. I plan to stop and explain a number of things, and I’ll put those digressions in italics so you can skip them if you like.
Morning. After showering and before shaving, I apply a moisturizer to my face.
Like most guys, I normally don’t give much thought to my skin unless it malfunctions or something pokes a hole in it. But for actors, facial skin is a tool — the canvas on which you use makeup to paint your character. So keeping that skin in good condition becomes imperative. Applying and removing stage makeup several times a day dries out my face and leads to soreness (especially in the area around my eyes) if I don’t take precautions. At the makeup workshop on December 5, one of my fellow actors recommended a light, nongreasy moisturizer called Cetaphil, and that’s what I use.
5:00. Before leaving work, I eat supper at my desk.
During the show’s run, I prefer to drive directly from IBM to the theatre, so I bring my supper to work and eat in my office before leaving work. I either go out for lunch or bring that meal to work as well. This is one of the reasons I recently bought a bigger backpack.
5:45. I leave work and drive to the BTI Center. On the way over, I use my electric razor to touch up my shave. When you’re applying stage makeup, you don’t want to have any stubble.
6:15. I arrive at the theatre, sign in on the call board, and walk down the corridor to the ensemble men’s dressing room. Removing everything from my pockets (wallet, keys, coin purse, Swiss Army knife, Palm), I store it all in a pocket of my backpack. I turn off my mobile phone and put it in too, along with my wristwatch. I stash the backpack against the wall underneath my costumes (which are hanging on a rod that runs along one wall of the dressing room). I visit the restroom. (I’m a bit paranoid about making sure my bladder is empty before I go on stage.)
6:30. The other cast members have been arriving, and now someone knocks on our door and says it’s time for vocal warmups. We climb the stairs to the stage, where the entire cast is assembling, most still clad in street clothes, some with their makeup partly done already. Music director Jane is sitting at her keyboard in the orchestra pit, and she leads us through a few minutes of voice exercises. When she’s done, ensemble member Elanah takes over and leads stretching exercises.
If the stage manager or anyone else has announcements for the cast, this is when they speak up. For example, a cast member may say, “You’re all invited to a cast party at my place after Thursday’s performance. I’ll post handouts with directions on the call board.” On December 20th, Jane surprised me by announcing that it was my birthday and playing “Happy Birthday” on her keyboard while the whole cast sang to me. Until that moment, I had completely forgotten that it was my birthday.
6:40. Back in the dressing room, I remove my glasses and put in contact lenses. I use a facial-cleansing wipe to clean my skin and then apply moisturizer. I take off my street shoes and put them with my backpack, then remove my street clothes (leaving only my underwear) and put on the RLT-provided white undershirt, the bottom half of my Prologue costume (baggy white clown pants with elastic suspenders), and white crew socks. I fold my street clothes and place them on the shelf above the rod where my costumes hang.
The contacts are daily-wear lenses that I obtained for the play, because I can’t wear my glasses on stage. Lenses that completely correct my vision would have to be special-ordered and would be too expensive, so these lenses correct only my nearsightedness and not my astigmatism. I couldn’t use them for driving, but they’re perfectly fine for use on stage, where I just have to see well enough to avoid walking into the scenery.
6:50. I visit the restroom again. Time to get started on my makeup. I open my makeup kit, pull out my container of Clown White, and start applying it to my face. Using the tip of my index finger, I put dots of makeup on my forehead, cheeks, chin, and nose until I look like I’ve contracted some horrible disease, then spread it evenly over my entire face from hairline to jaw line.
My makeup kit is a small tackle box that I bought at Wal-Mart during last year’s Cinderella. Many actors use triangular cosmetic sponges to apply and blend makeup, but I prefer using my fingertips because it gives me better control of where the makeup goes. This may be because all of the foundations I’ve used so far are creams — if I were using a powder base, the sponges might be more useful. On the other hand, I might just use a cosmetic puff instead.
7:00. The speakers in the dressing-room ceiling come to life as the stage manager or one of the ASMs (assistant stage managers) announces that the house is open (audience members are now being seated) and then says “25 minutes until places.” I apply lipstick, then start using an eyeliner pencil and mascara to define my eyes.
Stage makeup sometimes is used to change your appearance for a role — adding lines to make you look older, for example — but its basic function is to make your features visible to the audience. Without makeup, the combination of distance and bright lighting will make your face look like a featureless oval. So you have to use foundation and lipstick to restore color, eye makeup to emphasize the borders of your eyes, and highlight and shadow makeup to exaggerate raised areas (such as cheekbones or the bridge of your nose) and hollows (under your cheekbones and eyebrow ridges, for example). Highlight and shadow don’t apply to clown makeup, but I define my eyes by using mascara to darken my upper eyelashes and by drawing a line along the edge of each lower eyelid with a black eyebrow pencil. And, of course, lipstick makes my mouth visible.
7:10. “Fifteen minutes to places” comes over the speakers. I use the eyebrow pencil to draw high, arched eyebrows above my real eyebrows, which are more or less obscured by the Clown White. The Pierrot style of clown makeup calls for stylized teardrops, so I draw a short black line downward from the center of each lower eyelid. Using a small brush, I draw circles on each cheek with rouge. After applying a layer of translucent powder over my entire face, I open a pair of small stick-on earrings (hearts or diamonds) and glue one to the bottom of each teardrop line.
The purpose of the translucent powder is to “set” the makeup, giving it a dry surface that hopefully won’t rub off on things. Our costumer originally gave me small rhinestones to use as teardrops, glued to my face with spirit gum. But the Cinderella concession stand in the lobby sells stick-on earrings (along with tiaras, magic wands, and so forth), and these turn out to be perfect for use as teardrops. Since they have their own adhesive, no spirit gum is required — I can just peel them off the backing paper and press them on.
7:20. “Five minutes to places.” The makeup’s done. I visit the restroom one more time (I told you I’m paranoid about this). Time to finish getting dressed. I put on black jazz shoes (no big floppy clown shoes for me, I have to dance in this outfit!), then remove the top half of my costume (a big, baggy white shirt with long sleeves) from its hanger. This shirt has a drawstring collar that ties in the back, so I put it on over my head backwards, pull the drawstring tight in the front and tie it, then turn it around and put my arms through the sleeves. There’s also a separate black ruff collar, which ties around my neck with a ribbon. Finally, I put on the Pierrot headgear: a close-fitting black hood (instead of a wig) and a black top hat. I check my makeup in the mirror to make sure I haven’t smudged it.
7:25. “Actors to places, please.” Stepping out into the corridor, I meet the other three members of the quartet, and we climb the stairs to the stage left wings. The stage left ASM and several other crew members are there, and cast members greet us quietly or say “break a leg” as they pass through to take up their places behind the red drape. The Fairy Godmother (FGM) and Curtis, who plays one of her helpers, arrive. (The other helper is already in the stage right wings.) We can hear the audience murmuring in the house.
The red drape is a curtain that conceals the townspeople while we (the quartet) sing our song in front of it. We are a troupe of traveling entertainers who are arriving in the town as the play begins. As we enter, we ad-lib chatter about the town and our journey, stop and ad-lib more comments about the audience and the fancy clock on the archway over the stage, then begin our song. As we finish, the drape rises to reveal the townspeople, and the prologue really gets under way. The fairy helpers are on stage during the prologue, but they stand frozen on pedestals on both sides of the stage, pretending to be statues. A large conical Christmas tree stands in the center of the stage, acting as a centerpiece for the scene. It’s also the where the FGM is hidden during the prologue — it’s hollow and has a door-shaped opening in the side that faces away from the audience.
7:30. The townspeople are in place, and one of the crew members reports to the ASM that the FGM is now in the tree. A prerecorded announcement in the FGM’s voice plays over the house speakers, pointing out the locations of the fire exits and asking audience members to turn off their phones and pagers. The five of us (quartet and Curtis) wait as the final moments tick away, mentally reviewing our song lyrics and dance steps. We hear applause from the audience as a spotlight picks out Jane in the orchestra pit. She bows, the spotlight flicks off, and the house lights fade. Curtis moves past us onto the dark stage and steps up onto his pedestal. The quartet is already lined up in the order of our entrances — Anne first, then me, followed by Meredith and John. As we tiptoe to the edge of the stage, Jane begins playing on her keyboard the sound of the town clock striking the hour. That’s our cue. The lights come up on stage as we start our ad-lib chatter, walk out on stage, react to the clock and the audience, and begin to sing.
(Continued in Part 2.)