Endurance theater
American Players and its fans vs. the elements
Carissa Dixon
The image of classical theater being a genteel, “My goodness, dear, I think I spilled a spot of merlot on my white gloves”-type enterprise is turned on its head at American Players Theatre. Thees and thous notwithstanding, APT’s open-air amphitheater—tucked deep within the Spring Green woods—makes for an experience where the outdoor environment is an omnipresent consideration for performers and attendees alike. Decider went rooting around backstage for an extreme guide to one of the most unique theatergoing experiences in the country.
The stage
Hast thou considered the stage? Probably not, and why would you? It’s a stage—you know, flat and boring. But at APT it’s a huge concern, says 17-year APT vet and Production Stage Manager Evelyn Matten. It’s black, and during a steamy 100-degree matinee performance it can easily be 10 to 20 degrees hotter than whatever the thermometer is reading. Matten tells of one particularly sweltering day where an actress had to lie on the stage for 20 minutes, playing dead. When the scene was over, and they went to carry her off, she couldn’t be lifted because her clay earring had melted to the stage.
The animals
APT’s amphitheater isn’t near the woods, or kind of in the woods, it’s really in the woods. And along with the many trees come bats, squirrels, snakes, and mosquitoes. Shitloads of mosquitoes. The actors shrug off the constant buzzing and biting as one more reason to focus and stay in character, but what of you, the sitting-duck, thick-veined attendees? First off, lather up with the complimentary bug spray provided before you enter. It’s also a good idea to keep your head on a swivel for bigger critters, as there are stories of skunks wandering down the aisles during performances, and of a particularly disruptive flying squirrel who jumped over the entire 1,148-seat amphitheater and landed onstage mid-scene.
The weather
At APT, the weather is always on the minds, and usually on the skin, of all those involved. Definitely not for the easily wilted, APT takes its cues from the U.S. Postal Service: rain, extreme heat, even snow will not derail a show as long as there are audience members with their asses planted in the seats. There are even a few cast members who are EMTs and ready to jump into the audience at the first sign of heatstroke. Both the audience members and the actors consider the varying range of weather to be some sort of theatrical badge of honor, and Paul Bentzen, 26-year APT company member, recalls a time when it was raining so hard the actors’ rubber prosthetics were melting off their faces. “We looked like lepers,” he says. “Performing here is almost militaristic; it makes you feel elite.”
The parachute
Because the show rehearsals take place in the soup-like humidity of the most miserable days of summer, adaptation has been key. In the late ’90s, APT bought a used military parachute (the sort that are used to drop vehicles out of planes) to rig up over the stage to cut the direct sunlight. The last replacement chute was purchased shortly after 9/11, and buying it wasn’t as simple as heading down to the nearest parachute store. Producing Artistic Director David Frank is not a U.S. citizen, so the process involved reams of detailed explanations to government-type folks. “We had to prove it wasn’t for questionable purposes,” Matten says. “They didn’t know exactly what we were up to.”
The garb
APT’s elaborate period costumes present numerous challenges, and often they’re designed with specific heat and cold plans in mind. The stage crew adds silks, jackets, gloves, and hidden heat packs when it’s frigid, and the opposite for the extreme heat: exposing more skin, hiding ice packs around the performers’ cores, and making sure everyone is continually hydrated. But sometimes it’s not quite that simple. Bentzen was involved in a typically schizophrenic Wisconsin weather day in 1983 where a single performance included snow, rain, and of course, a little sunshine for good measure.
The audience
Packers fans get all the publicity, but there’s really very little difference between the cheesehead-wearing crew at Lambeau Field and APT’s wine-sipping, equally rabid patrons. Kathy Hiteman has been attending APT for 18 years, and she sees each play three to four times a season. Not surprisingly, she has her own personal weather plan down pat. Heat: as few clothes as possible, sunscreen, hat, and a simple shrug when asked about her post-show half-face sunburn. Cold: winter coat, stocking hat, gloves, and sleeping bag. Rain: raincoat and a trash bag to set over her legs. “I know I care too much,” she says. “But it’s just too good.”
The karma
When there are this many variables thrown into the stew, there are bound to be moments where the unpredictable and intricately choreographed align serendipitously. Take, for instance, a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream when the stage was filled with fake fairies and a giant Luna moth flitted through the proceedings, leading more than one audience member to ooh and ahh and ask if it was planned. Or a different performance when Titania spoke the line, “Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,” at the precise moment a bat flew directly in front of her face.
The stage
Hast thou considered the stage? Probably not, and why would you? It’s a stage—you know, flat and boring. But at APT it’s a huge concern, says 17-year APT vet and Production Stage Manager Evelyn Matten. It’s black, and during a steamy 100-degree matinee performance it can easily be 10 to 20 degrees hotter than whatever the thermometer is reading. Matten tells of one particularly sweltering day where an actress had to lie on the stage for 20 minutes, playing dead. When the scene was over, and they went to carry her off, she couldn’t be lifted because her clay earring had melted to the stage.
The animals
APT’s amphitheater isn’t near the woods, or kind of in the woods, it’s really in the woods. And along with the many trees come bats, squirrels, snakes, and mosquitoes. Shitloads of mosquitoes. The actors shrug off the constant buzzing and biting as one more reason to focus and stay in character, but what of you, the sitting-duck, thick-veined attendees? First off, lather up with the complimentary bug spray provided before you enter. It’s also a good idea to keep your head on a swivel for bigger critters, as there are stories of skunks wandering down the aisles during performances, and of a particularly disruptive flying squirrel who jumped over the entire 1,148-seat amphitheater and landed onstage mid-scene.
The weather
At APT, the weather is always on the minds, and usually on the skin, of all those involved. Definitely not for the easily wilted, APT takes its cues from the U.S. Postal Service: rain, extreme heat, even snow will not derail a show as long as there are audience members with their asses planted in the seats. There are even a few cast members who are EMTs and ready to jump into the audience at the first sign of heatstroke. Both the audience members and the actors consider the varying range of weather to be some sort of theatrical badge of honor, and Paul Bentzen, 26-year APT company member, recalls a time when it was raining so hard the actors’ rubber prosthetics were melting off their faces. “We looked like lepers,” he says. “Performing here is almost militaristic; it makes you feel elite.”
The parachute
Because the show rehearsals take place in the soup-like humidity of the most miserable days of summer, adaptation has been key. In the late ’90s, APT bought a used military parachute (the sort that are used to drop vehicles out of planes) to rig up over the stage to cut the direct sunlight. The last replacement chute was purchased shortly after 9/11, and buying it wasn’t as simple as heading down to the nearest parachute store. Producing Artistic Director David Frank is not a U.S. citizen, so the process involved reams of detailed explanations to government-type folks. “We had to prove it wasn’t for questionable purposes,” Matten says. “They didn’t know exactly what we were up to.”
The garb
APT’s elaborate period costumes present numerous challenges, and often they’re designed with specific heat and cold plans in mind. The stage crew adds silks, jackets, gloves, and hidden heat packs when it’s frigid, and the opposite for the extreme heat: exposing more skin, hiding ice packs around the performers’ cores, and making sure everyone is continually hydrated. But sometimes it’s not quite that simple. Bentzen was involved in a typically schizophrenic Wisconsin weather day in 1983 where a single performance included snow, rain, and of course, a little sunshine for good measure.
The audience
Packers fans get all the publicity, but there’s really very little difference between the cheesehead-wearing crew at Lambeau Field and APT’s wine-sipping, equally rabid patrons. Kathy Hiteman has been attending APT for 18 years, and she sees each play three to four times a season. Not surprisingly, she has her own personal weather plan down pat. Heat: as few clothes as possible, sunscreen, hat, and a simple shrug when asked about her post-show half-face sunburn. Cold: winter coat, stocking hat, gloves, and sleeping bag. Rain: raincoat and a trash bag to set over her legs. “I know I care too much,” she says. “But it’s just too good.”
The karma
When there are this many variables thrown into the stew, there are bound to be moments where the unpredictable and intricately choreographed align serendipitously. Take, for instance, a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream when the stage was filled with fake fairies and a giant Luna moth flitted through the proceedings, leading more than one audience member to ooh and ahh and ask if it was planned. Or a different performance when Titania spoke the line, “Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,” at the precise moment a bat flew directly in front of her face.
