Tommy Karr

In 1997 I was attending The University of Tennessee, pursuing a degree in Theatre, with an emphasis on performance (more specifically, musical theatre performance) but had dabbled in stage management… exactly once… as the assistant stage manager on a production of Grease.  I suppose I did a good job because I was asked to stage manager a production of Max Frisch’s Andorra that spring.  Feeling like I’d been picked based on merit I didn’t want to let anyone down and quickly accepted.  It would be difficult but I enjoyed a good challenge and quickly set about preparing for the show.

Enter Liviu Ciulei.  Mr. Ciulei was hired to direct the production and though I knew about him from my theatre history courses I didn’t realize the gravitas that he exuded.  Here was a man, already 74 years old, who had achieved every possible success in his theatrical and film career.  Here, also, was a man who relished his smoke breaks which, causing much nervousness on my part, were taken on top of his nicotine patch and nicotine gum.  I was sure that this rough and demanding man might spontaneously combust at any moment.  But he was strong and determined and, when asking about our rehearsal schedule, was shocked to learn that we were not an Equity production – as he had assumed.  Yes, the Clarence Brown Theatre was an Equity house (LORT D to be precise) but this was a “University production”.  The cast was mostly graduate students, the crew was mostly comprised of students earning credit toward their Stage Technologies class.  And I was merely a junior who was as surprised by Mr. Ciulei’s confusion as he was by my answer, “No sir, our rehearsal schedule is 7-11pm, six nights a week.”

The old man flew into a rage, “This cannot be!”  He demanded an Equity schedule, 2-6pm, a one hour dinner break, and then 7-11pm.  Shaking, but firm, I explained that we just couldn’t do it.  The students had classes to attend in the afternoon.  It just wasn’t possible.  Little did I know that, for Mr. Ciulei, nothing was impossible.  He made arrangements with the director of the graduate acting program and arranged for extra rehearsals during the day… which I would not be able to attend, nor would the undergraduates who could not be asked to alter their class schedules.

So it was up to me to find ways to solve problems, answer questions and log the blocking without being present from 2-6pm.  And Mr. Ciulei expected nothing less than absolute perfection from me, the cast, the crew and the theatre’s management.

This perfection led to his dismissal (though I’m not sure how official it was at the time) of the set designer because things were not exactly as he wanted them… based on his original designs which he provided in the beginning.  He took over as designer on top of his directing duties and in between his trifecta of nicotine intake sessions.  He was frenzied in action but controlled in process.  I was perpetually terrified that this giant of the theatre would yell at me for some failing I didn’t realize I had and bent over backwards to ensure that his way was THE way… so much so that the stress eventually caused shooting pains through my back and into my groin to the point that I was rushed to the emergency room during one of the final dress rehearsals.  Mr. Ciulei didn’t blink.

After a night in the E.R. and a clean bill of health (along with some pain killers and anti-anxiety pills) I came back to rehearsals the following night and we finished up the show.  I was fine, the show was set and Mr. Ciulei was happy… I thought.

It the next night, at the first performance, that all Holy Hell broke loose.

In the final, critical moment of the show, Andri (the lead character) is about to have his finger cut off in order to retrieve a ring that “the Blacks” (implying the Blackshirts) have asked him to relinquish.  He refuses and (spoiler alert) the Soldier’s knife comes down just as the theatre it thrown into darkness and all we hear is Andri’s scream.  This is how it was supposed to happen.  This is how Mr. Ciulei has directed it to happen.  It was so precise.  The knife would come down and just before reaching Andri’s hand I would call for the light cue and the entire house would be swaddled in absolute darkness.  The only hint of what had occurred would be Andri’s cry.  But not this night.

This night, as the knife came down and I called into the headset, “Light cue ____, go!” (I can’t recall the specific number) instead of sending the space into darkness EVERY LIGHT IN THE BUILDING CAME ON!

“Holy sh….” and I turned to see the light board operator (another student) staring blankly at the board as though it was grown wings and begun to fly away.  She just started yelling, “I don’t know! I don’t know!” And then I turned back to my window, which happened to be at eye level with the last row in the theatre… directly behind Mr. Ciulei’s seat.  But he wasn’t sitting.  His body contorted, twisting as he rose up and spun around.  His crooked old form bent in an unholy manner and he began to bang his fists against the glass.  “What have you done?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?”

He is going to kill me!  It was all I could do to not pass out or scream in pain at the stress-induced agony that was streaming down my back.  “Sit down!” I mouthed, suddenly bold and in charge.  Who the hell said that? I was confused by my own words.  Then he moved… ran out of view and toward the door to the stage management booth.  “LOCK THE DOOR!” I screamed in a stage whisper, only loud enough for the light board operator to hear.  She jumped up and clicked the dead bolt.  Then there was knocking, a soft, delicate knock.

“Tommy?  It’s me, John.”  The lighting designer.  He was here to rescue me from this absolute Hell.  The light board operator opened the door and John bolted in, throwing his fingers over the controls and dropping the theatre into blackness.

“What happened?” he said as the action on stage returned to normal and the audience slowly sank back into the intended drama.

“I dont’ know.  We went into light cue ____ and then everything went BRIGHT!”  We had rehearsed the lighting over and over… there was no way I had called it wrong.  This was the next cue… a total blackout.  How… why… I mean… I was at a loss.

“I must apologize,” Mr. Ciulei said, at the Opening Night reception a few days later.  He handed me a credit card, “Please, go order cakes for everyone.  I will pay for it.”  What??  Now I was supremely confused.  This man, this epic, giant, historical figure, who had accused me of destroying his art (for which he had garnered worldwide praise and secured a Tony Award for the Guthrie Theatre which he ran from 1980-85) was apologizing to me.

“I’m sorry sir, but I’m confused.  Why are you apologizing?”

He laughed.  The afternoon before the first performance, he explained, he had gone to the theatre to photograph the set.  But the work lights weren’t bright enough for him to get a good shot so, after finding a way into the booth and playing with the light board, he managed to get everything… EVERY FREAKING LIGHT… turned on.  He took his photos, turned everything off again and left.  No one even knew he had been there.

What he didn’t realize, and what was now making him laugh (and wheeze) was that he had saved this supernova of stage lighting over the blackout cue… completely by accident and without even realizing what he had done.

“You did nothing wrong,” he said and grabbed my face, pulling me in close.  He kissed both my cheeks (a sweet, if not tobacco-flavored, gesture) and then hugged me.  “You did a very good job.  I am very demanding and you did a very good job with me.  You should be proud.”  And with that he excused himself to mingle with the rest of the partygoers.

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME!?  Do not get me wrong.  I was relieved.  I was more than relieved.  I was beaming with pride that this icon, this revolutionary force in the world of theatre, had applauded my work.  But for all his preciseness and meticulous care and cultivation of the show, his single mistake caused an agonizing night of terror for me.  I am sure that, in hindsight, the entire horrible experience lasted only seconds but in my memory it seemed to stretch on for hours, all while he banged on the window like a mob of angry villagers on the mad doctor’s castle door.

But he was generous.  He didn’t have to admit what had happened but he did.  He didn’t have to tell me that I did a good job but he did.  He didn’t have to buy a bunch of cakes as a thank you to the cast and crew but he did.

I logged on tonight and read the news that Mr. Ciulei had passed away today at the age of 88.  In the fourteen years since I worked with him I’ve always looked back and thought, “If I could survive Liviu Ciulei I can do anything in this business.”  And I have.  And it is too late to thank him in return for making me understand that but I am sure he knows.  He molded many artists throughout his career and, as with his direction, was very precise in how he chose to cast those molds.

Mr. Ciulei, you will be missed.  I hope that it as bright up there as it was that fateful night on stage.