14.

‘Stop laughing in the asylum, you’re not meant to be happy!’

Perfecting the art of corpsing

During my early performances at the Hamilton Operatic Society in the early 1990s, I discovered the unfortunate plague of corpsing – laughing – onstage. To this day it is something I suffer from, and at times I find it difficult to control. I’ve heard it referred to as ‘exquisite agony’, and the phrase sums it up perfectly: ‘exquisite’ because in the moment it seems to be the funniest thing on earth, and ‘agony’ because you know you’re quickly heading down a very slippery slope in front of a live audience, and it is very much frowned upon. Worst of all, the moments in which I crumble are never in scenes that are meant to be comedic. It’s always the complete opposite. Sometimes it’s just me trying to suppress my laughter while surrounded by my colleagues, but at other times, there’s a few of us heading into that dangerous territory. And when we’ve been directed to be together in that particular moment onstage, recovery can be difficult – or, at times, impossible.

It all started during a particular Pirates performance back at the Hamilton Operatic Society in 1991, with my friend Miranda Sandford. Dancing her way across the stage as one of General Stanley’s daughters (he had a few), her wig flew off her head and landed in the lap of the pianist playing in the orchestra pit. Then, while giving my best impression of a young and coquettish daughter, my sandalwood fan collapsed all over the stage as a crew of dashing pirates came towards me, thus forcing me to crouch behind a rock, scrambling to put the fan back together. I decided to go for the trifecta that evening, and during Act Two, as Mabel and her sisters are trying to console their father, the ‘modern major-general’, the base of my candle fell out and two large batteries rolled down to the front of the stage, remaining there for the rest of the performance. This might not have looked out of place if we hadn’t been wearing nineteenth-century nightgowns and white nightcaps. After this performance, I lost the ability to be a true professional.

I admire and respect the many colleagues of mine who never seem to corpse onstage. I find it amazing, and I have no idea how they achieve it. These are also people who can make others lose focus, yet they will never fall for their own jokes. It’s certainly a skill I don’t possess! There’s not enough space to list them all here, so I will just stick with a few that are worth a mention.

Emma Castelli and I can both recall the moment onstage during a performance of Verdi’s Un ballo in maschera back in 2008 when we caught this horrible affliction, and this memory still makes us laugh. Unfortunately, during a very serious and emotionally charged scene, we had to look at each other and react in an alarmed manner, expressing serious concern for the principal going through a tough time. To add to the problem, we were sitting directly downstage left and clearly visible to the large audience, who were probably also concerned by the principal’s impending demise. Little did we know that this scene would herald the start of us not being able to look at each other onstage for years to come, and if ever either one of us lapsed and caught a glimpse, the crumbling would be almost instantaneous.

Fast-forward a few years, and Emma and I found ourselves faced with the same dilemma. We were both cast in the production of Don Giovanni for Oz Opera – Emma singing the role of Donna Anna and me singing Donna Elvira. Early in the rehearsal process, we were creating a scene from scratch which required us to be serious and heartbroken, but as much as we tried, each time we had to look at each other we would start laughing. The director very kindly gave us some time to refocus and get it out of our system, which we eventually managed to do, thankfully – or at least just long enough to finish building the scene and break for lunch. We kept it together for most performances, but on occasion the giggles still simmered just under the surface, so I had to find a way to deliver the lines by looking at a spot on Emma’s forehead rather than making eye contact. Only when we exited the stage could we relax, have a good laugh and get it out of our system until our next entry.

Neither of us could work out why we couldn’t hold it together. There are so many colleagues with whom I have enjoyed a chuckle onstage, but we’ve been able to move on and not let it affect us afterwards. But with Emma it was different. I am proud to say that over time, especially over the last few years, we’ve been miraculously cured and can now converse onstage like the professionals we are paid to be. We will even comment on this achievement in the dressing room, congratulating ourselves on how far we’ve come. But I believe it will always be there, dormant, just waiting to be released at the most inappropriate time.

I am ashamed to say that not only have I been affected in my role as a chorister but also as a principal artist, which is much worse – in fact, unacceptable! Especially when you’re meant to be singing and you don’t have 40 other voices to carry you. One such clanger happened during a performance of The Marriage of Figaro, when performing the pivotal role of First Bridesmaid. The Second Bridesmaid role was performed by Margaret Plummer, a gorgeous mezzo who used to be in the chorus before she moved overseas and forged an incredibly successful solo career. At just over a minute long, our duet for the Count and Countess at the wedding between Figaro and Susanna shouldn’t really have raised any issues, but during one performance, as soon as the music began, I was already crying with laughter after sharing a joke with a colleague as we were called to the stage for the scene. One particular principal knew how easily I could crumble, and he certainly tested my professionalism on more than one occasion, all while maintaining the perfect poker face.

After a pathetic attempt at trying to sing the first few words, my vocal contribution came to a grinding halt, leaving Margaret to sing a solo. Even though she sang beautifully, the mezzo vocal line wasn’t the most exciting. Realising she was holding the production together on her own, she decided to boot me from behind, trying to rid me of my ailment. This came as a complete surprise and the kick ended up being much harder than she had intended. It certainly didn’t fix the situation – I still couldn’t sing and now I had a sore bum. I had passed the point of no return. Tears of laughter flowed, and to make matters worse, others had joined in.

To top it off, shortly after the duet, all the ‘servants’ were directed to assemble down in the mid-stage area, where we would pose for a photo and freeze as a secret exchange played out between Susanna and Count Almaviva – a moment pivotal to the storyline. For some reason, I hit my mark on the floor next to the Count a fraction too late. A particular chord in the score determined the freeze, and we were to stay in that position until the music changed. Unfortunately, when I froze like a deer in the headlights, I found myself crouching in a very uncomfortable position right next to the Count’s shoulder – and, worst of all, lit up like a beacon, sharing their spotlight, staring right out into the audience, and trying not to lose it again!

***

As well as mastering the ability of setting in motion my own demise, I have worked with some hilarious colleagues who have thought it a genius idea to plant the seed, then sit back and watch it play out. In the New Zealand tour of Così fan tutte, something very unsavoury had been placed into my bean colander at the start of the Act One finale. Most of the cast already knew me as an easy target when it came to laughing onstage, and so this plan had been hatched quite some time before being executed and receiving the exact reaction they were hoping for. Sometime during the tour, a particular singer had received a ‘Grow Your Own Penis’ as a joke, which, when placed in a bowl of water, started to increase in size. While playing the cheeky maid Despina and conversing with Don Alfonso, I multitasked by blanching beans, as you do. Suddenly, during my recitative, I accidentally picked up the slimy, cold and now rather large item. Realising what I’d grabbed, I dropped it instantly and attempted to sing the rest of my music downstage, as far away from Don Alfonso as possible – but, once again, the tears started pouring down my cheeks. Recitative is usually solely accompanied by harpsichord, so the rest of the orchestra had risen from their seats, trying to look up to the stage to see what had happened. I managed to squawk out the few remaining lines before exiting the stage and falling on the ground laughing. Lost in my moment of complete hilarity, I happened to glance up at the stage manager, who stared right back at me – her face sending a completely different message. I jumped off the floor and scarpered before she could say a word.

Depending on what mood I’m in or how tired I am, practically anything can get me going. Other people’s costume disasters are enough to set me off, and of course it’s going to happen when I’m singing on my own. During my solo as Cupid in Offenbach’s Orpheus in the Underworld, the lead female character, Eurydice, would enter the stage wearing a rather large necklace as part of her costume, one that always reminded me a little of Wilma Flintstone’s. One night, while posed on a table, directing my aria to the entire company, individual beads from her necklace started dropping onto the floor and rolling around the stage. This alerted a member of the chorus, who began scurrying around on his hands and knees, attempting to pick them up. As the beads gained momentum and started bouncing all over the place, forcing more people to scramble across the stage to retrieve them, my ‘singing’ became more like a squawk while I tried to keep it together until the end of my solo. The expression on the principal’s face certainly didn’t help my situation, and as she watched the beads slowly leave her neck, she laughed too. Lucky for her, the audience were only seeing her back, not her face!

During a scene in the Shostakovich opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, the chorus sings a beautiful number directly downstage facing the audience. Imagine the scene: a temporary convict camp in the harsh Siberian winter, it’s freezing cold, life isn’t going well and the general outlook is bleak. Snow starts to fall all around us, but instead, in one performance, a few pink flower petals gracefully cascade onto the stage from above. I’m not talking about a vast number – maybe four or five – but they happened to land right where I was sitting. These petals were only supposed to fall during performances of Madama Butterfly, one of the other operas scheduled in the season. And yes, you guessed it, to my horror the tears of laughter started falling, just as inappropriately as the pink petals. So, as you’ve probably worked out, it certainly doesn’t take much and sadly, a tiny pink petal is enough to set me off.

Sometimes it’s our own handling of the props that causes the unintentional comedy in an otherwise sombre scene, and I’m not the only one that faces this dilemma. In Gounod’s opera Faust, the well-known ‘Soldiers’ Chorus’ in Act Four is one of my favourite male chorus numbers in all of opera. In our production, the curtain opens on a scene of wounded soldiers returning from battle, some standing, some sitting up and others lying on stretchers. Suddenly, the female chorus have become experts in first aid, and we quickly check on the wounded soldiers, assessing their injuries and administering a variety of bandages, splints and tourniquets to the injured bodies of our colleagues. Even though this is a serious scene, some of the attempts at bandaging limbs and heads in a short space of time, before the male chorus rise from the stage floor, gather their weapons or crutches and present this heart-rending number to the audience, has literally left me with tears rolling down my cheeks, before I too am directed to turn and face the audience. Along with two other female choristers, I have sometimes had Nara Lee as my allocated patient in this scene, and he ends up being wrapped in so many bandages – plus a leg splint thrown in for good measure – that it’s a wonder he even manages to get off his stretcher and see where he’s going, let alone stand upright and sing. For the audience, I hope it looks as though we are all so affected by the scene around us that we are weeping tears of sadness.

***

Some of the costumes we are asked to wear, as glorious as they are, can be downright dangerous, especially if there’s a gown with a train involved. These extra bits of fabric trail behind us as we walk and look magnificent onstage, and most of them are exquisitely made with beading, brocade, lace or layered fabric. But if they’re not picked up properly, or if you happen to stand on the back of someone else’s costume or trip up on the tiniest part of it, it can spell disaster.

I experienced a few falls during the run of My Fair Lady. The Ascot scene requires a poker face from every member of the cast; the only character onstage who shows any enthusiasm for the horse race is, of course, Eliza Doolittle. It is a perfectly timed number choreographed to the music, with the movement and freezes happening at very precise moments. After my initial freeze, I would move slowly towards my final position, then hit my mark, strike the pose, look out to the audience with a deadpan expression and begin to sing. One night, I suddenly found myself crouching on the floor – one minute I was standing, and the next minute I was not. Dressed in the most exquisite white gown, with a hat wider than I am featuring a stunning array of feathers, I must have looked like the dying swan slowly dropping to the floor. Thankfully a colleague helped me up. Once back in an upright position, my magnetic jewellery decided to fall off, which I managed to grab in my left hand before I had to get into position to sing. It took all my strength and professionalism to hold the expressionless look on my face. Being the corpser I am, I found there were other times in the Ascot scene when I couldn’t look at any of the principal characters, as their vacant expressions while delivering their lines and exquisite comic timing would cause me to fall to pieces. I maintained that poker face by forcing myself to conjure up a variety of sad scenarios in my head – heartless, I know, but I was clutching at straws here. Also, just to add to my misfortune, early in the season I knew that Julie Andrews would be in the audience watching, and how unprofessional of me would it have been to lose it in front of her? I never found this scene easy!

I decided to pay the stage floor another visit in My Fair Lady – this time, after the initial freeze as the curtain rose on the show, revealing the opening scene. I still don’t know how it happened. I landed hard on my left knee, straight onto the solid stage floor, while the rest of the cast continued the scene around me. A few of the guys came to my rescue and helped me up and then I tried to finish the scene onstage. After exiting, I realised I’d hurt my knee rather badly, and as I sat down on a chair in the wings an industrial-sized icepack was immediately placed on my kneecap. In the end I went home and took the next two performances off.

A few days later, I began physiotherapy as part of workers compensation and met with an injury assessor, who seemed to be asking me every question under the sun. Knowing that I had injured my knee onstage during a performance, she asked, ‘Did anyone witness this fall?’ Astounded, I remember saying, ‘Um, probably around 2000 people!’

I thought she would have thought that slightly amusing, but she replied with an ‘Mmm, right’, which was followed by the sound of keys clicking on a keyboard. I’d like to add that at the time I fell, I was wearing a large, mauve, satin organza opera gown with a long, deep-pink pleated skirt, and a feather in my wig so high I had to crouch backstage to prevent it skimming the ceiling of the corridors. No, love, no witnesses – not one of those 2000 people in the audience, nor my colleagues on or off the stage, could possibly have seen what happened!

Although it may appear that I spend most of my time onstage laughing inappropriately, on the floor, breaking props, dropping handbags and dodging potential disasters, you’ll be relieved to hear that these incidents are few and far between. Thank God, because if I did them as regularly as it sounds, I don’t think I’d have a job!