Urgent, Quiet Reality

At Lookingglass, it’s a tradition to open up the first rehearsal of any production to all administrative staff members—the designers give a presentation, the actors have a read-through of the script, and everyone comes away with an intense feeling of community. As the Fall Marketing Intern, I was invited to attend said first rehearsal of "The Brothers Karamazov"—and so settled against the wall of the Lookingglass Studio this morning to watch.

Heidi Stillman, the director, first outlined the world she wanted to create onstage: urgent, quiet, and rooted in reality. Therefore, through conversations with the design staff, she decided not to set the play explicitly in nineteenth century Russia, but to feel free to use more modern images in order to draw the audience into the piece.

Dan Ostling, the set designer, spoke next, leading us to his elaborate model of the stage. Genuine, un-abstracted images anchored his design—an actual church bell suspended from a grid, a whole chandelier lying on the floor, a gaping, empty grave. In order to give his set a true sense of authenticity, Dan explained, much time was spent in vast scavengers’ warehouses, scanning wooden doors full of nicks—in short, doors with a past. The hardwood floor would not be painted, but laid.

Mara Blumenfeld, the costume designer, agreed. Very few costume pieces would be built, she explained; Mara wanted none of the pieces to look like costumes, but simply faded articles of clothing—with a history. She spoke of a resale shop named George’s, long since shuttered but fabled in Lookingglass lore for its basement full of piles of clothing. The show should feel as though the costume designer had been locked in the basement of George’s—and to clothe all the actors only in items found there.

Mara silently surveyed her images, tacked to the wall, that she had used for inspiration—most in shades of black, white and cream. Interspersed in these were a few flashes of red. “Yes, that is Hugh Hefner.” Everyone laughed.

Rick Sims, the sound designer, sketched in the air as he described the melodies he had constructed—his goal being to slowly fade back and forth from monastic, Gregorian-esque chants to distorted electric guitars. Rick noticed us shifting in our seats, and his voice quickened to dissuade our doubts as he pressed “play.”

A chant, high, delicate, and mournful, started the piece (to be sung live by the “little ones,” according to Heidi), with harsh violins, sounding unnaturally steely and cold, underscoring. I realized only afterwards that those were said electric guitars, woven so convincingly into the piece as to be unrecognizable. Great applause followed the silence.

Speaking next, Chris Binder (lighting designer) described the special TV and film lighting she would use—super-hot instruments built to simulate the bright whiteness of sunlight. Chris’s gestures grew more excited as she spoke of using single instruments to light scenes—a technique she’s been unable to use in the past, due to shadow concerns.

“But I think it’ll work well in this piece, as it’s what standing in the moonlight really looks like.”

Matt Hawkins, fight choreographer, leapt up last. This was not a show of polished sword battles, he explained, but one of people “crushing one another’s skulls with rocks.” An actor joked about the use of actual slaps—Matt seized upon this point so eagerly, I feared he’d leap onto the table.

“Good example! If someone’s comfortable with getting slapped in the face, we’ll slap them ten times in the face!”

The actor blanched. We applauded.