The Talent Show
Christina Hamlett
October 13, 2006
Christmas Party Committee.
Have three words ever struck more dread in the hearts of office workers? Especially when they’ve only just started working somewhere and, accordingly, get assigned whatever the more seasoned employees avoid like the plague (i.e., savings bond campaigns)? Especially when it’s only the beginning of August, the temperatures are in the triple digits, and Christmas is virtually the last thing on anyone’s mind at the moment?
"It's only August," I pointed out. “Why do we have to start doing anything now?”
Oh you know how these lawyers are," said the chief counsel's secretary. "You have to start prepping them early." (This is the same person who also thought we should make our Christmas lunch reservation no later than Labor Day since “all the good places fill up.”)
"Maybe we could do a talent show," one of the paralegals suggested.
My peers were instantly excited. I, on the other hand, instantly cringed. Talent shows, as everyone knows and yet no one ever dissuades, are always proposed by groups that have no perceptible talent. It seems, at least, to be one of those quirky laws of the universe. Just as predictably, my background in theater has always meant that I am the obvious and most qualified candidate to direct these well intentioned and yet talent-challenged troupes.
History, as you might have guessed, was about to repeat itself.
I think we need more structure than just a talent show," said one of the secretaries.
Besides,” another added, "it's hard to tap-dance on carpet."
"Maybe we could do a play or something," said another voice.
Directing lawyers in any kind of theatrical production, I opined, would be akin to herding cats.
"Oh come on, it'll be fun," they cajoled.
Given that my option at that point was either to do the show or be the chairperson to hit everyone up for United Way contributions, I picked the show. My rationale was that it would probably be easier to get them to give the right lines to each other than to give anything more than 50 cents to a good cause.
Even my secret hope that the attorneys themselves might scoff at the prospect of performing was summarily dashed as they began vigorously lobbying for lead parts. One of the members of the board of directors even went so far as to supply me with an 8x10” glossy headshot, despite the fact that I passed his office every single day and wasn’t really likely to forget who he was.
The only person averse to adding such frivolity to the office was the humorless personnel director, who immediately put out a memo that sternly declared: "Rehearsals can only be conducted during your lunch hour and designated breaks." In retrospect, I’m almost surprised he didn’t appoint himself the resident drama critic and publish a review in the quarterly newsletter declaring that none of us should consider quitting our day jobs.
So which play are we going to do?” the staff wanted to know.
"Maybe we should do 15-minute excerpts rather than a full production," I suggested. "That way, everyone can have an equal share of lines," (This was notwithstanding the reality I knew they'd be counting them anyway and whining that they didn’t get as many as someone else.)
I decided that the comedies of Neil Simon would be the most user-friendly. Mr. Simon, however, couldn't have predicted the stretches of creative license the attorneys would exercise in performing his work. If he could have, I suspect he would have sued them.
Among the suggestions:
"Wouldn't it be funnier if Oscar Madison was a claims adjuster and Felix Unger was a trial lawyer?" ("The Odd Couple")
"It doesn't say in the script what Mimsy's father does for a living. Can he be on the Supreme Court?" ("Plaza Suite")
"Shouldn't Mel get a good workers’ comp attorney when he loses his job and has a nervous breakdown?" ("The Prisoner of Second Avenue")
Rehearsals were a nightmare. Even though the finished product wouldn't be seen outside the conference room and the supportive milieu of invited staff and families, I was still striving for perfection. Aside from the aforementioned rewrites, I was also saddled with procuring all the props, recommending wardrobe and dealing with the constraints of limited rehearsal time.
Throw in the fact that every lawyer in the cast had an ego roughly the size of a Winnebago and you can readily sympathize with the dynamics of a lowly secretary trying to get these people to stop taking liberties with the text and direction.
Everything eventually turned out all right, of course. The only bug on opening night (or rather, opening lunch hour) was innocently spread by the two paralegals playing the Pigeon Sisters in our excerpt from "The Odd Couple." Both of them had impressed me with their ability to fake English accents. Felix and Oscar were impressed, as well. By the time the scene was over, all four "actors" were talking like they were straight from Liverpool.
This wouldn't really have been problematic if it hadn't been the very first scene in our program. Apparently, the rest of my budding thespians (who dutifully sat in the audience and applauded for their peers until it was their own turn to perform) thought that English accents were really cool and decided such improvisation would give their own characters some new depth and dimension.
Some of them were surprisingly good. The rest were unbelievably atrocious. On the bright side, no one in the audience seemed to notice. On the bad side, they unanimously voted to make this an annual Christmas event.
I reacted to this acclaim in the only way I could: I transferred to another department the following spring.
Have three words ever struck more dread in the hearts of office workers? Especially when they’ve only just started working somewhere and, accordingly, get assigned whatever the more seasoned employees avoid like the plague (i.e., savings bond campaigns)? Especially when it’s only the beginning of August, the temperatures are in the triple digits, and Christmas is virtually the last thing on anyone’s mind at the moment?
"It's only August," I pointed out. “Why do we have to start doing anything now?”
Oh you know how these lawyers are," said the chief counsel's secretary. "You have to start prepping them early." (This is the same person who also thought we should make our Christmas lunch reservation no later than Labor Day since “all the good places fill up.”)
"Maybe we could do a talent show," one of the paralegals suggested.
My peers were instantly excited. I, on the other hand, instantly cringed. Talent shows, as everyone knows and yet no one ever dissuades, are always proposed by groups that have no perceptible talent. It seems, at least, to be one of those quirky laws of the universe. Just as predictably, my background in theater has always meant that I am the obvious and most qualified candidate to direct these well intentioned and yet talent-challenged troupes.
History, as you might have guessed, was about to repeat itself.
I think we need more structure than just a talent show," said one of the secretaries.
Besides,” another added, "it's hard to tap-dance on carpet."
"Maybe we could do a play or something," said another voice.
Directing lawyers in any kind of theatrical production, I opined, would be akin to herding cats.
"Oh come on, it'll be fun," they cajoled.
Given that my option at that point was either to do the show or be the chairperson to hit everyone up for United Way contributions, I picked the show. My rationale was that it would probably be easier to get them to give the right lines to each other than to give anything more than 50 cents to a good cause.
Even my secret hope that the attorneys themselves might scoff at the prospect of performing was summarily dashed as they began vigorously lobbying for lead parts. One of the members of the board of directors even went so far as to supply me with an 8x10” glossy headshot, despite the fact that I passed his office every single day and wasn’t really likely to forget who he was.
The only person averse to adding such frivolity to the office was the humorless personnel director, who immediately put out a memo that sternly declared: "Rehearsals can only be conducted during your lunch hour and designated breaks." In retrospect, I’m almost surprised he didn’t appoint himself the resident drama critic and publish a review in the quarterly newsletter declaring that none of us should consider quitting our day jobs.
So which play are we going to do?” the staff wanted to know.
"Maybe we should do 15-minute excerpts rather than a full production," I suggested. "That way, everyone can have an equal share of lines," (This was notwithstanding the reality I knew they'd be counting them anyway and whining that they didn’t get as many as someone else.)
I decided that the comedies of Neil Simon would be the most user-friendly. Mr. Simon, however, couldn't have predicted the stretches of creative license the attorneys would exercise in performing his work. If he could have, I suspect he would have sued them.
Among the suggestions:
"Wouldn't it be funnier if Oscar Madison was a claims adjuster and Felix Unger was a trial lawyer?" ("The Odd Couple")
"It doesn't say in the script what Mimsy's father does for a living. Can he be on the Supreme Court?" ("Plaza Suite")
"Shouldn't Mel get a good workers’ comp attorney when he loses his job and has a nervous breakdown?" ("The Prisoner of Second Avenue")
Rehearsals were a nightmare. Even though the finished product wouldn't be seen outside the conference room and the supportive milieu of invited staff and families, I was still striving for perfection. Aside from the aforementioned rewrites, I was also saddled with procuring all the props, recommending wardrobe and dealing with the constraints of limited rehearsal time.
Throw in the fact that every lawyer in the cast had an ego roughly the size of a Winnebago and you can readily sympathize with the dynamics of a lowly secretary trying to get these people to stop taking liberties with the text and direction.
Everything eventually turned out all right, of course. The only bug on opening night (or rather, opening lunch hour) was innocently spread by the two paralegals playing the Pigeon Sisters in our excerpt from "The Odd Couple." Both of them had impressed me with their ability to fake English accents. Felix and Oscar were impressed, as well. By the time the scene was over, all four "actors" were talking like they were straight from Liverpool.
This wouldn't really have been problematic if it hadn't been the very first scene in our program. Apparently, the rest of my budding thespians (who dutifully sat in the audience and applauded for their peers until it was their own turn to perform) thought that English accents were really cool and decided such improvisation would give their own characters some new depth and dimension.
Some of them were surprisingly good. The rest were unbelievably atrocious. On the bright side, no one in the audience seemed to notice. On the bad side, they unanimously voted to make this an annual Christmas event.
I reacted to this acclaim in the only way I could: I transferred to another department the following spring.
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