By Rick Polito, IJ reporter
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Marin Independant Journal
ONE HOUR BEFORE the Stapleton School's first "Nutcracker" performance,
the parking lot is brimming in minivans and SUVs.
At 8 a.m., a platoon of moms is already in motion.
The mice, the soldiers and the sugar plum fairies are signing in on a sheet of yellow legal pad paper in the "green room." Three hundred dancers will glissade, pli and generally romp their way through two shows in one morning in front of a full house.
Those moms are busy.
The mice are gulping yogurt smoothies and plucking chunks of fruit salad from tiny Tupperware bowls. One girl has a storybook about a beautiful princess. A pair of girls are knitting in neon. A squadron of mothers gaggles around a table, grabbing supplies from a scatter of plastic boxes. There are two warrens, two sets of dressing rooms backstage at the Veterans Memorial Auditorium, explains Lani Sexton one of the mothers. "The mouse makeup has to go the mouse side, and the soldier makeup has to go to the soldier side."
In the stage right dressing room, another set of moms is separating costumes into piles. Swooshing 300 kids through costume changes is a matter of intricate logistics. "We have a list of who's wearing what," says Maureen Kohn. "We're still looking for top No. 2 for this one," observes Mary Hillier-Davidson, sifting through a pile of white leotards.
Across the room, the older dancers are leaning into lighted mirrors with makeup brushes. It's 40 minutes to curtain, and 14-year-old Chloe Goshay is relaxed. "We've been doing this since we were like 3," she sighs. There will be time for nerves later. "Once you're on stage, you're pretty pumped."
An instant later, another mom tucks her head though the doorway and sets Goshay and her dancing compatriots in motion. "Dancers two and three, get down there, hustle up," the mom shouts.
A cloud of white, purple and pink tutus barges into the room on the shoulders of Regina Gray. Gray calls herself "the costume mistress." She's been busier than most. "Let me put it this way," she says, plopping the tutus into color-matched piles. "I went to bed at 5 a.m."
Downstairs, Virginia Stapleton, the school's director and the apex of activity on this morning, has arrived. It's 8:22. There was a problem with the snowflakes and she had to make a last-minute costume run. These are the youngest of the young dancers.
"I have to round up my snowflakes and make sure they know what to do," Stapleton says, not pausing in her trajectory.
But first, she has to get the older dancers warmed up.
A dozen girls, clad in a happenstance uniform of sweat pants, pajama bottoms and tights, grip a wooden railing in the orchestra pit. Stapleton, a veteran of the San Francisco Ballet, pulls her charges through the warm-up in staccato commandments. "One! Two! Three! Four!" she calls out. "Very tall! Heads up high!"
A tall blonde in a red top leaves the rail and prances to the stage, retrieving her cell phone. She calls a missing dancer who arrives two minutes later, flustered. "C'mon Rose, wake up," yells Stapleton, returning directly to the count "Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Use those hips."
A few yards away, behind the curtain, another mom adjusts the garland on the towering two-dimensional Christmas tree as the first male dancer, Willie Anderson, arrives. Anderson is a professional dancer, a ringer, from the San Jose Silicon Valley Ballet. Wrapped in a blanket, he steps quietly across the boards. He joins the girls before the stage.
"Legs high!" Stapleton exhorts.
Upstairs, stage left, the mice have convened. An assembly of boys and girls dressing for the party scene occupy the other half of the room tying bows, lacing bodices. Shanna Kohn, a 13-year-old San Rafael girl in a lace dress with petticoats, unwraps a plastic tiara. Another girl in a purple leotard twirls through the flow of bodies, costumes and motion.
And Kim King, a mother and the "makeup chair," is ready for her first mouse. "OK guys, we've got to start on the mice," she announces. Her daughter Gabrielle is helping. "I have another one downstairs who's a buffoon," King gushes. She's not favoring the daughter at her elbow. The "Dance of the Buffoon" is an important Nutcracker component.
A moment later, nine little girls in gray felt and mouse ears are lined up in yellow plastic chairs as four moms go to work.
One room over, the dads are adjusting glued-on mutton chops, stiff collars and Victorian coat and tails. The fathers provide backdrop in the party scene. They all have children in the show.
"There's some speculation whether we can actually look like dancers," observes San Anselmo father Mark Lindsay.
Three boys in knickers and puffy shirts are playing blackjack on the floor. "Hit me," says the boy in the red plaid jacket.
At 10 minutes to the scheduled show time for these special Friday performances, the party scene dancers are assembling on the stage. Stapleton is checking the headset and microphone she will need to direct the show.
She's going to have to do it without the snowflakes. "They're not here yet," she laments. "I'm bummed."
The disappointment doesn't last.
At 8:53, the lights go low back stage. "Five minutes to call," Stapleton shouts.
She is at the center of a whirlwind of inquiries, details, decisions, bows to be tied just right. The audience is audible behind the layers of heavy curtain. The kids are excited. The tall blonde is talking on her cell phone again. The sugar plum fairies are prancing. A party scene girl is concerned about her bow.
"Hold on to this," Stapleton says, handing the girl a notepad scrawled with cues. "I'll help you."
Bow tied, Stapleton skitters across the stage to check the prop parents. Every drinking glass and party favor seems to be in place. She grabs the headset.
It's 8:59.
"Everybody on stage, everybody in the dressing rooms," she exclaims, her voice echoing from a complex of speakers.
"We're starting."
The busy moms have done all they can. The dancers are warmed up. The mice are in makeup. The sideburns are affixed. The bows are tied.
Singleton threads her way through the dancers to stage right, ready to go out before the crowd and announce the show. A stagehand stops her at the curtain hem.
"Take a breath," he tells her.
Everything is ready, at least for the first show. Another show, with a second cast of kids takes the stage in two hours.
"I will," Stapleton says. "I will take a breath."