But You Were Great.

From the New York Times, via my brother:

The play was “Moose Murders,” and even now, 25 years later, it is considered the standard of awfulness against which all Broadway flops are judged.
[...]
The reviews, which were not helped by the man reeking of vomit who sat in the third row during a press preview, made the 14 performances of “Moose Murders” legendary in theater history.

A Three-Hour Dour

From Jeremy:

When I was just in Chicago for the first time, one of the first jobs I had was working at the Organic Theater box office. The theater was rented out for a production of "Gilligan's Island, The Musical." It was terrrrrible. (Sample lyric: "Hey little buddy, that's terrific. / You just spelled 'hieroglyphic!'")

But they were spending money and hiring Equity actors, and the theater was broke, so there it was. The cast was extremely game, by which I mean they tried hard. The songs were gamey, by which I mean they stank. And the book was worse. The show was panned. I'd say it was "brutalized," but all the reviews were doing was telling it like it was. Not a good show. And the houses were small, and got smaller over the eight week run.

All the actors were imports except for two of the leads. One day late in the run, I was in the box office and one of the local leads was walking in. (I'm not protecting the guilty -- I just don't remember the actor's name, and I doubt he put it on his resume.) I waved hello, but he didn't see me. His head was down, and he was muttering.

As he passed the window, I heard what he was saying, over and over. "An actor has to eat. An actor has to eat. An actor has to eat."

Oh, Henrik!

From Lacy:

A friend attended a production of "Hedda Gabler" in college.  It was what you'd expect of a college production of "Hedda Gabler," more or less.  Until the last moment.

In the script, as you may know, Hedda goes upstage to a semi-concealed anteroom, shoots herself abruptly, interrupting the conversation onstage, and her husband dashes back to find her, upon which:

TESMAN: (shrieks to Brack).
Shot herself! Shot herself in the temple! Fancy that!

Well. In this staging, Hedda was supposed to go offstage, then a running crew would fire a prop gun for the sound cue.

So one night, she exited as planned, and … no gunshot.  

The actors stranded on stage … waited. Dragged out their lines, repeated the cue. Finally, Tesman muttered something along the lines of, "well…. You know, I think I'll just go check on Hedda," and awkwardly went offstage where the frantic running crew member could not get the gun to fire.

So Tesman covered the only way he could.

TESMAN: (shrieks to Brack).
Stabbed herself! Stabbed herself in the temple! Fancy that!

Beware the Venison Chorizo

Or, How To Survive as a Vegetarian on Tour in Montana

Weathered by Greg:

I was working as a sound operator/roadie with a production of "Always... Patsy Cline" that was touring Montana, North Dakota, Wyoming and Colorado.  The day before a show in Sheridan, WY my buddy Dave from Bozeman served me some venison chorizo he'd had made from a deer he'd hunted earlier in the season.
 
It was about halfway through the first act, during "I Fall to Pieces," when the worst case of food poisoning I'd ever had set in.  I barely made it to the restroom at intermission and somehow got through the second act, despite intestinal distress equal in intensity to the nearby geysers of Yellowstone.  Needless to say, I have less than happy memories of the Sheridan Best Western where I spent the rest of the night in agony.
 
This was early January and the whole next week we were up on the High Line, across the remote and lonely Highway 2 in northern Montana just a little ways from the Canadian border.  We did 11 shows in 6 days in 7 different towns.  In the heart of cowboy country, I couldn't stand to even look at a piece of meat.  If not for veggie sammies from Subway, I would have perished alongside a cow skull somewhere outside Chinook.

Dutch Treats

From our man in Amsterdam, Rob, who supplements this site's titular* premise:

List of items that were not flowers but were received after private shows in the Netherlands:

• enormous wooden mallets
  
• penis-shaped pasta
  
• gin
  
• Tommy Hilfiger cologne (thrown on stage from Tommy Hilfiger audience)
  
• milk
  
• wine
  
• Bose® In-Ear Headphones
  
• mobile phones
  
• box containing bun with one slice of cheese, a milk container, an old apple and a Mars bar.
  
• raincoats
  

* Sitular?

Less Toil, More Trouble

From one who wishes to remain anonymous anon:

I was in a company that performed 4 or 5 Shakespearean shows in rep. Among them, MacBeth. I played Third Witch/Gentlewoman.

Since the shows were on an infrequent schedule, it was common for a few weeks to pass between bookings for any one show. We had a Mac at a high school in the burbs once, and we were well into the production when I realized that I hadn't gone over my lines recently - and the Cauldron Speech scene was coming up. In fact, the Cauldron Speech was happening.

The director had split the speech up among the three witches... and my part was coming up.

I was completely blank. One hundred percent, Had. Gone. Up. Breathe, said the voices of all my acting teachers. Breathe, be in the moment. It will come to you.

So I started off with a not-too-conspicuous, very witchy "Ahhhhh.... " Just enough to stall the high schoolers, and make my fellow witches a little nervous.

Then, Huzzah! Sure enough, it came! Yes! Lines! from the play! Yes! There was something about a "fillet"! Which some actors pronounce as /FILL-it/, but I stubbornly call /fill-AY/, because it's less offputting! YES! There is a fillet! Just say 'fillet,' and the rest will come! Trust sense memory!

So it sounded something like this.

"Ahhhhhhh........" [PAUSE] "Filllllllaaayy....." [PAUSE] "Of fish......" [LONGER PAUSE] "Ahhhhhhhhhhhh..." "In the cauldron, boil and bake. Eye of newt and toe of frog..."

And so on. As scripted? "Fillet of a fenny snake." Oh Lord. I'll never forget it again.

I exited as quickly as I possibly could and crouched with my face in my hands backstage. Hecuba walked past me and hissed, "... fillet of FISH?"

It's Not Easy Being Blue

Courtesy of Lacy:

Brandon was in a touring production of "Frog and Toad Are Friends" which went around to various libraries and school cafeterias, geared towards a very young audience. He played Frog, a fastidious ... um, frog, who at one point in the story loses his button.

Frog then searches for his button everywhere, including out in the audience among the children, who would explode into gigglefits as he would look behind their ears, under their bookbags, etc. As the show developed, he discovered that the kids loved it if he named them silly names like those of the other characters in the play: Maybe Mister Dragonfly has my button! No? Well, maybe Miss Butterflywings has it! Maybe Mister Squirrelpaws has it!

One fateful day, exhausted and kicking into autopilot for his seven-millionth performance, he went through the sea of giggling 6-year-olds, singled out one little girl, and called out, "Maybe Miss Cameltoe has it!"

Turned upstage in horror at what he had just said. Snail and Toad's jaws were wide open. Apparently Snail punched him, hard, as soon as they were "offstage." No amount of apologizing could convince her it was a complete accident.

Amazingly, no one caught it except for one teacher, who told them that she thought it was very funny but warned them that maybe others wouldn't think it was as funny as she did.

Why, and Why the Name

Punches, Then Flowers is here to document the kind of war stories that live performers tell each other over beers. Tales that often include awkward moments, foolish accidents, technical mishaps, indifferent-to-angry audiences, atrocious facilities and occasionally mortal peril. A couple good stories involve them all.

The name was inspired by certain moments as a cast member of a comedy theater in Amsterdam. In particular, these were the shows we did away from the comfort of the home theater, when hired by companies or schools or event planners to do customized shows on their turf. Sometimes these shows rocked. Rocked the huis.

Sometimes, these shows' only contact with rocks was to suck them. Frantic travel due to crappy directions. Weird spaces unsuited for performance. "Audiences" more suitably called "disinterested onlookers," giving golf claps to the fourth-dimension hurdle standing between them and the buffet.

Doing this kind of custom show in the States usually ended awkwardly, with the metaphorical cab fare, averted eyes and held door for the private dancers we were. In Holland, though, there was one difference.

No matter how dismal the show's reception, afterward the Dutch would give us flowers and invite us to eat with them. Even while continuing to tear the show apart, true to Dutch form. "Oh, thank you so much for coming. That was really not very funny. Not at all. Please, come! Won't you sit? [Dutch equivalent of "Boy howdy"], that was not the least bit amusing. What can I bring you?"

It was the wildest sense of cognitive dissonance. Seventy minutes of cold shoulder ending in flowers. (Granted, Holland is practically lousy with them, so it's a bit like Tunisians being free and easy with the sand. Still...)

The life of a performer is a lot like that. Long stretches of disinterest or disapproval, punctuated with the occasional moment of gorgeous reward. Punches, then flowers.

But heavy on the punches. Flowers by the stem, punches by the bunch.