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F.A.Q. ♦ RULES ♦ PLOT ♦ FACE CLAIM ♦ CANON SPECIFICS ♦ BIO FORMAT ♦ CANONS ♦ DEATH TO MARY SUE! ♦ BELIEFS ♦ EVENTS |
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JOLY Technicolor-Werewolf SISTER SITES  
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| Ronde de Jambe, and Other Adventures | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 18 2009, 07:56 PM (217 Views) | |
| Alandree | Aug 18 2009, 07:56 PM Post #1 |
 
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The répétiteur was ill today. Yes. Ill on the first day of officially cast rehearsal. They had to make due with one of the seamstresses clunking out the libretto. Giry ran a hand over her face, clutching the cane white-knuckled, and indicated the bar on which they would begin. As if such a thing were not already perfectly obvious. She wished to perhaps utilize the cane to inflict mild bludgeoning on all those present. Perhaps render a few more people deformed to the point of humiliation and ostracization and send them down to the sewers to live in separated hovels reeking of green water and strange fish. There wasn't a full cast today. Just for the first scene. Hopefully they'd all read over the script. Hopefully they'd all memorized the first song. But these were mere hopes, that were rarely met. She crossed back stage, to rosin her shoes. A handful of the chorus was there, half dressed, half awake, and not a half a brain to share between them. The managers were due to check up on the proceedings. La Carlotta had not arrived yet (they all hoped she would not) but nor had Christine, which she hoped was merely a small delay. And not an absconding down to the previously referenced sewer. By choice or not. |
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| Librarian | Aug 19 2009, 07:17 AM Post #2 |
 
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Tristan leaned against a wall backstage in the company of several other chorus members. He felt exceptionally bleary-eyed, but only had himself to blame since he'd been awake until late the previous night, determined to make sure that he knew every note sung in the first scene, whether it would be sung by the chorus or any of the other gentlemen of the company. Thus far, none of the divas or divos had made an appearance, which was probably just as well. Perhaps the chorus could get on and learn something without any histrionics, temper tantrums or general dramas. Or at least, not quite so spectacular. He yawned expansively just as Madame Giry came back stage. Unable to stifle it in time, he cursed himself quietly - what a wonderful way to start the rehearsal period, by yawning at arguably the most fearsome member of the Palais staff. Perhaps, though, it didn't notice alongside the general weariness and lethargy on display backstage. He wasn't really clear about the plot of Il Muto, but as a member of the chorus, he assumed that his jobs would consist of either praising one or more of the principals, agreeing with the principals or providing a pastoral distraction while a costume change was happening. Obviously, there would be the dance of the Shepherdesses, fulfilling the third chorus function, but he assumed the rest would become clear in time. Momentarily, he wondered whether a proper read-through of the whole opera would have been more useful than learning the first scene, but dismissed the notion - it was more important to have a head-start on the specifics, to know exactly how long to hold the Gsharps and so forth. Pushing himself off the wall, he started some stretches. Please, God, let the chorus not be dancing, but a few stretches was a good policy, anyway. His leg muscles grumbled at him as he began. |
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| Lena | Aug 20 2009, 06:21 PM Post #3 |
This s**t is Lenanas: L-E-N-A-N-A-S
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The moment the list was posted was the beginning of a long nightmare or a delightful dream for the members of the Opera Garnier, depending on what your definition of happiness was. For Marguerite, her own special form of Hell was a world in which Miss Christine Daaé got the role of Countess rather than where she belonged: on the sidelines or with those 'divine' vocal tunes of hers out and off of Meg's stage. Since she did not get the role, Meg was walking on clouds even without scanning for her own name. Once she discovered that she would not only assist in chorus, but also be the 'Jeweller's Maid' (which, though it had no roles, was enough of a name role to please the young girl for the time being), she was practically giggling as she went to bed that night. Her dreams were covered in sheet music and her mother's faithful tapping to the beat, Carlotta letting loose birds of harmony and herself telling the girls that more pointe was the key to perfection. . . . Ah yes, the divine tale of ll Muto. Oh, was that a singular mention of her that she detected every few scenes? How utterly delightful! It was extremely easy to tell that the young woman who controlled her row as if she were an empress rather than a mere sixteen year old ballerina was extremely happy and utterly deluded. One could think that she imagined herself to be in the role of the Countess herself the way she was acting. There was no little voice in her head telling her that, perhaps, she should not keep that smile on her face even while the others were drowsily awaking for a new day and yet another new show or that she shouldn't have that skip in her step as she looked for her costume and began to hum a few bars of the overture. There was only that blissful cloud of happiness because once more, she would be able to glorify herself in her own imagination. She had long ago learned that Madame Giry was not her mother during rehearsals. . . Well, she was, but to even suggest it was certain death of any form of respect towards her or her mother so all she gave the Madame that morning as she slipped into the threadbare cast cluster was a tiny nod as if to tell her that Meg was, in fact, present. She wondered, though this thought was brief, if Aveline was to attend today's rehearsal. She had not spoken to her since the tea the two had shared and was the tiniest bit curious what she had been up to. |
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| Liza | Aug 24 2009, 11:43 PM Post #4 |
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Christine wasn't completely sure what to expect when the cast had been posted. However, upon reading her name next to Serafimo, Christine didn't know whether to be joyful or disappointed. It wasn't as if she hadn't hoped to maybe, by even the slightest chance, be cast as the Countess. She could hope for that, couldn't she? Ever since having her taste of the limelight and knowing how it felt to know that the applause was for her, and only her and her Angel, and all the work that they did, she found herself growing more and more hopeful. It wasn't that she was completely dissatisfied. Serafimo was a prominent role, it was just that the idea of a silent role wasn't appealing to Christine. She would have rather sung two words than not sing a note the whole show. Regardless, she had gone to bed and looked over the score, even if she had nothing - or, well, essentially nothing - to memorize. She entered the wings and moved towards the group that had formed, as if hoping to be counted for attending without having to make herself known to the mass of dancers and other actors. Perhaps she ought to find her costume, or warm up a bit (or do whatever warm ups were needed for the part of Serafimo), or perhaps just stand and wait for a direction to come her way? La Carlotta didn't appear to be here yet, much to Christine's - and, she assumed, undoubtedly the rest of the cast's - pleasure. However, they would know she was there the instant she walked into the building. Christine was positive that her ear-piercing screeches could be heard from miles away, let alone another part of the Opera. Perhaps she wouldn't be as screechy today, knowing that she had been cast as the Countess. However, hoping for that was like hoping for her father to rise from the dead. It would never happen. Standing awkwardly off to the side of the group, Christine merely watched all of the happenings, spotting Meg and Madame in the midst of everything at least once or twice. She would just wait until rehearsal started, until she had something legitimate to be doing instead of meandering and potentially getting in the way of someone who needed to get something done. That would end, surely, in a disaster. |
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| Lucinda | Aug 30 2009, 11:53 AM Post #5 |
If you were you leave, you would be lost. They would kill you, and I should die.
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While most of the others bustled about, chattering and such before rehearsal was about to begin, Aveline was backstage in the girl's dressing room, staring at herself intently in her mirror. Costumed and prepared for the first rehearsal of Il Muto, she could feel her hands trembling somewhat, nervous as her heart raced to escape from the prison like cavity that was her breast. Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, she held her hands tightly to her chest, willing herself to stop shaking, whatever good that would hope to do. She opened her light colored eyes and stared at herself once more in the mirror, hoping to believe that she was well prepared, that she had practiced and practiced, when with no matter how much practice she gave, she always felt that she could do more. So much more. There had to be more that she could have done. She shook her head quickly. No, stop thinking like that. You deserve this...no, you deserve more; STOP. She whined softly and bit her lip, her mind battled with itself, her ego against her common sense. It was only then that she noticed Meg out of the corner of her eye and gasped in surprise, softly, but audibly enough to give away her nerves as she leaned down against her vanity, fingers splayed like spider's legs as she held herself up and reached to rub at the bridge of her nose. "It is not even the opening night, and I already feel like I am drowning..." She murmured softly to herself, looking up a bit weakly back to herself in the mirror. |
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| Alandree | Sep 1 2009, 02:31 PM Post #6 |
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"Yes, and his name was Efrem Vaudevire. Surely you won't want to repeat such a fate. Falling from a set piece into an audience full of Norwegians, only to be impaled on the raised cane of some gentleman?" He patted the boy on the head, who looked quite ready to go impale himself without any help from the forces of gravity. It was rather remarkable to think that such utter poppycock could be believed. But there were always chorus boys. Unfortunate, really, that he was one of them. To be counted among such ranks. How dearly he wished he could love them in the way that one normally loves his comrades. Of late, it seemed more likely that he'd willingly feed them all to the sharks, if such an opportunity were to present itself. Speaking of sharks, he narrowly missed being killed by Giry's very own cane, as he squeezed between the curtains on her way back to the stage. Everyone looked rather like a wintry death had seized them all. Save Daughter Giry, perhaps. She looked rather like her birthday had come early. Perhaps it was that strange foreigner she fancied. Oh, and there was Christine herself. Shame the foreigner had more interest in her. He gave Christine a pitying look. Wound up with the leading breeches role without a sound to her credit in the libretto. Poor thing. Strange, very strange. Strange too, that he should feel out of place in his own home. Sullen rather than eager to paint the town red. And there was Tito such-and-so. Odd duck. He wasn't even remotely Latino. But he supposed he was better company than Riollo. "Hello, Tito." Fabian picked his way through the sad little crowd, the odd crackling mew of a tuning violin breaking the dull chatter. Edited by Alandree, Sep 1 2009, 05:11 PM.
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| Librarian | Sep 1 2009, 05:50 PM Post #7 |
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As others began to arrive, Tristan started to feel terribly, terribly old. The members of the opera company seemed to be mostly men and women younger than himself, many of them mere boys and girls. How could this have happened? Chief among the young ones was, opf course, little Mlle Giry, a girl who he thought was entirely too full of herself. You would think by the way she walked that she oened the entire bloody Opera House and everything in it. Everyone in it too, probably. It wasn't the self-confidence she seemed to exude that Tristan objected to, it was the fact that she seemed to make no attempt to hide it. Surely the trick was to get others to ncome to their own conclusions about your greatness rather than forcing this inevitable opinion on them? Ignoring Meg and the other ballet girls, Tristan continued his half-hearted efforts at warming up. Circling his arms to get the muscles in his shoulder and back moving, his attention was caught by Duchamps telling one of the youngest chorus boys a preposterous tale of theatrical calamity. He chuckled inwardly at the boy's gullible reaction to the story - who cared if it was true, if it could cause such a rapid draining of blood from the cheeks. His mind wandered as he continued his attempts to make his body feel more alive until he was brough back to the present by a greeting from Duchamps. He wished fervently, as he did every time it was used, that he'd never come up with that ridiculous stage name, but smothered the thought. He was stuck with it, and ought to learn to live with it. "Morning, Fabian." He smiled and gestured around them at the motley collection of people gathering backstage, quirking an eyebrow. "Don't we all look ready to wow the crowds?" |
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| Lena | Sep 2 2009, 05:49 PM Post #8 |
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This s**t is Lenanas: L-E-N-A-N-A-S
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Meg examined the morning crowd once more before beginning to concentrate on the pliee that she was mindlessly swooping into as a warm-up. Yes. Warming up. Good show, Marguerite. Especially since people are looking at you . . Yes, she did spy eyes glancing casually in her direction, some welcoming and others . . Well, they could've been merely tired. That's what she hoped. Even Little Giry was feeling the tiniest bit tired. how could she not at such an early hour? But this was ll Muto. A show. The show. That alone was enough to make her feel . . . satisfied. Content. Yes, even happy. It was a nice, welcome feeling that she hadn't quite experienced since the ball. Monsieur von Krolock was such a nice man . . Though he did need to tighten whatever loose virtue valves he had in that blond-covered skull of his. No matter, he would soon be a suitable citizen of France and she could go off along her path to glory, returning to that certain bend in the road once or twice but mostly leaving the-yes, her mother had told her this and she had thought it silly at the time-unladylike manner of parading around unchaperoned with a male foreigner behind her like dolls and tea sets. |
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| Alandree | Sep 8 2009, 03:57 PM Post #9 |
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"As much as any troupe of lazy ne'er-do-wells." He winced a particularly bad note from the aforementioned violin. "Which I count myself among." And there was no use denying it, anyway. He sunk to the floor and began to stretch, as well. Folding in half, and remaining in that position, clutching the back of his head, as if it were an escape from the terror that was the sights around. When he rose again, he scrutinized Meg Giry, one whom he had, as yet, undecided conclusions about, and inclined his head in greeting. "Little Giry. Princess Giry. Princesses Daaé and Giry. May I slip you into golden shoes?" But he did not bounce to his feet. Nor was his tone very robust. It was far too early in the day for that. Edited by Alandree, Sep 20 2009, 07:55 PM.
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| Liza | Sep 12 2009, 11:59 PM Post #10 |
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She ought to dress herself before rehearsal started, lest she be hounded for not being in costume when it did start. And so, she moved to head towards the dressing room, only to be stopped upon being acknowledged. She smirked slightly, but it didn't remain there for long, for she spoke shortly after. "Good morning to you too, Fabian." She glanced in the direction of the dressing room again and took a step in that direction. "...Please excuse me, I must change," she added with a slight blush before escaping the scene and scuttling off to dress herself. And so she did dress herself, changing rather hurriedly, into the breeches and other parts of her costume. This wasn't merely changing clothes, this was changing people - she was transforming from her every day self, the every day Christine Daaé, into Serafimo. (And from a woman to a man, which caused her to giggle to herself with slight amusement.) She would make the best of it, she decided. Or at least try to. The leading breeches role, and silent at that, which merely seemed to add insult to injury. Not that she had a problem with dressing like a man... There was nothing wrong with that - it came with being an actress. But she would have much rather worn the spectacular looking gowns that came with playing the role of the Countess. And all of the singing. Regardless, she had no choice, and no say in the matter now... She was to be Serafimo, so Serafimo she would be. So she left the room as quickly as she'd entered it, leaving its inhabitants that still remained. Christine retrieved her copy of the score from the place where she'd left it just outside the door of the dressing room, before slowly making her way back to where she'd come from, which had been on the stage with the rest of the cast. There was still no sign of the diva, which kept Christine's stomach from tying itself in uncomfortable, untie-able knots. Idly, she leafed through the pages, her eyes scanning over the notes on each page, attempting to sort out the melodies in her head. |
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| Librarian | Oct 1 2009, 11:54 AM Post #11 |
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The conversation with Duchamps evidently over, Tristan slipped into something of a reverie as he continued his warming up routine, stretching out his complaining muscles, getting the circulation going and performing what he could of a vocal warm-up without making too much noise. Stretching his face, working the muscles of his jaw and cheeks, reciting a tongue-twister or two. Once he felt sufficiently awake, these exercises became like second nature, almost more than a routine, perhaps a rite or ritual. Coming to the end of his devotions to the theatrical gods, which clearly meant that he'd done quite enough, he wondered how to fill the time before the rehearsal got under way officially. Surely he hadn't arrived too early? Wary of the potential disapproval of certain people present if he were seen to be idle, he slowly started to walk backwards in search of something, anything, which he could just stand behind and relax for a few moments. Inevitably, of course, his progress was interrupted. The feel of a foot under his own, a foot with an owner who would no doubt be displeased. Putting on a disarming smile, he quickly turned. "I do beg your pardon..." |
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| The Doctor | Oct 10 2009, 09:53 PM Post #12 |
Why can't the past just die?
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Aimé stood, like many of the others, in a tired stupor as he waited for the rehearsal to actually begin. His arms were folded across his chest and he was leaning his right shoulder against a set piece from a previous production. As if being up and onstage at such an early hour were not bad enough, his head was also throbbing with a horrid headache. He had, idiotically, stayed out late drinking the previous night and was now suffering the consequences for it. Each constant tap of Madame Giry's cane against the floor would echo through Aimé's ears and felt like the blast of a bullet to his brain. He raised a hand to his temple as she passed by and rubbed it gently. He would make a note of this occasion and do his best not to drink too much before early morning rehearsals ever again. Apart from his hangover, Aimé wasn't particularly looking forward to this rehearsal anyway. He was never very excited to do operas set in the Baroque era, especially comic operas... All of the wigs, the vibrant costumes, the makeup, and the tights. He shifted uncomfortably as he thought about it. Yes, he supposed he could bear the rest of it, but just the mere thought of feeling that stretchy nylon fabric hugging to close to his legs and *ahem* other parts was enough to give him goosebumps. Still, at least he had managed to scrounge a small part as one of Don Attilio's friends in the opera as opposed to one of The Countess' extremely effeminate male counterparts, for which he was exceedingly grateful. As Madame Giry's cane pounding softened and these contradicting thoughts as to whether or not he would actually enjoy this production consumed his mind, Aimé felt a sharp pain in his toes. He gave a sharp intake of breath and straightened up quickly, looking around to see what might have caused it. He turned to see the apologetic smile of one Tito Bevani and gave a great sigh of annoyance. It wasn't Tito's presence that was particularly nettlesome, just that he had been brought so rudely back to the real world in such a fashion without any good reason (though what a good reason for stepping on someone's foot was, he didn't know). "It's quite all right." he admitted in a soft voice as he rubbed his injured foot against the back of his standing leg. |
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| Librarian | Oct 24 2009, 09:03 AM Post #13 |
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Ah. Of all the people to bump into, it would have to be Aimé, wouldn't it? Still, it was better than stepping on the toes of one Giry or other, or worse still, one manager or other. This was a man that frustrated and intrigued Tristan in equal measure. Two years younger than Tristan and already he was able to bag character parts here and there while other older members of the company remained stuck in the chorus. And although his performances on stage were to be envied, the man off-stage was a bit of a mystery, really. Annoyingly handsome and yet (unlike most of the men) obviously off limits -should the urge ever strike, the chorus boys would have more luck seducing Madame Giry than they would Monsieur Beaufort. Aimé frustrated sigh and his attempts to sooth his pain were in opposition to the words which accompanied them. It evidently wasn't 'quite all right'. Switching to French, he attemped to mollify his accidental victim. "I really am very sorry. It's early in the morning, and I was not paying sufficient attention. No harm intended." And because he believed that flattery, in the right places, really can get you anywhere, "By the way - congratulations on getting the role. I can't think of anyone who'd do it better." |
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| Lena | Oct 27 2009, 06:53 PM Post #14 |
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This s**t is Lenanas: L-E-N-A-N-A-S
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Meg looked at M. DuChamps with a light smile. Normally, this would've been a good sign but it was a change in the almost-grin she had been wearing but moments previous. Christine and herself this close to one another, she could hardly respond to his question (which, she believed, was entirely in jest) before she was off like a frantic little deer. "Good morning to you as well, Fabian," she said quietly, though not without pleasure. The woman was gone and she could breathe easily. "I trust you are as pleased as I am about the cast list?" She allowed herself a little preparation stance of pleasure, her foot pointed and slightly ahead of her. "I know that I am. Both for myself and Miss Christine." Leave the surnames at the door. . Meg was supposedly Christine's good friend. Miss Christine would suffice. She leaned forward and touched her toes, looking him in the face. "I did not notice your role," she noted, a mocking note in her voice that wasn't entirely acknowledged. |
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