The Making of a Musical

IT’S the calm before the storm at Dublin’s Grand Canal Theatre.

Just a few hours before the first performance of The Sound of Music, the cast is filing in for a rehearsal, the final sound and lighting checks are being made, and fruit platters are being delivered under cellophane.

I’d expected stress, panic and shouty people: this Rodgers and Hammerstein classic requires more than 100 cast and crew backstage. From rotating the Von Trapp villa to styling the nuns’ wigs, how is it coming together so seamlessly?

“We bring absolutely everything in,” company manager Neil White says. “All we use from the theatre is an empty shell and the flying bars. We even bring the floor … Once the cast is on stage, they could be in any theatre, anywhere; it all becomes that world.”

The production arrived 48 hours before the rehearsal. Eight 45-foot trailers lumbered towards Dublin’s Hannover Quay, and a team of 40 production staff toiled till 10pm unloading sets, lighting rigs, sound equipment and costumes into the 2,000-capacity theatre. When they clocked off, the night crew took over.

An hour before the rehearsal, Rachel Snead, deputy stage manager, stands at the prompt desk issuing instructions into a tiny microphone. No scenery moves unless Rachel says so. “Do they listen to me? They do if they’re asked twice,” she says dryly.

Through Rachel’s monitors, I watch the scenery switch from Alpine mountains to convent interiors, as crew members test the backdrops and nod approvingly. While the Sound of Music blasts out from the stage, backstage is doused in darkness. That’s why walkways are being marked with yellow tape. That’s why there’s a large ‘stop’ button in the middle of Rachel’s desk, so she can shut down the sets in an emergency.

“If you stand in the wrong place at the wrong time, you’ll generally get hit with something,” says Mim Gosling, assistant stage manager. She’s checking the props, ensuring telegrams, votives for the nuns, a tray of fake champagne glasses and an accordion are in the correct cubbyholes. Cast and crew are forbidden to bring beverages other than water backstage. The prop department’s ‘brandy’ is popular with the principals because it’s made from a Soda Stream cola mix diluted with water, Mim says. “They like the sugar halfway through.”

There’s also a first-aid kit, ice packs, and a bag of what someone has labelled ‘Gretl Granules’ — in case any of the show’s junior performers should vomit.

For The Sound of Music, it’s not so much how you solve a problem like Maria, as how you solve the problem of three sets of seven kids flown in and out from the UK on a rotational basis every three nights.

The kids have their own director, tutor and chaperones. Their hair takes an hour to style. Wardrobe is constantly ironing and making alterations to their clothes. Everyone is praying they make it through the night without falling into the orchestra pit or contracting chicken pox. “We have to tour shoes of every size,” Neil says, showing me around the quick-change dens containing the children’s costumes backstage. “Because kids grow. But it’s never really panicky or stressful,” he says. “Everyone involved is so used to doing big productions like Les Mis or Phantom. We’ve put together a dream team to do it. You just have to plan. Everything about The Sound of Music is about planning and schedules.”

The mega-musical is a well-oiled machine. Produced by Andrew Lloyd Webber and David Ian, The Sound of Music began 18 months ago, and has been seen by more than two million people at the London Palladium. It’s been touring for months.

“It helps if you’re doing a great show,” says Jason Donovan, who plays Captain Von Trapp. “I’ve done some shows in the past where I thought, ‘What the f—k am I doing?’, but this has a great story, great songs. It has a following. It’s a well-produced piece of theatre.”

Donovan and his wife had their third child, Molly, this March, which can’t make eight shows a week any easier. It’s all part of the showbiz lifestyle, however, and the star is thankful to be bringing the family with him to Ireland, where they’ll stay outside the city in Kildare.

“We’re a circus, and when the circus comes to town everybody knows about it. If you’re the ringmaster, you tend to get most of the attention, and I can be the ringmaster, the elephant and the tiger in one day,” he says enigmatically. “Try to work that one out.” Neil White doesn’t have the luxury of a Kildare bolthole. His office is a pop-up affair, built around a laptop on a desk several floors above the auditorium.

On his shelves, there’s a walkie-talkie charging, an espresso machine and a can of Right Guard deodorant.

In live theatre, he says, every possible scenario is anticipated. Backstage, he shows me a ‘moving light hospital’, where lighting equipment can be repaired on the hoof. In the audio area, banks of monitors and amps hide a reassuring drawer containing Scotch tape and a scissors.

“You’re always thinking ahead,” says wardrobe mistress Trish Macaulay, grabbing a quick bowl of soup on a table loaded with spools of thread. Next door is a room dedicated to ironing, and the corridors contain a pair of suitcases that it’s safe to say did not travel with Ryanair.

At 1pm, just before the sound check, the cast assembles for a safety briefing.

“Hello everyone and welcome to Dublin,” Neil says, before running through the basics — door codes, bin collections, ticket sales and so on. He hands over to a member of the Grand Canal Theatre staff for the fire safety stuff. “It’s all cool,” he says.

In what looks like one of those cutaway diagrams from a biology textbook, the orchestra is sound-checking in the pit below the stage. The 14 musicians are invisible, but their scales, melodies, parps and blurts bounce jovially around the empty auditorium.

“Every venue sounds different,” says Jonathan Gill, music director. “We keep the same layout as much as possible, but the acoustics of the room and the pit can sound very different to the previous venue,” clapping his hands to illustrate. “You get used to it though.”

Beside him, the musicians arrange personal effects around their drums, keyboards, French horns, clarinets, cellos and trombones. On one music stand, I spot an iPhone, with a game paused in mid-play. On another, a picture of a pet dog sits beside the sheet music.

Life on the road can be tiring, says Verity Rushworth, who plays Maria. She’s settling into her dressing room, lighting a scented candle in front of her mirror. But things stay fresh, she says, because changing venues mean you get opening-night nerves every couple of weeks.

“The audiences in Ireland are fab. We think it’s the quite poignant subject matter. Especially in Derry, people really related to it, and they weren’t shy to show it,” she says.

Just then, Rachel’s voice cuts through the intercom. The sound check is ready to go, followed by the full rehearsal. The chit-chat stops, and Verity heads for the wings.

Settling into a seat in the empty auditorium, I can hear the backstage chatter. Once the house lights go down, however, silence descends. The convent bells ring out, the nuns file onstage with their votive lights, and Jonathan Gill’s baton begins to bob.

Shortly afterwards, Verity appears, sitting like a mermaid in the spotlight. “So I pause and I wait and I listen,” she sings. “For one more lovely sound, for one more lovely thing ...”

The orchestra swells, the Alpine backdrop glows, and all the elements come flowing together. “The hills are alive with the sound of music, with songs they have sung for a thousand years ...”

The show goes on.

* The Sound of Music runs at the Grand Canal Theatre until April 30. Tickets from €25.