Energy, Passion at 'Oliver' Rehearsals

In February, we visited the auditions for "Oliver," put on by the Chatham Community Players, where over 180 people walked onto the ground level stage and sang in their best cockney accent for director Bobby Cline, stage manager Debby Hennessy, Theater Vice President Eileen Johnston and music director Rich Lovallo.

One hundred and eighty people have been whittled down to 33 carefully chosen individuals—about half over the age of 30, about half under the age of 15.

Since April 1, the actors and crew members of "Oliver" have been singing, dancing, staging, building, sewing, acting, blocking and organizing for several hours a week in their free time. In other words, they've been rehearsing, and Chatham Patch was lucky and nosy enough to snoop in (and it did feel like snooping) on the process.

If a person walks into a rehearsal without an understanding of how theater works, she will probably be confused by a total lack of cohesive action. There are a few people on stage, but mostly everyone is hanging out. What is going on, the person might be thinking to herself, and who is in charge?

Cline, who radiates the energy of a nine-year-old boy (or maybe an appliance—his body seems to buzz), is the person in charge. He also teaches at Pace University and directs off-Broadway plays, but when he is in rehearsals for "Oliver," he is totally committed.

"He puts a lot of pride in his shows," Barbi McGuire, who plays Widow Corney, said at Wednesday night's rehearsal. She says that at every rehearsal, she learns something new from him.

McGuire describes his process: "He'll talk about what he wants to see, he'll tell you where he wants us in the picture of the scene, and then occasionally advise or direct us on character. He sits back, watches, and takes notes."

Really, Cline doesn't seem to be doing that much at rehearsals. He takes notes, he jumps up occasionally to demonstrate a dance move, he sparingly gives direction. But that's a misconception, McGuire says.

"He is organized enough to where it does look simple," she says.

But because Cline never doles out a play-by-play of the rehearsals and jumps around from scene to scene, the process, McGuire says, looks "discombobulated."  

David Cantor, who once upon a time was a professional actor, expects rehearsals to be chaotic, and like McGuire, trusts Cline's directing skills.

"A good director has a vision in his head of what he has to see. He knows and he's working towards that visual image which you don't see yet. It really never is the total chaos," he said during a recent rehearsal.

McGuire has worked with Cline in six other productions and has learned that Cline, more than anything, appreciates originality.

In fact, she got the role of Corney because she realized something about the character the other auditioners had not. Widow Corney, who is lonely since her husband died and runs the warehouse where Oliver and the other orphans live with an eligible bachelor, Mr. Bumble, isn't necessarily irritable, irrational, angry and unfair because she's a bad person. She's all those things because, well, she's a little … sexually frustrated.  

McGuire auditioned Corney as flirty, 40 and frustrated, and got the part because of it.

On Friday night, Cline summons Widow Corney and Mr. Bumble to the stage to rehearse the most sexually charged song of the show, "I Shall Scream." They start off flirtatiously arguing with one another and end up embracing in a kiss. Cline, McGuire says, encourages the funny sides of Corney and Bumble's characters, which stops them from being grumpy caricatures.

"He takes productions to different levels. He uses his own vision. He does not like to copy," McGuire says.

McGuire appreciates Cline's commitment to fleshing out a character's backstory.

"Now your character has meaning," she says. "It makes you feel more real."

McGuire is not the only one that appreciates Cline's approach to directing in rehearsals.

Ben Erig, from Summit, plays Oliver. He is nine and small, with soft features and deep brown eyes.

"I love how everybody is nice, and Bob is just amazing at doing shows," he says while the other Oliver, Sean McManus, 11, from Chatham, is on stage. McManus is also playing Oliver—the two will alternate performances, as will two Dodgers.

"It's so fun working with him," he says. Just being on stage rehearsing, though, makes him supremely happy.

"I feel like a pretty butterfly at rehearsals. I feel that I'm really happy and I think a butterfly is happy and joyful. It's hard to put into words," he says.

While Cline is the "creative genius" behind the production, according to McGuire, the unsung heroes are all the crew members that organize and make each rehearsal run smoothly.

Erin Lundstrom is the official child wrangler. She, well, wrangles all 12 boys (and two girls) whenever Cline needs them. She shouts out directions, helps them learn their dance moves, keeps them occupied when they're not needed, and in general, seems like good counsel. Erin and the kids have a mutual respect for each other. They joke around.

She used to have a "real career" in the toy industry. But now she is a nanny and spends most of her time volunteering for different plays.

"Kids are some kind of calling," she says.

Costumes are Fran Harrison's calling. Born in Yorkshire, England, Harrison has lived in New Jersey for 20 years. She has spent 60 hours a week for the last 10 weeks preparing for "Oliver."

Backstage Victorian clothing—tweed jackets, flower-patterned long dresses, colorful oxfords and elaborately embroidered vests—hang on neatly arranged racks. She has organized and altered, and in many cases made, all of this clothing herself.

"When I start, I don't know where it's going, but then when it starts happening, it's really exciting seeing it come together. It's the process," she says. "It's the creatively. It's the finished product when it's done. It's exciting."

The same can be said for "Oliver," which opens May 7.

"It hasn't come together yet, but that's pretty typical for all shows," McGuire says.

But when it does, according to Cantor: "Well, it's almost magic."