All stories about the Dome (that is, when it really was the Dome) begin and end with Bertrand A. Henry . . .
One the astonishing things that I encountered when I started working at the Dome was the less than complete professionalism, off the stage. It had been my experience up to that point (and would remain so, thereafter) that professional Stage Managers – though often prodigious consumers of licit and illicit substances - were the embodiment of order and discipline while at work, often simply out of self-interest. They represented the Apollonian in the theatrical world in contrast to the Dionysian pull of the actor. This imposed order on the, often uncontrolled, whirl of the actors' creative dynamo and is a vital feature in the theatrical cosmos. Without it, Chaos reigns, and nothing substantial is attained. Here endeth the lesson.
When I arrived at the technical production world of the Dome, chaos ruled. There were any number of quite proficient, self-trained technicians among the acting students of the program. Off the top of my head, in that timespan, I can name John Myers, Mike Krychun and Brian Rabey (and there would be many others), who gave unstintingly of themselves on the technical side and without whom the Program would have instantly foundered. But over-all there was a total lack of a sense of purpose, order and discipline in the technical “proceedings” of the department. The last Technical Director, an old friend of mine from Bishop’s and Festival Lennoxville days, had fled to McGill in disgust.
An example. The first cue to cue rehearsal that I remember experiencing (I was supposed to be running it but it was out of my control in a matter of seconds) was of a studio production of "Love's Labour's Lost". I watched with a sense of rising dread and panic as cues were bungled, entrances were missed and chaos gradually extended its grasp. Nothing I said or did, seemed to help and things grew worse by the minute. Actors would miss an entrance, be summoned by loud, backstage yells and appear on stage bewildered and without their props or even their lines. Finally, I made a tour "backstage" (behind the curtains)where I was matter-of-factly informed that at the Dome, the point of doing a technical rehearsal was for the actors to run around getting drunk. This was a completely comprehensible reason for the growing disaster that had started as a cue to cue.
Just for the sake of clarity, a cue to cue is a stop/start rehearsal that skips those sections of the play that have no technical cues(sound, lights, props, set, wind, food, master sequences, you name it…) and concentrates on getting those cues right, in concert with the actors involved. It is also enormously useful for the actors since they can begin to map out entrances and exits done in Black Out and work out any interaction that they might have with things technical. But the rehearsal is FOR the technicians, and sometimes it’s the only one that they get (compared to three weeks in a rehearsal hall for actors). A technical rehearsal is a stop and start run of the whole play to iron out technical issues.
All of this was of vastly greater importance when everything was operated manually (computers had not entered the theatrical world) and everything(cues, levels and notes) to be laboriously handwritten. Things are vastly quicker today, they already were when I stopped doing tech work, but then both rehearsals were absolutely crucial for the technicians, not for the actors. And they were not an invitation to a booze-up for the cast.
This was a part of the curious “culture” of the early Dome as overseen by Bert. Bert himself was, in some ways, a model of decorum. He neither drank nor smoked and much was made, at party time, of these facts –particularly by him. When the wine list (ie. how many bottles) was being assembled for a Roast or a cast party, Bert would be sure to chime in with: “don’t forget the fruit juice for me!” It was part of the legend. At the same time, Dome parties were famous throughout the Montreal theatre school community, and drew gate crashers from far and wide. Domies partied long and hard under the benign gaze of their tea-total leader. In addition to all of the above, there were no rules against smoking anywhere in the building – anywhere at all in Dawson –and a lot of people smoked. The dressing rooms were utter garbage dumps and rat infested as well. The large one (otherwise known as Under the Stage) was connected to a service tunnel that led directly to the sewers. During the spring Major one year, the actors and crews under the stage watched the Canadians win the Stanley Cup Playoffs – remember when that was a thing – and sometimes the cheers drowned out the action on stage. The Dome was a problematic flower waiting to bloom. And it did.
The second Major that year was The Hostage by Brendan Behan and I was directing it. It was another interesting and talented third year class and I was looking forward to the run of the production. I don’t remember the rehearsal process in great detail but I do remember that it was tense and, at times, hilarious. We had an excellent preview and we were all looking forward to opening night on the next day – but it was not to be. Sometime in the early hours, Victor Knight got a phone call informing him that the Dome was on fire. From the scene of the fire, he called me and the other faculty and we watched helplessly as the fire was extinguished at dawn of “opening” night. Of course, all hell broke loose in the department.
Classes were re-scheduled up the street to Richelieu campus and a series of meetings were held with the new head of Plant and Facilities, Pierre Beaulieu (whom Bert always called Pierre Boileau, even after multiple corrections over a number of years) to determine “What Would Be Done.” In the end it boiled down, apparently, to what would happen with the insurance settlement on the building. In the interim, the building was declared to be safe enough for me to go into and get it cleaned up (but not safe for any classes or rehearsals, which was very re-assuring) and that was the last I saw of any of the faculty (except for an occasional meeting) for a very long time. So, it was me and few student volunteers in the building when the insurance inspectors from the College and the Landlord’s respective insurance companies showed up to … inspect. The worst of the fire damage had been cleared out. The stage and the set had been largely destroyed, and all the costumes in the building had to be removed and bagged – to be thrown out or dry cleaned; again, depending on the settlement. The fight between the two insurance companies was extremely fierce. There was extensive damage to the structure of the building. The back wall, ascending the loft to the fly gallery had accumulated most of the heat and it had bowed the back wall prodigiously out of the theatre. In the end the loft had to be removed and the back wall partially re-built. It’s still a bit bowed out today.
Bye the way, in case anyone didn’t know, the building was owned by a Montreal gentleman of Greek ancestry who lived most of the year in Florida. When he died, it was inherited by his sister. He was a nice enough guy but a bit on the cheap side and he certainly did not look forward to his new premiums if his insurance company had to cover the repairs. They claimed that the fire was caused by the irresponsible tenants and the College’s insurance company claimed that it was caused by the landlord’s faulty electrical wiring. By the time that we neared the end of the academic year, it was clear that the case was going to court. Which meant, of course, that the lawyers would reap all the benefits.
And then there was a surprise visit to the Dome by the College’s insurance inspector. And what should he find, in the long hallway on the west side of the building that led to an emergency exit to the street, but what was clearly an arsonist’s wooden torch, reeking of kerosene, and wrapped at one end with burlap that had been seriously charred. In addition, it turned out, he had a statement (or, a rumour of a statement – it soon achieved what would later be called viral status) from a youngish janitor from a few blocks away who had threatened to get rid of us “Anglais” who had no right to be herein St. Henri. We were late in the 1970’s, not far from the past of the FLQ and the future of the PQ. Both insurance companies were ecstatic by the new discovery (since it meant that neither was liable) and everything was immediately settled financially. We were promised money to renovate the theatre and everybody was happy.
What could never finally be explained to me is how that torch turned up in a hallway that I had thoroughly cleaned up a few days beforehand. But that was the past and we were off to the future.
In the end, when the catastrophe of the year was over, everything changed to a new story line. The renovation was put on hold, the landlord went back to Florida, the repair of the theatre was turned over to me and some poorly paid students who spent the summer doing it with not much in the way of thanks and we were all back at it in the Fall, as if nothing had happened – except that the theatre smelled like hell for a long time afterward. And The Hostage never opened.
