Guest Post: Andrea Humez — Food on Stage

As a director of low-budget, low-tech community theatre, I often find myself evaluating scripts I’d like to direct on the basis of whether they have some sort of insurmountable logistical challenge. Fortunately I have friends willing to build me shower stalls and moving person-shaped pistol targets (Hapgood), and canopy beds (The Lion In Winter). The full nudity in Indian Ink and the multi-level rotating set in Noises Off are still beyond my current means. But at least these (with the possible exception of the pistol targets) are vital to the plot of their respective plays. More irksome are technical effects that serve minor purposes, yet are difficult to omit: for example, the dagger thrown into a painting and smashed wine glass in A Little Night Music.

Food on stage can fall anywhere along the spectrum. In The Importance of Being Earnest the eating (and squabbling over) very specific food items is an integral element of the dialogue. In Rabbit Hole, a different, highly specific dessert is eaten in nearly every scene; but while the constant serving of food does serve to illustrate something about Becca’s character and her relationship with her family, the creme caramel and lemon squares never quite play the focal role in a scene that the cucumber sandwiches do in Earnest. In Frankie and Johnny in the Claire de Lune, preparing and eating food are part of the characters’ negotiation of their relationship — but the food required is milk, meatloaf, and a vegetable omelet that an actor must prepare during the scene, so the play requires not only food, but a working refrigerator and, ideally, a working stove. And how many actors want to eat cold meatloaf — or worse, tepid, meatloaf — in the middle of a performance? Or kiss someone who has just done so?

The thing that really baffles me is the number of 10-minute plays that
require food — sometimes not just a cup of coffee or a couple of
cookies, but something elaborate and messy like a plate of chicken and
pasta. 10-minutes plays are usually performed as a set, where
keeping props and scenery to a minimum is important for quick set
changes. Sometimes, the food is central, as in a play I recently saw
about two women whose job is to prepare the last meal for prisoners
about to be executed. If that’s the subject of your play, then the food is necessary — and there’s nothing an apple pie under construction for a good concrete, specific image. But if it’s incidental, why not make everyone’s life easier and leave it out?

Beverages are somewhat less problematic, because they can often be faked with empty cups or colored water. But if you want a character to throw a drink in another character’s face, consider the logistical ramifications: colored water on costumes, wet floor until the next scene change, possible damage to makeup. . . And that’s assuming that your `whisky’ or `brandy’ is colored water and not, say, iced tea mixed with cranberry juice. In the latter case, you will have something colored and sticky all over set and costumes. Also, it takes longer to consume a serving of beverage than most scripts allow. Unless the characters are slugging back shots, the scene can become a race to empty their glasses in time to ask for a refill.

Similarly, it takes a painfully long time to consume food on stage, especially if the eating character has the next line. (Have you ever hollowed out chocolates so that they would contain as small a volume of chocolate as possible while still reading as bon-bons to the audience? Chocolate is particularly tricky to speak through.)

Now, it must be admitted that theatre people delight in logistical challenges; that’s where all our most cherished anecdotes seem to come from. So go ahead, put that roast turkey dinner in your script. Generations of actors and stage hands will happily curse your name.