When the first day of rehearsals comes, the actors spend a lot of time trying to remember their lines, bumping into each other onstage, and asking questions like "but what's my motivation?"
Nichol answers them, not patiently, but succinctly. The company's lead actress, Viola, is playing the prince's bride Alisse. Joran, a tall, dark actor who specializes in romantic heroes, is playing the prince. Diar is cast as the prince's steward, and is determined to make the most of the part.
"So what's my motivation?" she asks.
Nichol turns to consider Diar. "The prince is getting married, and you are worried it will be a disaster, because it is a large production with many moving parts," Nichol says, with a pointed glance around the theater. "You would like to avoid looking foolish in front of a crowd."
You watch, mostly in silence, occasionally interjecting suggestions that are generally ignored. Everyone seems to feel that the writer should be seen but not heard, or at least not listened to, just present as a sort of good-luck charm. From what you hear, people feel they could use one: everyone has a story of some kind of theatrical disaster or domestic misfortune to blame darkly on the city's curse.