It’s January 7th, you know what that means? I just had an epiphany! Get it? Sorry, with Under the Radar in full swing all over the building, Compulsion now in rehearsals, Timon of Athens starting rehearsals next week, plus writing magazine articles and my book on prop-making, I only have a list of links today. But they are very interesting ones that should keep you busy for a long time.
Steve Johnson has spent 30 years designing and building all sorts of monsters for films, such as Ghostbusters, Spiderman 2, The Abyss, and a ton of others. He’s now uploading all the photos and behind-the-scenes video he’s shot during his career (most of which hasn’t been seen before) to the Steve Johnson YouTube Channel. Sweet.
Before sound could be reproduced by recorded means, any sound effects needed in the theatre had to be created by mechanical means. The props department was in charge of coming up with the machines and devices to achieve that. In the rare cases that live sound effects are used in a modern performance, it still tends to be props’ responsibility, though with the advent of sound designers, you will always have some cross-departmental collaboration.
The devices used for the most common sounds were fairly standard during the last few centuries. I found some great illustrations of these in a 1900 book entitled Secrets of Scene Painting and Stage Effects by Van Dyke Browne (what a name for a scene painter!)
Thunder sheet and Galloping steeds
Thunder was created by hanging a large sheet of thin iron and shaking it. If you’ve ever carried a large sheet of thin sheet metal, you can imagine the sound something as large in the picture can create.
Wood blocks were used to generate the sound of galloping horses; they had elastic bands to keep them on the prop-person’s hands. The book points out that some property masters preferred the use of coconut halves, though this required the cut ends to be perfectly flat and smooth.
Rain and Wind
The sound of rain was made by filling a long box with small pebbles. The box had a center pivot point which allowed it to tilt; all the pebbles would tumble to the other side. If you’ve ever played with a rain stick, it is the same general idea.
The “wind-producing drum” is a bit of a mystery to me. Browne neglects to describe this drawing, and I cannot be certain of its possible sound or intended use. Most of us are more familiar with the next drawing as a machine to create the sound of wind.
Wind Machine
A piece of silk is draped over a drum made of slats of wood with spaces in between. The drum can be turned to create the sound of wind.
The following are more esoteric devices. With the advent of cinema, foley artists (as the creators of mechanical sound effects were called) had to come up with ways to create sound effects in much smaller places; after all, a cinema has far less space backstage than a theatre for plays.
Horse Trotter
This is a horse trotting machine. It acts like a more automated version of hitting two coconut halves together. A shaft above has a number of “tappets” (C1 and C2) which pushes the top cup away from the bottom cup (Fig 2). When the tappet clears, a spring connecting the two cups pulls them back together, creating the sound. The triangular cutouts in the top cup help make a louder and richer sound. The “foot lever” on the bottom is used to adjust the distance of the cups from the shaft. When it is further away, the tappets do not push the cup as much, creating a softer sound. Thus, it gives the operator some control over the volume of the galloping horses.
Sound Machine
This last machine is an attempt to combine a whole bunch of sound-generating devices into one. The back part (S) has a number of pipes, whistles and bells (V), through which compressed air is run. You can trigger each one individually by turning the air on and off. In the middle of a large drum is a thin sheet of stiff metal (M). Using the handle, you can slap it against the drum to simulate artillery fire. Because it is on a roll (P), you can alter the length of the sheet to control the volume of the slap.
A final lever (R) can be used to generate a rolling effect on the drum, which apparently mimicked the sound of automobiles quite successfully.
The final illustration does not have to do with sound, but it was in the same chapter. I recently wrote a post about the variety of ways a props person simulates snow on stage. Though a snow drop itself is not usually a prop department’s responsibility, it is helpful to know how one works, and so I include the illustration below.
Snow Drop
Illustrations originally printed in Secrets of Scene Painting and Stage Effects by Van Dyke Browne. 5th ed., 1900, George Routledge and Sons, Limited. You can read the whole book at the Internet Archive.
By scenery is meant the paintings in perspective and movable with the change of place represented in the play.
The word “properties” we find technically applied to the appurtenances of the stage in England as early as 1511. In an account of the furniture used for the play of St. George during the Revels at Court in that year, “properties” and “property making” are both used. The person in charge of them was called the “tire-man,” and the one in charge of the “apparel” was called the “garment-man.”
In the estimates of the Revels in 1563 the “properties” for five plays at Windsor are mentioned several times. The “tireman,” as well as the “book-holder” (the prompter), is also spoken of by Ben Jonson in the induction to his play, “Cynthia’s Revels,” and both are mentioned by many other dramatic writers of that time.
As long ago as 1561 the public theatres only had, instead of scenery, besides the curtain in front, other curtains at the back of the stage. These were called “traverses,” and served to indicate another inner apartment, when one was needed. These were also afterward called “arras.” In “Hamlet” we find Polonius places himself behind the “arras.” Beds, chairs, and other “properties” needed on the stage, were thrust on through these hangings.
Some may question whether masks are actually props. Often they are considered costumes, and in some cases, they can be considered a completely separate department. However, I feel that because they are physical objects of the theatre, they are worth investigating for historical purposes. In Ancient Greek theatre, the mask-makers were the same craftsmen who would make other theatrical props called for in the show (read my article on Ancient Greek Theatre props for more information), and it is not implausible to believe that such was the case in other theatrical traditions.
I would like to add one further caveat as well before continuing. Masks were used in many early societies as parts of rituals. Ancient Greek theatre rose out of such rituals, and many other early rituals evolved into forms of theatre as well. While rituals are not theatre per say, they can be considered part of the theatrical tradition. In any event, masks and mask-makers may be viewed as the earliest predecessors of props and prop artisans.
Though no Greek theatre masks have survived to the modern day, we have some examples of Roman New Comedy masks which have evolved out of the Greek tradition.
Terracotta mask from 395BCE-332BCE
Many early theatre traditions made masks out of leather or hide, and included feathers and fur as decorations. While clay and stone masks may been less prevalent, they are the only kinds which have survived, as anything organic has long since decomposed.
Preceding the Greeks were the Ancient Egyptians. Here we see a ceramic Anubis mask, one of the only surviving helmet masks from Egypt.
Ceramic Anubis mask
Currently held in the Hildesheim Pelizaeus-Museum, the mask weighs about 17 pounds and is believed to date from about 600BCE. Notice the two holes below the head; these are eye-holes for the priest who wore it. Unlike the Roman mask above, this mask was used in a more ceremonial rather than theatrical purpose.
One of the oldest masks believed to be in existence is this stone mask from the neolithic period.
When a theatre regularly displays amputations, burning in acid, eviscerations, stabbings and all other manner of violent actions, a prop person may ask: how realistic were these effects, and how were they pulled off?
Perhaps one of the best kept secrets of the Grand Guignol was their fake blood. Many sources speak in fascination that it would congeal after a few minutes like real blood. Mel Gordon, a theatre Professor at U.C. Berkeley and Grand Guignol expert, says that the base is made of a heated mixture of equal parts carmine and glycerin (Callboard magazine, April, 1996). Carmine is a bright red pigment made by boiling dried insects; you can find paints which use that pigment, though finding it in its pure form is more difficult and necessitates looking for specialty online stores. You can still buy glycerin at drug stores and online. It is often added to stage blood to give it a bit of sheen under the lights. Further justification for this theory is found in a Time Magazine article entitled “The Theater: Murders in the Rue Chaptal” from March, 1947:
The theater has a secret recipe for blood; when the stuff cools it coagulates and makes scabs. Thrill-hungry customers in the small auditorium get a dividend when they overhear the hoarse backstage whisper: “Vite [tr: quickly], Edmond! Warm up the blood.”
Eva Berkson applies blood to an actress' neck before a scene from "The Hussy". Photograph by Hans Wild, 1947
Nonon also made viscera from red rubber hose and sponges soaked in blood. Taxidermists supplied animal eyeballs, which he coated in aspic (a clear jelly made from meat stock) and stuffed with anchovies marinated in blood (Time, 1962). Sheep’s eyes were popular, but any animal would suffice because then the eyeball could bounce when dropped (Callboard, 1996). Edible eyeballs were made by a local confectioner’s shop (Pace, 1951). A tongue that was ripped out was made of rubber (Five Star Final, 1950) and (Pace, 1951). According to The Columbia encyclopedia of modern drama, Paul Ratineau, the stage manager, depended on the daily delivery of fresh animal parts by local butchers.
In order to deliver the goods, a variety of devices and trick props were required. These included rubber knives, concealed bladders, tubes and small, strategically located steam pipes (See Magazine, March, 1950), a dagger squirting “blood” from a vial hidden in an actor’s hand, quick flaming powders, a table with props hidden in upstage drawers (The New York Times Magazine, P.E. Schneider, March 1957). Daggers with retractable blades could also squirt blood from the handles; Mel Gordon explains that “a turkey baster, rubber ball, or an eye dropper could provide a good base for building a blood squirting knife” (Callboard, 1996).
In the photograph below, we see how some trick knives are like the classic “arrow-through-the-head” gag prop, where the two halves are separated by a metal clasp which fits around the actor’s limb.
Gordon also explains how the Guignol-eurs chopped off a man’s hand:
An actor cuts off his hand. Photograph by Hans Wild, 1947.
Cutting off a man’s hand is easier than it sounds. Stiffen a glove with glue water so it holds it’s shape and paint it like a real hand. The actor wearing the glove should still be able to move his fingers a bit. When the hand is chopped off the “chopper” removes the glove and the “chopee” moves his hand up into his cuff which is reinforced with a cardboard tube and fitted with a blood pack. The stiffened glove should hold it’s shape perfectly as the unwilling amputee writhes in pain (Callboard, 1996).
Edmond Beauvais, prop master, prepares a removable hand with the actor
Another eye-popping effect involves hiding a fake eye in the hollowed-out handle of a spoon. Conversely, an actress could wear a plaster or latex quarter mask which holds a fake (sheep’s) eye, lactose powder, and a blood capsule. If she wears her hair over that half of her face (“Veronica Lake” style), the effect would be quite flawless (Callboard, 1996). Mel Gordon describes a more complicated eye-gouging device:
The retractable blade of the knife moves into the handle which squirts blood when pressed against the victim’s face. Affixed to the end of the handle is a piece of adhesive “skin” (latex or lamb skin) with a slit to allow the blade to move through it. As the handle is pressed against the victims eye the sticky “skin” is pressed to the eyelid leaving a gory empty eye socket. When the knife handle is pulled away the blade is released back into position. The actor with the knife squeezes a air pump in the handle and a rubber eyeball on the end of the knife inflates. The eye appears to be impaled on the tip of the knife. Many magic shops sell an inflatable ball and pump mechanism that could work as a base for this prop (Callboard, 1996).
Crime in a Madhouse. Photograph by Hans Wilder, 1947
Much of the development of the theatre’s effects are due to the above-mentioned Paul Ratineau. Many of the tricks were secret; some were even patented. Most were devilishly simple though. Their power and Ratineau’s cleverness did not come solely from the tricks though. He overcame a number of challenges. First, the stage itself was only twenty feet by twenty feet large, with the audience close enough to shake hands with the actors (“Theatre du Grand Guignol,” The Drama Review. Frantisek Deak, 1974). Second, the tricks needed to work consistently, in full view of the audience, and while the actors performed in character with other actors in the height of often-crazed emotions.
It should be no surprise then, that Ratineau also developed much of the Grand Guignol’s characteristic lighting. Besides setting the mood, the lighting could hide the imperfections in the prop trickery as well as guide the audience’s eyes to where it was desired. Similarly, the arrangement of the scenery and objects on stage combined with the blocking served to direct or misdirect the audience’s attention (O’Leary, 2005). Sound effects (also pioneered by Ratineau) were critical in bridging the gap between what an audience sees and what they imagine they are witnessing. Finally, dramatic tension and the power of marketing helped sell the bloodshed portrayed on stage by warming the audience up to a heightened level of expectation. The mystery of the special effects themselves added to the legend surrounding the Grand Guignol. In other words, the actual trick props, while clever, might seem crude and unrefined when studied under normal light and out of the context of the performances.
When money became tight, the theatre would prefer to stab women rather than men, because their smaller costumes were cheaper to clean. For head wounds, men were the victims because their short hair was easier to wash (Schneider, 1957). Schneider goes on to recount some of the more serious mishaps and accidents:
Naturally, all this gruesomeness is sheer illusion, but the sham is not always devoid of risk. Once, during an actress’ simulated hanging, the protective device broke and she almost did get hanged. Another recently was burned by the flame of a revolver. In “Orgy in the Lighthouse,†the heroine suffered even more; on one night, she almost caught fire; on another, her male partner began to live his part a bit too much and beat her up in earnest, so that she was forced to go off to the country to nurse a nervous breakdown.
See? Gore and horror aren’t always happy fun times.
Making and finding props for theatre, film, and hobbies
