Exit Stage Left
Well, we did it. Done. Over. Finito.
Amadeus ran for most of a week– five performances, all with at least half-full houses, and one standing room only. Great reviews. Lots of enthusiastic comments and even a few “Why aren’t you in New York” compliments directed personally to me. Awesome.
That’s the short version: all in all, it was amazing.
Now for the long version: Oh. My. Gods!
I ranted in my last post about the unbelievable lack of commitment I was seeing among the local theatrical community. Well, it got worse, instead of better. Another drop out. One actor was actually asked to leave because he simply could not be bothered to show up for rehearsal. We were playing musical roles, trying to fill all the gaps left by departing performers. We managed it– I ended up playing opposite my own sister, who stepped up to take on the role of Constanze (Mozart’s wife) after the first actress quit. (That made Salieri’s clumsy attempt to seduce Constanze even more awkward!) My daughter, who was a nameless ensemble waif, was recruited to play the ominous masked figure that haunts Mozart’s dreams till the end– she’s only 12, but at 5’7″ she’s actually taller than the guy who played Mozart, so it worked.
It did work– the whole production. It was hard and felt largely thankless, and there as more drama offstage than on. Most of this was supplied by my own family, sad to say… I’m not sure I’m ready to discuss those issues, though I suspect I should do, soon. Suffice it to say that a certain twelve-step program figures hugely in the life of one of my family members, and that the stress of producing the play triggered quite a lot of disturbing and self-destructive behaviour. As late as Monday before we opened on the following Thursday, we still weren’t certain there would be a show. Thankfully, we were able to get it together and pull it off.
So… what now? That’s the question I keep asking myself. At times I got so frustrated and disgusted with this play, I swore I would never do another. Now that it’s over, it feels like the day after Christmas. I hardly know what to do with myself, now that there’s no rehearsal to run to, no crisis to deal with, no fire to put out. On one hand, it’s nice to have actual free time. On the other… well…
The next play is slated to run in January. A Streetcar Named Desire. Do I want to get mixed up in that? There’s a small role earmarked for me– truthfully, I’ve never read the play or watched the movie, so I don’t know enough about it to have an informed opinion. Full disclosure: 90% of what I know about Streetcar comes from the (excellent and hysterical) Simpsons episode in which Marge lands the role of Blanche in the musical version, Oh! Streetcar, and realises she is married to Stanley in real life. It’s a great show, but I somehow suspect it fails to do justice to Tennessee Williams’ well-loved masterpiece.
I just don’t know. A lot depends on whether my family member with the addiction problem is willing to get help and stick to whatever program is recommended by the medical professional doing the helping. I refuse to be subjected to all that horror again– I apologise for being vague; I may come back and write about it later, just to work it out in my own mind, because it’s all such a mess. Maybe I’ll just decide to sit this one out and try again another time. Alternately, maybe I’ll get bored and give it another whirl. It’s theatre, after all, and the show must go on.
Salieri is Me!
Work continues on our play-in-production, Amadeus. We are approximately 8 7 (eek!) weeks from opening, and there is still soooo much to do! Act I is blocked; we start run-throughs Tuesday. Then it’s on to blocking Act II. We’ve made significant progress on costuming, and even found an affordable source for wigs. We need to get moving on set pieces and props. But it’s coming together… slowly.
The biggest change is something I can hardly get my head around. I personally have so much more to do, even than I had before as director. Now I’ll be acting in the show as well, because my lead dropped out last week. (Why? I daren’t even speculate. It’s quite pointless, and you don’t want to hear that obscenity-laden rant. Truly.) There’s no one to replace him, except…
… me.
Yes. That is correct; I will be taking on the role of my long-time inspiration, my patron saint of mediocrity. Only this time, I have to rise above mediocre and go for extraordinary, because how else will anyone buy a short, fat– and most glaringly– female Salieri?
Okay, so I’m not playing him as a woman. I’ll be in drag (which is perfectly fitting; we have a drag queen playing the Emperor, so there); the rights we acquired from Samuel French specify that we cannot change the gender of any character in the piece. Salieri must and will continue as Antonio, not Antonia. And that’s fine… if I can pull it off.
I can. Surely I can. I have to. There is no option to not pull it off. The cast buys it; it they will, the audience will. I’m 100% positive about this.
Now I just have to learn my lines…
Living for… What?
I watched the 63rd Annual Tony Awards last night– I try to catch it every year, and to date I’ve only missed a handful. I look forward to my little glimpse of Broadway each season… so why did I spend half the show last night weeping uncontrollably?
I’ve always loved the theatre, especially Broadway musicals– when I was a kid, only Broadway and classical were approved listening material, so by the time I was ten I could belt out the complete scores of Oklahoma!, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music , Camelot, and The Music Man with the best of them. I still love the old shows, and too many of the new ones to ennumerate. I listen to them in the car, usually, so I can sing along and pretend I’m on the stage with the Phantom or Che or Archibald Craven (The Secret Garden— did I catch you there?). I probably look silly, but I don’t care– I used to perform, and I miss it; this is the closest I can get these days. And therein lies the clue to the tears: I haven’t been on stage in almost 9 years. The last play I did was a community children’s theatre production of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. There was a time when I defined myself as an actor– I did my first play when I was two years old, and at age 18 I had something like 30 shows to my credit, plus forensics, choir, and drama classes. I adored performing. I’m introverted; I don’t like to socialize. Put me on stage in front of 500 people– as long as there’s a row of footlights between them and me, I’m right at home.
In some alternate universe, maybe, I was brave enough to pursue acting as a career. Somewhere, somewhen, I’m doing eight shows a week and shining. In this reality, though– I’m an eleventh percenter; I fell short. I lacked the confidence, and as I got older, I became more and more fearful of rejection. For most of a decade, I’ve used my children, especially, as an excuse– who has time for rehearsal when I’ve got three little monsters to contend with?– and consequently, even my most recent foray onto the boards is a distant memory.
I can’t adequately express how this hurts my heart. Watching the Tonys brought it all up again– the lights, the music, the costumes… the camraderie. I was a part of that world once, though only a little one, and I miss it so much… what was… what might have been…
I cried, watching Angela Lansbury and Geoffrey Rush and the three alternating stars of Billy Elliot accept their awards, the casts of Next to Normal and Hair pouring their hearts into five-minute clips of their shows, all the hopeful nominees and presenters and even the audience, because I envy them: they’re part of something that seems forever barred to me now. My theatre went dark a long time ago.
Once again, Peter Shaffer’s Salieri (Amadeus) springs to mind:
Don’t pity me. Pity yourself. You serve a wicked God. He killed Mozart, not I. Took him, snatched him away, without pity. He destroyed His beloved rather than let a mediocrity like me get the smallest share in his glory. He doesn’t care. Understand that. God cares nothing for the man He denies and nothing either for the man He uses. He broke Mozart in half when He’d finished with him, and threw him away. Like an old, worn out flute…
Goodbye, Father. I’ll speak for you. I speak for all mediocrities in the world. I am their champion. I am their patron saint. On their behalf I deny Him, your God of no mercy. Your God who tortures men with longings they can never fulfill. He may forgive me: I shall never forgive Him.
Gods forgive me, but that sums up how I feel. That’s the very essence of the Eleventh Percent: so close, and yet so far. Brando, On the Waterfront: “I coulda been a contenda!” That’s the bottom line: the might-have-beens, the could-haves.
Why does God/dess, the Universe, whatever, give people like me the desire, the fervent wish, and deny them the talent and/or opportunity? I was good at what I did back then; I can still sing, and given the chance, I suppose I can still act as well. What’s the difference between me and, say, Jennifer Love Hewitt (other than a few million dollars and a good hundred-plus pounds, but never mind that)? Is it only will? Hers, or Divine?
I suppose the answer is drive. Those who succeed in theatre– or at least try to make a go of it– have one thing I apparently lack, and that’s motivation. The real reason I haven’t been on stage in so long? I haven’t bothered to try out. I got the acting bug, but when they were handing out drive, I must’ve been off daydreaming or something.
I’m bitter, though– I can’t pretend otherwise. My life isn’t what I wanted it to be. Intellectually, I recognise that’s all due to me, the choices I’ve made and the roads I’ve chosen. My heart just aches for the girl I was, who dreamed a dream and watched it wither. I wanted so much more… what happened to me?
Life. Life intervenes, as it always does. I chose the paths of least resistance, the easiest ways, the roads well-mapped. I opted for safety– in itself an illusion– and I wound up– here. There’s nothing to look forward to, nothing to hope for or dream about. I’m 34 years old, and it feels for all the world as though my life is over. My greatest accomplishment to date– the successful natural birth of my youngest son– is something 100,000 or more women do every single day. That’s it. I’m used up, finished. I’m not even a has-been– I’m a never-was.
Down on myself much? I have to chuckle at that. People get tired of my Eeyore routine… believe it or not, so do I. I wish I was proud of myself, that I could look back over the last ten or fifteen years, smile to myself, and say, Yes, I did good! That’s not the case… at least not right now. I can’t see that changing any time soon, either.
The Eleventh Percent 