The Scene: Packed dinner theater. The stage is against one wall and is about 15 inches off the floor. The theater is packed and the food has already been served. In an attempt to keep the noise of the dining to a minimum, dinner has been served before the show. So when the play begins, all guests will be ready to relax and enjoy the entertainment. An announcement has already been sent to the audience requesting that all cell phones be turned off and the house lights have dimmed. The play is about to begin.
The Play: Screwtape. A play which shows the attempts of a trio of devils who attempt to lure a soul into the fiery pit. The soul gets away of course, but it comes close to some pretty eternal punishment from time to time. A morality play, but without the heavy handed preaching element and standard good vs. evil setup. In other words, and interesting religious play.
The Actors: A mixed lot of first time performers and more experienced actors. A wide range of ages as fits the parts.
The Mood: Lots of anticipation and a nervous energy hangs heavily in the air. As you will see, there's a good reason for this.
Curtain Rises, and the play begins.
First issue right out of the box, the director fumbles a line. Not a big deal, and immediately ignored by the audience who has no idea anything untoward has happened. But to the actors who have been rehearsing together for the past few weeks, it’s obvious and comes as a little bit of a relief. I mean, if the DIRECTOR can flub a line then suddenly the pressure is off. No one wants to be the first one to make a mistake, and now that the director himself has done it, everyone can relax and just enjoy the play.
But fate has other plans for this crew.
From the start, it’s rough going. The first act features three people on the stage at one time. An easily controllable number, and not large enough to get out of hand. So the chances of people stepping on each other’s lines is minimal. But it happens. First one time, and then again. And then again. Suddenly the actors who are huddled back stage start to get an uneasy feeling about the night’s performance. Things aren’t going to plan, and as the play goes on the wheels start to come off. A lighting cue is missed, then a sound cue. The actors on the stage are suddenly jugglers. If one actor misses a line, the other one will smoothly take over and advance the dialog in the proper direction. Sure, the script may jump ahead by a few lines, but nothing too critical at all and the audience is unaware that something is out of the norm. But when the second actor then misses their line or cue, the ball is tossed back to the first actor.
This snowballs until the line-readers back stage are struggling to keep up with finding the page the actors are on. One minute everything is fine, and the next moment they have both jumped a page and a half ahead, and there’s nothing that can be done but pray that the guy in the lighting booth can keep up. Maybe they can… maybe…
Still on act one, and suddenly an actor experiences what must be the most horrifying twists of fate and cruelty all rolled up into one. The mind goes blank. This is an odd occurrence and must be something that is limited to homo-sapiens because I can’t readily come up with any good reason for this condition to exist, and yet almost every actor has had it happen to them at one time or other. If you are being stalked by a lion in the savannah, at what point does your brain decide that the best thing it can do to increase your chances of getting out of the tight spot and continuing on so you can pass along your genes to the following generations, is to have you suddenly forget everything including your own name? Why does this happen, what purpose does it serve?
But it happens, and it happened right in the middle of act one. Now since this is opening night, no one has made any plans for this eventuality. So when the actor has his mind go blank, there is panic behind the curtain but nothing helpful. The actors look at each other in horror, but no one knows exactly what to do. So the players are left with sending out psychic messages hoping that one of their brainwaves will get through and unloosen the actor’s tongue.
It doesn’t work. The actor is stuck, the play is halted, and a tension fills the air. The director finally whispers a line from back stage and the actor is freed from his torturous limbo. The play resumes. When the actor is finally able to leave the stage, his brow is beaded with sweat and I’d swear he’s sporting a few extra grey hairs which weren’t on his head when the scene started.
My part comes up. I leave the sanctuary of the back stage and take the floorboards. I hit the stage and am blinded by the lights. We hadn’t practiced in the lights before, and I’m surprised how bright they are. I know that the house is packed, but can’t see a single person in the audience. Nor can I hear them, but I’m not sure if this is because of the acoustics of the theater or because coffee hasn’t been served yet. I get my lines out… pretty good… until the end. I flub a line that I hadn’t flubbed once in practice. No big deal, but the words do come out of order, which is irritating. I have a great part where I get to yell at the top of my lungs and I look forward to it every time I pick up the script. In this case, I still yell, but some of the effect is lost. Ah well. I leave the stage.
But my part isn’t over completely.
When I get off stage, I almost immediately yell one word, pause, then yell a second word. No big deal lots of fun. But again, we hadn’t practiced it completely.
So I get off stage and retreat to the cool darkness that lurks behind the set. I yell my word…. and one of the actors who shared the stage with me moments ago leaves the stage behind me… so when I yell the second word she gets the full force of my bellow right in her eardrums. She reels backwards like she’s been shot with a tazer. It wasn’t my intent, but not much could be done about it. She sits down and tries to get rid of the ringing in her ears and I prepare for the next scene.
The play grinds on. Lines are skipped with a regular basis now, and the actors have gone from dread to resignation. Everyone knows that the play isn’t going as well as we’d like, but it’s going all the same. With praises of gratitude, the house lights dim and it’s intermission. I slip out the back for a cigarette.
Intermission: Lots of murmuring from the audience filters in to the back stage, but nothing can be clearly made out. It sounds like happy murmuring, so that’s a plus. The actors are looking frazzled, and are gathering their strength to get through the final scenes and put this play out of its misery. One fiend has lost a plastic fingernail and is getting a new one superglued on. Another fiend is having his stage make-up roll off is face from sweat. I’m in the first part of Act 2, and I’m ready to go.
Lights flash in the auditorium, and finally raise again. It’s showtime. I listen for a moment and hear my cue. I take the stage. I bobble a few lines, but nothing critical. I’m where I should be and then I get up to cross the stage. And find a problem.
We hadn’t practiced with the furniture. Not really. So when the time comes for me to move behind someone, there’s no way it can be done. So I stand in front of them instead. Not really a problem, but it was something that I hadn’t planned on either. So I make the best of it and press on. I get most of the lines out, and then need to be cued from another actor.
Here’s where my mind gets fuzzy. I’m not sure which part I actually messed up on. All I know is that I was about to say a line, and then realized that I’d just said it about 10 seconds previously. So if I said it again, I’d be repeating myself which would sound strange to everyone in earshot including me. The actor my character is talking too gives me a nice little prompt and I finish the line and then get off the stage. For my character, the play is over. And not a moment too soon. The actual play has more to go, so I get ready for the long haul. I change out of my jacket, put away my prop… and then get called to the other side of the stage.
I’d forgotten that I actually do have another part I need to get done before I can relax completely. I need to take the stage again. I don’t say anything, but I do need to be there. I hastily put on my jacket and get the prop ready, run to the far side of the stage and then slip through the curtain. I walk on… walk off… and now can finally relax. Sort of. Lots of play to go, but I really AM done this time.
The scene is coming to an end, when a fiend takes the stage, and immediately takes a tumble on the 15” clearance. She goes down, and goes down hard. Everyone winces, holds their breath, and prays that she’s ok. She is, and gets to her feet. I’m not sure if there was a reaction from the audience to tell the truth. I’m sure there was, but I was so struck with horror and fatalism that I don’t recall any specific reaction from the guests at their tables.
She gets through the scene, and then limps off stage. It foreshadowed the rest of the play. The play limped to a close, and an exhausted crew assembled for one well-deserved round of applause. Dang. It wasn’t pretty, but it was over.
As a director once said: “Congratulations on a job… done.”
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