Why We Tell the Story

I grew up in a very musical family. Both my parents played the piano, my dad played the guitar, and everybody sang. And I do mean EVERYBODY. We sang everywhere. We sang grace at the table. We sang on car trips. We sang in front of the fireplace. We sang in the camper. We sang at church. So, not surprisingly, when my 6^th grade class put on Pirates of Penzance, I was first in line to audition. I got my first leading role, and I was officially hooked on musical theatre.

Hey, it was 1980 and I was 11. Shut up.

But as well as performing, I loved to be in the audience. My whole family went to see Annie when it came through Boston; my dad took me to see Cats a few years later. I managed to wangle a ticket when a drama class that I wasn’t even in went to see 42^nd Street. I remember going up to see the three different summer musicals put on by Theatre-by-the-Sea up in Portsmouth every single summer, and once or twice we even drove all the way up to the Ogunquit Playhouse to catch their summer stock productions.

But then I went to a college that had only a tiny black-box theater, and I discovered the wonderful subtlety of straight plays. There were no huge production numbers or characters bursting into song or ensemble casts four dozen strong. They managed to communicate the emotions of their characters through spoken words rather than sung lyrics and through physical postures and movement and facial expressions rather than full-blown choreography and dance. I dipped my toe into the “straight play pool” and was cast in a small role in a classic play, Lillian Hellman’s The Children’s Hour. Because my role was minor, I spent most of my time during the rehearsal process making costumes or watching the other actors and listening to the director’s comments. It was a wonderful learning experience for me on many levels.

But one of the things that it taught me was that I’m not a naturally talented actor. Oh, I have some solid instincts, and I’m definitely capable of learning, but I was not a born actor. My acting skills definitely fit better in the broader, bolder, more stylized world of musicals.

And that’s fine, because I really do enjoy acting through singing and dancing more than I do acting through lines and blocking alone. My relationship with acting is kind of like that old saying about jazz music: Nat King Cole swings the band, and the band swings Frank Sinatra. Both styles are great; they just work differently. In theatre, the play actor swings the material, and the material swings the musical actor. I definitely need the material to swing me.

The reason this concept is running through my head at the moment is that I attended a rehearsal of a straight play this evening. It doesn’t really matter what play it was; this performance will be the New England premiere production, so chances are you haven’t see it. I’m coordinating the costumes, so although I have already read the script numerous times, I wanted to see it “on its feet,” as we say; to see the actors bring to life the characters I had imagined in my head.

It’s still quite early in the rehearsal – and technical creation – process, so I was watching the actors on a sparse set with half-painted walls, a mish-mash of wooden chairs standing in for various pieces of furniture, mismatched mugs in place of wine glasses, miming various props, scripts in their hands. But even so, a story was being created in front of me.

That’s really what theatre is, after all: storytelling. Here are some people; here are their relationships; here’s something interesting that happened to them that you can probably relate to on some level. Have you ever struggled with a relationship, be it with a family member or a friend or a romantic partner? You understand the feelings these characters are dealing with. Have you ever been uncertain of a decision you made? You understand the situation these characters are in. Have you ever grieved, or rejoiced, or been angry, or been confused? You can see yourself in these people up there on the stage. A good story, well told, makes you forget that they’re experiencing it, not you. A good play immerses you in its world for a few hours, and when it releases you from its spell it leaves you thoughtful and contemplative. A good play makes you think. It changes how you think.

That’s why we tell the story. 

When They Love What You Love

Some people try lots of avocations and hobbies before they find their passion, but not me. I learned to sing before I could talk, and I was bitten by the theatre bug very early in life. Throughout my entire adult life, and even during the vast majority of my childhood, my passion has been singing and musical theatre. So it makes me ridiculously happy that both my children love to sing, and that they are comfortable being on stage.

Last night, my son had his first rehearsal for a small, non-speaking role in a production that my husband and I are performing in. This is a show that the Reagle Players of Greater Boston have performed roughly every other year since…well, I’m not sure when, but it’s probably been 30 years, if not more. The show is called “Remembering the 40s,” and it includes songs, dances, and skits from the 1940s – it’s a musical revue that starts off with a bunch of kids dancing to the jukebox at the local soda shop and hearing President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s “a date which will live in infamy” speech, then walks all the way through World War II from the perspective of both the American soldiers overseas and the women waiting back at the home front, then continues on through the postwar years of the marvelous radio shows of Burns and Allen, Jack Benny, Bob Hope, and groups like the fictitious “Cavalcade Singers.” The music includes such familiar hits as “In the Mood,” “I’ll Be Seeing You,” “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition,” "The White Cliffs of Dover," and a plethora of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Broadway hits, including “Oklahoma,” “People Will Say We’re in Love,” “Honeybun,” “There Is Nothin’ Like a Dame,” and “Bali Hai.”

But one of the most moving moments of the show (for me, anyway – even before my son played the role) is the song “Be a Good Soldier.” The women are holding an auction to raise money for the troops, and in the middle of it, there is a freeze, and we see a father, in his soldier’s uniform, talking to his young son about taking good care of his mother while Daddy is away at war. The beautiful lyrics go like this:

Come, little man, put your toys away; you and I must have a talk today.
But first, let me have a great big kiss. Now, what I want to say is this:
Be a good soldier while your daddy’s away, take orders from your mom and learn to obey.
Come, little soldier, I am saying goodbye. Smile for me, buddy, there’s no reason to cry.
Now I’m on my way, you stay and hold down the fort.
I’ll tell the captain our worries are over, we have your support.
So pray for me, soldier, and promise each day you’ll be a good soldier while your daddy’s away.

Tell me any mother who could listen to those lyrics while watching her son and not sob uncontrollably. Certainly not me. I was a puddle.

I blogged recently about how history never came alive to me until I read stories about the ordinary people who lived through it rather than the famous names who created it, and this show is absolutely the story of the ordinary people. It’s the men who never planned to be soldiers but who were drafted and fought bravely; it’s the women who were terrified by what their menfolk were going through but who worked in the factories to keep everything going anyway; it’s the children who didn’t understand what was happening but who tried to be brave. It’s the ordinary people who did their best to keep living through all the challenges swirling around them. It’s everyone who tried to keep some kind of “normal” happening.

And when I see my son imagining what it would be like, what it would feel like, to know that your daddy was going far away for a long time, braving unknown dangers, fighting unknown battles, not knowing when (or if) you would ever see him again…when I see his eyes widen in understanding, and in sympathy, I know that he understands history – and theatre – the same way that I do.

We live it, we love it.

And there’s nothing quite as wonderful as sharing that kind of passion and excitement with your kids.

Nothing.

Shock and Awe

Ever since I could talk, I’ve loved to sing. Ever since elementary school, I’ve loved being on the stage. For me, there is nothing as exciting, as invigorating, as FUN as performing in front of an audience. So I look forward every year to performing, alongside my husband, in a local Christmas production.

Now, this isn’t just any old “local Christmas production.” Don’t be imagining a nativity with shepherds wearing old bathrobes and Joseph dropping the Baby Jesus on his head while bored teenagers forget the words to “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” This is not badly-painted cardboard sets and an out-of-tune piano in a church basement. Not that there’s anything wrong with that – I’ve been in many of those productions and they are wonderful in their own, unique, homespun way. But this particular production is high-end, big budget, professional, go big or go home type theatre. We’re talking full professional orchestra, Broadway sets, elaborate costumes, trained vocalists, and precision dancing. This is legit theatre with an RE at the end.

One of my favorite moments in this production is at the end of the opening sequence: The choir processes down the aisles, wearing choir robes and carrying large candles, then moves up onto risers on the stage, and just as we turn out toward the audience, the orchestra segues into the sweeping opening chords of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.” 

The music alone gives me chillbumps, but as we look out into the audience, I get even more chillbumps as I look out over an ocean of excited faces full of anticipation. There are usually a handful of youngsters in the front row dressed in their holiday finery, the girls in sparkly party dresses and the boys in festive sweaters or the occasional shirt and tie. Each one is leaning forward, eyes wide, the footlights reflecting off their awestruck faces. For many of them, this is the very first theatrical experience of their entire lives. They have no idea what to expect, no idea what they’re in for. But I know, and I love watching their faces as the show unfolds before them.

But this year, I have two new young faces to watch as something new and exciting unfolds before them: my own children. This year, my 5-year-old son and 3-year-old daughter are joining the cast of the show, as elves.

(The two in Santa hats are mine)

Already I’ve seen their excitement as each layer is added to the production: The first time they sang in a room full of 85 (!!!) other kids; the first time they walked through the wings and onto the stage; the first time they wore their costumes and carried their props; the first time the full orchestra accompanied them; the first time Santa (“He’s not really Santa; he’s just pretending, just like we’re just pretending to be elves.”) appeared to sing with them. And when the show opens tomorrow night, I’ll get to see their faces the first time they step out onto the stage and see the same audience I do, the faces looking back at them with excitement and anticipation.

Our show ends with a lovely and moving live nativity, framed by the chorus on each side of the stage. As we enter, portraying humble villagers in Bethlehem coming to see the “newborn King”, the director always reminds us: “You’re seeing a miracle right in front of you. Your faces should show shock and awe.” It’s become tradition for the cast to whisper to each other as we wait to make that entrance, “Shock and awe. Shock and awe!!” And that’s what sums up this experience for me: Shock and awe. Shock and awe. It is truly an awesome experience.

Photo A Day, Day 8: Hobby

I’ve had quite a few hobbies over the course of my life. My first real hobby was probably decorating my Barbie Town House in elementary school. I designed furniture by stapling fabric remnants from my mom’s sewing projects onto scraps of wood left over from my dad’s projects; I drew pictures and taped them to the walls as artwork; I fringed the edges of scraps of wrapping paper to make area rugs. When I hit junior high, my design hobby gave way to my musical hobbies: I sang in the choir, I doodled around on the piano, I took up the flute and later the French horn. In high school and college, I took up various types of needlework, from sewing to quilting to embroidery to counted cross-stitch. I even tried my hand (somewhat unsuccessfully) at knitting, crochet, and trapunto. But although all those hobbies have waxed and waned through the years, one hobby has persisted throughout my life since childhood: theatre.

For someone who considers myself an introvert, I have never had a fear of performing. One of my earliest memories is from the age of about 3, performing as one of the littlest angels in the church Christmas pageant (the specific memory is of getting yelled at by my big sister for dropping the back of my robe in the toilet, but that’s beside the point). My first “big” role was playing Mabel in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance in sixth grade. Since then, I’ve played every character from an amnesiac nun to a Nazi-sympathizing prostitute to a grumpy stepsister to a tomboyish princess to an Irish mum to a feisty union rep. I’ve made entrances posed on a bed in my underwear, through a gym locker, and dripping wet. I’ve been hit on by puppets and sailors, I’ve had knives thrown at me, I’ve been tossed in the air by a bunch of teenage boys. Over the course of time, I’ve expanded into backstage and production work as well, designing costumes, running crew, assisting with set design, dressing actors, selling tickets. And I’ve loved it all. 

Doing theatre, for me, is a source of satisfaction and relaxation. And isn’t that the whole reason to have a hobby?

God, I Hope I Get It

As many of my blog readers know, I am a frequent community theatre performer. Which means that I am an even more frequent community theatre auditioner. I’ve auditioned for school plays and musicals; for community theater plays and musicals; for local fundraising performances; and for various assorted chorales, choruses, and choirs. Since I’m also an instrumentalist, I’ve auditioned to get into bands, orchestras, summer camps, and college performing arts programs as well. Since my first audition at age 10, standing around the piano in Mrs. Tatarunis’ music class taking turns singing solo lines, I have auditioned literally hundreds of times. But today I had the shortest audition I’ve ever had. It lasted a grand total of 25 seconds.

A theatre audition is essentially a job interview. In most job interviews, you send in your resume, someone looks it over, then they call you in for a chat, either on the phone or in person. It is extremely rare that such a chat lasts less than 15 or 20 minutes. And generally the person doing the interviewing has spent at least 5 or 10 additional minutes reviewing your resume. But in theater, you show up, hand the “interviewer” your resume and headshot, they glance at it while you sing your 16 bars (for you non-musical types, that’s the 25 seconds referenced above), and then you’re done. You don’t get a chance to defend what you just did, to explain the rationale behind your choices, or to expand upon the experience shown in the resume that they probably didn’t even read all the way through. Within 30 seconds, they’ve judged whether you’re worthy or not.

Of course, in many cases, the initial interview is just to sort out who makes it to the second round, and that is sometimes the case with auditions, as well. In most job situations, it’s a second interview with additional people; in theater, you get another 30 seconds or so to do a cold reading, or if you’re a dancer, you get 45 seconds to perform a combination you learned in the previous 10 minutes. If you were that terrific in your original 25 seconds, you might get a whole 90 seconds to sing again. But in a lot of cases, all you ever get is that first 25 seconds to make an impression.

The whole audition process is nerve-wracking, even terrifying. It’s frustrating. And since every show only has so many performances before it’s time to move on to the next show, it’s never ending. So why do we keep doing it? Because sometimes, you get the job.

And when you get the job, there’s no greater feeling in the world. Someone thinks that people are willing to pay money to see YOU on stage. Someone wants to hear you sing, to watch you dance, to listen to you speak, to fall in love with or hate or fear or sympathize with the character you’re portraying. Someone wants to give you the chance to dissolve your own self into a character, to lose yourself inside another human (or sometimes, non-human) being. Someone wants YOU to do what you love.

God, I hope I get it.

Ah, the Theatre, the Theatre

I was recently cast in an upcoming production of the musical “A Man of No Importance” with the Burlington Players. You might call it typecasting, since my character describes herself as a former child star of the stage who has returned to performing after having 9 (!) children. My favorite line of hers – and one of my favorite lines in the whole show – is as she’s coming in to a rehearsal and comments, “When I left the house, the 8-year-old was strangling the 4-year-old, the dirty dishes were piled up to the ceiling, and my old man was watching the telly with his trousers open. And people wonder why I love the theatre.” (It’s even funnier when you add in the requisite Irish brogue.)

I don’t claim to be a child star, but I certainly am a performer who’s taken a bit of time off from the stage to have children. And I will openly confess that as much as I adore my children – and I do – part of the appeal of being in a show is getting away from them. Or at least, of being in adult company a few times a week. When I began to consider auditioning for this show, my husband encouraged me to do it, telling me that I needed to get back to performing before either he or I lost our minds.

One of the biggest difficulties of being a stay-at-home mom is the lack of adult company, even for a loner like me. And another of the difficulties is getting some kind of validation. As much as I love being a mom, and as much as I know that I’m good at it, and as much as I consider it a hugely worthwhile endeavor, you just don’t get the same kind of kudos as you do when you’re working at a paid job. There’s no paycheck to tell you you’re worthwhile; there’s no tangible, immediate product you can point to; there’s no bonus or monthly quota or employee-of-the-month incentive to let you know you’re doing a good job. So I like finding other projects that help me feel useful and productive, like helping with costumes for another theater group, or even writing this blog. But performing, entertaining people, getting applause – that’s an immediate reward that makes me feel like I have something to contribute that not everyone can do.

So I’m trodding the boards once again. I’m dusting off my tap shoes, brushing up my brogue, and polishing my passagio. I gotta sing, I gotta dance, I gotta spend some time outside the house! Ah, the theatre, the theatre. It’s the best refuge for a mom who needs a break.