perfect stranger

When I was in late elementary school and junior high, I watched a ridiculous amount of TV. These were the in between years. When I was younger we were in Oklahoma and lived on a big patch of land in a small town. I was outside a lot. When I was older, I was at dance class or a voice lesson or a rehearsal or cheerleading practice. I had a life.

One of the shows I watched was Perfect Strangers. It’s hardly a memorable show, but there you go. I loved it. Balki and Larry and the happy dance. It made the adolescent version of me giggle.

Flash forward many years and I found myself in London’s West End watching a production of Stones in His Pockets. Stones in His Pockets is a fabulous two man show set in a little town in Ireland . We happened to be there during a week when the regular London cast was on a break so the cast who would be opening the show soon on Broadway could have a chance to really get the show on it’s legs.

I was in awe. It’s brilliantly written stuff, to be sure. But it also requires each actor to play many many roles. Both men were fantastic. One of them, was Bronson Pinchot. During the show I was completely able to forget that I was watching Balki.

After the show, LH wanted to get autographs. So we hung around. Across the street. Finally one of the actors (not Bronson) came out. He went to the take-away window we were standing next to, ordered some food, and then lit up a cigarette while he waited. We struck up a conversation.

The other memorable thing about this particular trip is that we were in London in Sept of 2001. As soon as we’d identified ourselves as Americans by our accents, it didn’t take long for a very animated conversation to ensue. He was from New York, so we talked about the bombing. We told him how we’d been in Pisa when it happened. He recommended that we take a trip to the Embassy to see the memorial (something we did the next day). Then we got on the subject of theater.

So we’re chatting away, having a completely sane, rational, intelligent conversation, when he sees Bronson exit the stage door. “Bronny,” he calls, waving him over. Bronson approaches us, we’re all introduced. And then tragedy struck.

Now, today, if you stick me in front of someone famous, it doesn’t really phase me much. Not unless you’re talking about super, super famous. Today, I know too many people, casually or otherwise, who make their living in entertainment. But back then, the only famous, or semi-famous, folks I knew were still in the “when” stage of I-knew-you-when.

It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Or listening to it. Before I could stop myself the words came tumbling out of my mouth. “I used to watch Perfect Strangers all the time when I was a kid. I loved that show. It is so cool to meet you.”

Yup. Not, you were fantastic in this show. You played such a wide range of characters. You’re going to be great on Broadway.

No. I let loose with unadulterated geekiness over Perfect Strangers.

I think LH’s jaw actually hit the ground. Needless to say conversation was pretty much over. We got our autograph though.

life in art

I am a musical theater girl. I always have been. I make no apologies for it. I was taken to musicals as a child. I was taken to my first opera at 14. I’ve got a long list of musicals and operas on my performance resume. I have a CD binder dedicated exclusively to my collection of showtunes.

LH was a straight theater sort of guy. We would go to London and we’d each pick out one show to buy tickets in advance. He’d want something at the Globe. I’d get a splashy West End musical. When we’d arrive we’d go straight to the half price ticket booth in Leicester Square and see what other shows we could pack in. (We once saw 4 shows in 3 days.) There would always be a negotiation. Because he would want to see some boring straight play, most of which I’d never even heard of, and I’d want to see Starlight Express or Cats.

So when I landed at this particular theater, I was excited about being someplace so big. Not so much about the work being produced. I respect Shakespeare. I respect classic theater. I’ve seen enough and been around enough to appreciate good work. But it just wasn’t my kind of theater. Or so I thought.

Tonight I watched a technical rehearsal for a piece that I thought was the stuff only drama students read. Surely noone produces this kind of thing. Existential theater? In black box, sure. But not in a big house where it’s on your main stage. True that you’ll never produce yourself out of a financial hole (not in non-profit theater) but you do want to sell some tickets.

I’d seen a film version of this play several months ago. After our season was announced. Some staff got together and watched it. At the time I didn’t get it. I wrote it off. But then I did research on it. And I picked up a frame of reference along the way. And so when I watched tonight it was a whole new experience for me.

This play is about your past and how it haunts you. It’s about persevering when everything in your life is a shambles. It’s about loss of innocence and passage of time. It’s about finding happiness and a reason to go on when life has you stuck. It’s about putting on your best face and plodding forward even when you don’t know where you’re going or how you’ll get there or why you should even bother. It’s about doing all of this even when you can tell that the end is near.

Recognize those themes?

It took me a bit of Act 1 to settle in to it. But by midway I was hooked. The main character talks about the fact that she thought she would learn to talk to herself, to keep herself company but that she never did. But that so long as she can pretend that her husband is off in the corner listening to her, it’s ok. She can get by with the illusion of companionship. Act 2 is what sent me over the edge. There’s a line that says, in effect, “Something has to move, because I can’t anymore.” I get that. I get that on so many levels

And there’s an element to the relationship in the play that is so relevant to something going on in my life right now. She’s talking to her husband who has been silent for most of the play. He’s finally trying to come to her and she says to him, “didn’t you hear me screaming for you?” And she did. She did scream. And he’s finally come. But it’s too late. He came too late.

I sat in my theater with big fat tears rolling down my cheeks. My nose had started to run. The theater only held about 20 people or so and I was conscious of every sniff. When the lights came up the director, our artistic director, saw me and came over to see what I’d thought. He saw that I was crying and said, “it reminds you of life, doesn’t it?” I could only nod. And then he hugged me.

a conversation with the boy

We’d started a conversation via text late in the afternoon. Just a little checking in. “Hi honey. How was your day?” That sort of thing. He’d told me about an audition on Wednesday for a commercial. I’d asked if it was for anything interesting. A few hours went by before he responded.

It’s for a national commercial. Long shot, but if he got it, it would film in NY during the week I’m supposed to be visiting him in MN. Figures. I asked if it would be bad for me to hope he doesn’t get it. He said, “sure. It’s gonna be hard enough getting out of two shows for two days.”

I’ve known he’ll be working, but I hadn’t really put much thought into the reality of a two show work load. Although it is part of why I booked a long trip. I sighed heavily before responding, “yeah, well, I’m bringing lots of books. At least we’ll be sleeping in the same bed every night.”

Then he told me what he didn’t have to tell me. How big of a deal it is to audition for a national commercial. How lucrative it could be. Feeling a little like a pouty child, I told him I was happy he’d landed the audition. That of course I hoped he got it. That I’m just greedy for time with him.

And then he started talking about how much fun it would be for the two of us to take a side trip to New York. He’s been, I never have. I know it would be fun. To be there. With him.

We talked about movies for a minute. Because I’d just watched one he’d recommended. Then he asked what books I was bringing. “Cook books?” he asked hopefully.

So we started talking about cooking. I asked if there was anything in particular he was wanting to try. He’s having his first go at biscuits in the next couple of days. We talked about stews. It’s still cold in his part of the country. And we both love something that will create leftovers for days. Then he said, “might be fun to really welcome spring. Asparagus, lamb, new peas and such. Pick up the seasonal food porn*. Pretend we’re in Provence.”

And with that he made my heart sing.

*In our private lexicon “food porn” refers to glossy magazines full of pictures and recipes. Bon Appetit, Gourmet, etc.

the other show

Show three in a festival season is always “the other” show.

There are theaters that produce, or present, year round. Always with something going on. Maybe there’s a week or two when things are dark. I once worked at a theater where our only down time was for one month in the late summer. We only actually closed the doors for two weeks. In reality we all worked that entire time we just let calls roll to voice mail and only answered really important email. I took three days and repainted my office during one of those down times.

Now I work at a theater that runs a festival season. To play for tourists and good weather. (We’re also an amphitheater.) We produce shows May to October. It’s a common schedule.

So the first show of the season is always exciting. Doesn’t matter one lick what the show is. It’s first. Everything is fresh and new and a little chaotic. Because you’ve forgotten how you did stuff last year. Because there have been changes since last year. Because you just haven’t done any of this stuff for months. There’s usually some sort of party or company meeting to kick off the beginning of the season.

The second show is traditionally directed by your Artistic Director. Assuming he or she is still actively directing shows and not just selecting the season and hiring other directors. So that’s exciting. Because it’s always fun (and sometimes scary and tense) when your boss is doing artistic things instead of administrative things. Because artistic things are really what most artistic directors do best. That’s how they got their jobs. Also, your season is now on its feet and ticket sales have picked up. Audiences are exciting.

The final show will be exciting because the season is closing. You look around and think, wow, already? It seems like the season has flown by. Actors and technicians and interns and other seasonal staff are moving on. It’s like graduation. Everyone is off to their own corners of the world. The closing night party is that much bigger because you’re also closing out the season.

The third show…that’s the other show. It’s not really exciting on it’s own. All the freshness and newness have worn off. You’re in a groove. Doing the routine thing. People are trying to take their vacations around tech rehearsals and opening and other special events. During the third show the season seems impossibly long.

In my office, we’ve equated the festival season to a roller coaster. Ramping up for the season is like your first climb up a gigantic hill. Tick, tick, ticking away ever so slowly. Building anticipation. Balancing for a nanosecond (that feels like eternity) before screaming down the hill. The momentum from the first plummet carries you through the hill that is show number 2.

The third show. Yeah. It’s like the part of the track where you’re not climbing a hill. You’re not racing down a hill. You’re just whizzing around turns. Fun in its own right, if you’re into that kind of thing, but nothing like the hills.

Our third show opens this week. Which means that next week the work starts on show number four in full force. The admin staff is already plugging away at show four. Putting the program to bed and scheduling events and making all sorts of plans.

I’ll go to the opening night for show number 3 this weekend. I’ll do my usual thing and pack a picnic and a flask full of cognac. Because it can get chilly at night and tequila is just not a flask sort of alcohol. And I’ll schmooze with donors and corporate sponsors and colleagues from other theaters pre-show. Post show I’ll party with my co-workers and with the cast. And it will be a good night, but it will have the unmistakable feel of the “other” show.