A long, butt-numbing bus ride, a very late lunch of salmon salad, and another van ride down a country highway brought me to my home for the subsequent seven weeks doing a show: Miss Saigon. As the billboard said, "The heat is on.....in Ogunquit."
The amazing thing about going on a gig is the incredible ability one has to isolate, to utilize time as you see fit, without much in the way of obligation (other than the show), or the necessity to fill time. Just the time to focus on the work at hand, and your own process. Living in the city often makes you feel a bit lost if you aren't thoroughly and constantly on the move. So many things to do; so much that needs to be taken in and explored. In the end, we almost become spoiled with the wealth, the overabundance of activities and events. Here was the chance to be alone with myself and listen, as I was attempting to really look at my process anew, hoping that I would learn more about myself along the way.
Now I have a confession to make. I had never seen the show prior to being cast in it. I had no preconceived notions of what the show was supposed to be, where it lived, or how it could possibly affect an audience. I've only heard the score once, and when I stated this to most of my friends, they looked at me as if I had grown warts all over my face. I suppose being Asian and in musical theater, I should've seen those looks coming. But there was incredible beauty in approaching the show with no familiarity. I hadn't made any decisions or choices, and I didn't have my strength in mimicry to fall back on. I approached my first rehearsal with enormous trepidation.
You see, like so many of my colleagues, I did a bit of facebook stalking (you know you do it, too) before going up and discovered, both to my excitement and apprehension, that I was going to be in the company of some stupidly talented people. People I had read about and listened to, admiring their work from afar in sunny, film-centric Los Angeles. People I was now going to share the stage with. What was I getting myself into? I didn't know, but I was about to find out.
We walked into the rehearsal space and started being put into our paces, and my fears were more than confirmed. These people were killing it. Even in the first rehearsal. My timidity began to set in. I was as nervous as a cat. My mind raced a mile a minute, and for a while I thought that there must have been some huge mistake. Ashton Kutcher must've been waiting somewhere to tell me I was being Punk'd.
Then, as rehearsals progressed throughout the week, my body began to click in. I was picking things up and making choices on the fly. I was trusting my instincts again. I was living in the moment, that elusive, transcendent state of being that every actor craves. The show demanded enormous commitment and bravery in going to emotionally and mentally dark places, and even through previews and the weeks of performances, that need to invest fully never let up. We couldn't relax. It was all consuming, and gave me a focus I have not encountered in work in a very long time. I felt this profound need to serve this piece its due, and to let go of my insecurities, my apprehensions, in order to trust my fellow cast mates to go to the "scary" place with me. Luckily, they were right there, and I with them. We held each other, bolstered each other.
I couldn't pinpoint the moment, like some myoclonic twitch, when we all began to work with each other and coalesce like a family. It was more like coming home, a slow and steady realization. I've tried for several weeks to find the words to describe how it happened, to articulate succinctly but fully. It still is so close to me that I have little benefit of hindsight. So instead I'll describe an evening early in rehearsals.
Some of our cast lived for the first few weeks in a little place called the Hideaway, a two story turn-of-the-century house that had been turned into an inn. Cozy and very quaint, the place had an enormous living room with a long, oval dining table. At any given time, you would find some ten to twelve people gathered around it, on their computers, eating, or chatting about the day.
One evening, after dinner, two of my cast mates performed an impromptu set of songs that they had written, and our collective jaws dropped. Sexy, sultry, and eclectic, it was a wonderful sign of the enormous talents of our company. Soon others joined in with a harmony here, a riff there, an added piano accompaniment, and by the end we all found ourselves singing in a large scale jam session. At one point I stopped, took stock of the situation and the people around me, and thought, "I am the luckiest man alive, and I think I'm falling in love with these people."
I did indeed fall in love with those people, that place, and that process. I found a family, and I came home.
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