Those words.
Feelings race through me in the dark before I hear them, my reflection
black against the slightly illuminated audience staring at me in the
periactoids (or the pterodactyls, as we liked to call them). I’m anxious, exhilarated, joyous, and
terrified all at once. Numerous
superfluous concerns pop up. My pants are riding a little high. Is my hair okay? Is my mic showing? Will I accidentally “love tap” Anthony
AGAIN? Can I get to the place I
emotionally need to go? Mind you,
these thoughts fly by in the span of three seconds. I have no time to contemplate my answers, because suddenly I
am blindingly visible. It’s no
time to think; all I must do now is dance.
So begins A Chorus Line, a show I never imagined I would do, let alone in such enormously
talented company. I always
considered myself an actor and singer first, and a really “aggressive mover”
second. But not a dancer. Not like this anyway. After the first week of grueling
rehearsal, I realized this was an entirely different animal. Even if I had some
clue of what I was getting into, I wasn’t thoroughly prepared. Most of these characters convey
themselves, play out their life stories, almost exclusively through dance.
Words help them shape the tale being told, but in the end, they bare their
souls through their bodies. It’s
akin to ritual, something primal and unbridled. I hadn’t worked in that
capacity in years, if ever. That was the first and most daunting challenge.
However, I was cast in a role that tells his story through one
long, emotionally arduous monologue.
Doing so alone, on a bare stage, in one singular spotlight. No set. Just me. Riding
an emotional roller coaster. How
would I navigate all the emotional checkpoints? How would I go to the place inside myself I had to go to
every night without just breaking down?
How could I tell the story as honestly and simply as I could? I wasn’t sure, but all I knew was that
this challenge, combined with the physical challenge, would leave me the most
naked I’ve felt onstage in a LONG time. Talk about a one-two punch.
Finally, as a third concern, we were all taking part in a
show that was structured as an audition.
In that regard, there is competition and rivalries built into the
piece. Even while standing on the
Line, I wondered if the show would end up feeling like most auditions do, where
you try your best to be supportive, but really just want to crush the
competition and be better than everyone else. Would we ever feel like we were together as a team? I was anxious to find out.
As rehearsals gave way to tech, and finally to performance,
we continued our regimen of constant cleaning, detail work, and scrutiny. We
were constantly asked to do more, clean more, perfect more, and it took its
toll on all of us. Many felt
unsure of what more they could do, myself included. Emotions ran high, and
bodies were tired. We were drained. At that moment, our director decided,
during a run of the final scene, to ask us to play the scene freely, to just
be. Right then, as the scene progressed, we all started to come together,
collective in our emotional weariness and physical exhaustion. We became a
family, to wax poetical.
We, for all of our differences as people, had rallied to
perfect ourselves within the show, and once performances began, we rooted for each other to
succeed at the things that had given us grief in the rehearsal process. A moment here; a dance step there. We wanted each other to be the best for
ourselves. And we all knew that we
were in this as a unit. If one
person sank, we were there to pick them up. There was this common experience that we all shared, and it
was painful for everyone involved in myriad ways. But we came out of it better for having had the experience,
and for having each other.
How fortunate could I be to have two amazing theatrical experiences and families
all within the span of a year?
From the intense bonding and devotion of Miss Saigon, where we all felt fated to be there, to A
Chorus Line, where I really remembered why
I loved performing in the first place with people I’ve grown to care about
deeply and trust, I consider myself eternally grateful. I must say, I’m one lucky pup.
