When Theatre Works...

I have a recurring dream of being onstage opening night of a show. The production begins, and I slowly realize I not only don't know my lines, but I'm not even certain what show I'm in. Perhaps my improv skills will save me, but the prospects are not good. I had this dream again about two weeks ago.

A little over one week ago I was browsing through Goodwill with Karen when my cell phone started playing Kirk's fight-scene music from Star Trek (yes, that's my ringtone.) Normally I'm not the kind of person who answers their phone in a store; I feel my fellow shoppers have better things to do than listen to me shouting about whether or not I should stop at the market on my way home. I saw, however, upon looking at the screen, that it was my friend Lance calling. As I am also not the kind of person who enjoys long chats on the phone (I am much more comfortable face-to-face; phone conversations make my brain itch,) I knew he had to have an important reason for reaching out to me. I found myself hoping no one had died.

In a nutshell, the practical upshot of the call was this: one of the actors in the Lake Plains Players' upcoming production of Stephen Sondheim's Company had fallen ill, and could I replace him? "Uh..." I believe, was my initial response. I quickly followed that up with, "I'll ask Karen to check our calendar when we get home and let you know if I can." I knew without even thinking about it that if I could, I would take the role, despite having only a week (four rehearsals) to learn the part.

I have often wondered, as many actors probably have, what would happen if I were asked to hop into a production at the last minute. It seemed I was about to find out.

The next night I arrived at the Leonard Oakes Winery, our venue for the show, and was warmly greeted by the cast and crew, almost all of whom I have worked with before. I was pleased to see so many wonderfully talented actors all in one place; it would make my job that much easier. The evening's rehearsal commenced, and I walked through it, newly-issued script and music in hand, mildly distraught look on face. Sondheim in seven days? I never pictured myself as a masochist.

When Lance first spoke to me on the phone he assured me that I didn't need to learn the music, and I was more than welcome to carry a script on stage with me. I thanked him, knowing I was going to do everything in my power  not to do that. It had nothing to do with (alright, maybe a little to do with) personal pride; I was admittedly curious as to whether I was up to the task, but my primary motivation was the cast and the audience. A well-crafted show produces a form of hypnosis in the audience; it induces and sustains a trance which transports the viewers into the world on stage and allows for suspension of disbelief. To bring a script into that world would jar the audience out of the trance and remind them in none-too-subtle terms that they were watching an artificial construct design to artistically deceive them.

Fortunately, the role was not as difficult to pick up as I had imagined; Larry is featured in only one scene and, although he is in quite a few songs, he is part of a chorus for most of them, so I found myself able to lean heavily on the talents of those around me and hide in the tapestry of Sondheim songplay.

I should note here that, although it may seem like it so far, this story is not about me. It's about the people who make up Lake Plains Players.

Last night was opening night and the almost full house was treated to a truly wonderful theatrical event. While backstage may have been a bit noisier than is healthy during a show (sound carries in an all-wood building,) the atmosphere was warm, inviting and inclusive, as the best of families are. I was welcomed in not as a stopgap measure, but as the newest member of the family. I was treated not as someone who was a necessary evil, someone who had the potential to lower the quality of the final product, but as someone who was appreciated and respected, and that respect comes only from artists who are justifiably confident in their own abilities and the abilities of those around them. I have had the opportunity to be a part of several productions with Lake Plains now, and my initial opinion of the group, first fostered after seeing "White Christmas," has only grown and strengthened.

When Theatre works, there is an undertone of passion that drives artists (both on stage and behind-the-scenes) to push their talents past their comfort point and into new territory where they find aspects of performance they never dreamed were there. When Theatre works, a production feeds off a synergistic energy and becomes something so much greater than the mere sum of its parts. When Theatre works, the audience forgets about their bills, their morning meetings, and their other earthly woes, if only for a few hours. But even once the show is over and the curtain dropped, the power of post-hypnotic suggestion is carried with them, and if during that morning meeting or when digging through their bills a song plays through their consciousness and lifts them, if only for a moment, out of their mundane activity and transports them to a place of comfort and warmth, then Theatre works.

When Theatre works, it works like Lake Plains Players.