Inside of that familiar old theatre of mine, I found myself along with the entire cast (minus one girl who has yet to return from boarding school, I know right??) fanning myself with my script and rolling up my sleeves while avoiding the angry line of ants that trailed right around my chair. It may have been a step up from a waiting room but it was only that- a step.
Let me take this moment to do a little ranting. Yes, I agree that it's quite early to rant. I mean, it was only the second practice and I'm not one to complain. At least not out loud. But, I feel you must be familiar with a certain term before continuing to read this blog.
Theatre Snob- a member of the cast or crew that believes he or she is higher in importance than you. Known for their snide remarks, show-off tendencies, and ability to piss you and the rest of the cast off. See also Diva and Power Tripping Stage Manager.
Well with that in mind, understand that there will be more tales of these snobs to come. They don't stay dormant for long. Specifics to come.
We sat in a semi-circle around the piano last night in our respective groups- sopranos, altos, tenors, and bases. I am one of three altos. (I'm more mezzo but whatever!). We covered Rent, Support Group, Will I, La Vie Boheme, and Season of Love.
There was this one moment when we were practicing the "ooh" part that back up Whitney, our Joanne and the soloist in Seasons of Love, when all three of the parts just clicked in perfect alignment. It was so professional sounding as we all swelled and sang with the same emotion. We smiled at one another. When we were done, our vocal director said, "Now that's some sexy shit."
Every play is in the cheesiest and most dramatic sense, a family. But RENT is going to be so much more than that. Because we all believe in the voice of the show and all genuinely want to be there, I think we're going to be that bitchy, opinionated family that nitpicks and nags because we care too damn much. We're going to want to kill each other. We're going to fight. We're going to have to act our asses off. But once we're on that stage, all of that doesn't mean a thing anymore. In the end, we're going to have something amazing.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
We Begin
December 24th, 9 p.m., Eastern Standard Time...
Actually it was May 18, 7 p.m., Central Standard Time in the waiting room of a doctor's office. We gathered around a crappy, electric Casio among the sick kids' toys with our scripts and librettos, about to embark on the journey I'd been craving since I was fourteen years old... six years ago.
The first time I saw RENT was when my mom took me and a friend to the movie theatre. I remember her asking, "You do know it's not a feel good movie right? It's about gays and AIDS." At fourteen, I'd never seen boys kiss or girls kiss and I was hesitant. But by the end of it, with tears streaming down my face, I knew that I'd give anything to play Mimi. Then, from the third row, I watched it performed on Broadway three years ago, and my obsession was sealed.
When I first heard that my small community theatre would be putting on RENT, very controversial for a tiny Southern town, I let myself dream of wearing blue spandex pants and shaking glitter out of my hair. I'd never worked with this director before, so it was a clean slate, and when I walked into that familiar theatre where I'd performed as Fantine in Les Miserables and Grizabella in Cats, I clutched on to my Out Tonight sheet music thinking, Please let this happen. Please let this happen.
I was offered a callback. I walked in with little instruction, and was surprised that they took us all in at one time. The director, Larry, seemed like a no-nonsense man but I knew that he'd get things done... which was exactly what we needed. We were separated into groups and told to sing Will I and Seasons of Love. My group, comprised of people that I mostly knew, rang out in a glorious harmony. I saw the potential, and crossed my fingers that he did too. By the end of the night, Larry, a white haired man with a slight hunch in his back, had called a smaller group in, myself included, to inform us we were all cast.
"And here is the list of the roles," he stated blandly, like what he was about to read was an ordinary grocery list, instead of my dream being fulfilled or crushed. I was holding my breath. The man clearly did not operate by standard procedure. I expected an emailed list in a few weeks, not an announced role right now. I wasn't ready.
Roger Davis- Chris _
Mark Cohen- Larry _
Benjamin Coffin III- Graham _
Mimi Marquez- Jenny _
He called my name? Is that real? I'm Mimi? I'm going to be in RENT? I'm going to be playing the HIV-positive S & M character that I've known and loved for six years?
The smile stamped on my face was genuine and heartfelt. So what that I wasn't on Broadway like the greats: Daphne Ruben-Vega, Renee Elise Goldsberry, Melanie Brown, Tamyra Gray, or even in the ranks of Rosario Dawson. But I was playing Mimi in a town that wore crosses and shunned anything that didn't fit into the "normal". I'd be bringing the message. And that was the most important thing.
Which brings me to last night. I was driving twenty minutes out of my way with Charlotte, our Maureen, talking giddily about how consumed with the play we'd been since we'd found out our roles. I'd watched every YouTube video of every Out Tonight performance imaginable, listened to the soundtrack on a daily basis, and was currently reading Anthony Rapp's memoir. I was in full-blown RENT mode. When we walked into this obscure doctor's office, because our theatre was currently housing another play, I thought that it fit so perfectly. Having these makeshift practices in whatever place we could get just felt right.
Though we were missing seven people (does anyone know the meaning of commitment anymore?), there was no denying the beauty of our voices raised up in that six part harmony at the end of Seasons of Love. I know it's going to be great. I know that we are going to make this something that this town will remember. Sure, I may kill Hunter, who plays Collins, by the end of it, but there's always drama involved in some play (no pun intended).
How do you document real life when real life's getting more like fiction each day?
You write a blog. Stay tuned for more of my RENT experiences. :)
Actually it was May 18, 7 p.m., Central Standard Time in the waiting room of a doctor's office. We gathered around a crappy, electric Casio among the sick kids' toys with our scripts and librettos, about to embark on the journey I'd been craving since I was fourteen years old... six years ago.
The first time I saw RENT was when my mom took me and a friend to the movie theatre. I remember her asking, "You do know it's not a feel good movie right? It's about gays and AIDS." At fourteen, I'd never seen boys kiss or girls kiss and I was hesitant. But by the end of it, with tears streaming down my face, I knew that I'd give anything to play Mimi. Then, from the third row, I watched it performed on Broadway three years ago, and my obsession was sealed.
When I first heard that my small community theatre would be putting on RENT, very controversial for a tiny Southern town, I let myself dream of wearing blue spandex pants and shaking glitter out of my hair. I'd never worked with this director before, so it was a clean slate, and when I walked into that familiar theatre where I'd performed as Fantine in Les Miserables and Grizabella in Cats, I clutched on to my Out Tonight sheet music thinking, Please let this happen. Please let this happen.
I was offered a callback. I walked in with little instruction, and was surprised that they took us all in at one time. The director, Larry, seemed like a no-nonsense man but I knew that he'd get things done... which was exactly what we needed. We were separated into groups and told to sing Will I and Seasons of Love. My group, comprised of people that I mostly knew, rang out in a glorious harmony. I saw the potential, and crossed my fingers that he did too. By the end of the night, Larry, a white haired man with a slight hunch in his back, had called a smaller group in, myself included, to inform us we were all cast.
"And here is the list of the roles," he stated blandly, like what he was about to read was an ordinary grocery list, instead of my dream being fulfilled or crushed. I was holding my breath. The man clearly did not operate by standard procedure. I expected an emailed list in a few weeks, not an announced role right now. I wasn't ready.
Roger Davis- Chris _
Mark Cohen- Larry _
Benjamin Coffin III- Graham _
Mimi Marquez- Jenny _
He called my name? Is that real? I'm Mimi? I'm going to be in RENT? I'm going to be playing the HIV-positive S & M character that I've known and loved for six years?
The smile stamped on my face was genuine and heartfelt. So what that I wasn't on Broadway like the greats: Daphne Ruben-Vega, Renee Elise Goldsberry, Melanie Brown, Tamyra Gray, or even in the ranks of Rosario Dawson. But I was playing Mimi in a town that wore crosses and shunned anything that didn't fit into the "normal". I'd be bringing the message. And that was the most important thing.
Which brings me to last night. I was driving twenty minutes out of my way with Charlotte, our Maureen, talking giddily about how consumed with the play we'd been since we'd found out our roles. I'd watched every YouTube video of every Out Tonight performance imaginable, listened to the soundtrack on a daily basis, and was currently reading Anthony Rapp's memoir. I was in full-blown RENT mode. When we walked into this obscure doctor's office, because our theatre was currently housing another play, I thought that it fit so perfectly. Having these makeshift practices in whatever place we could get just felt right.
Though we were missing seven people (does anyone know the meaning of commitment anymore?), there was no denying the beauty of our voices raised up in that six part harmony at the end of Seasons of Love. I know it's going to be great. I know that we are going to make this something that this town will remember. Sure, I may kill Hunter, who plays Collins, by the end of it, but there's always drama involved in some play (no pun intended).
How do you document real life when real life's getting more like fiction each day?
You write a blog. Stay tuned for more of my RENT experiences. :)
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