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Backstage Opening Night
Backstage Opening Night
Opening night is always a huge rush for me. Back in the day, when I was doing summer stock theater in Maine, I used to get so worked up that I had a hard time prying myself out of the bathroom just before show time. It’s not that bad any more. Over twenty-five years of being on stage has lessened, to a degree, the stomach butterflies, but they are still there.
Backstage in the green room, there is a monitor mounted high on the wall so that the actors can hear and see what is going on in the theater. I glance up at it periodically as I’m getting into costume and make-up to see how big the house is. I can hear the commotion of the audience through the green room door as they settle into their seats for the show.
In the green room, there is a flurry of activity. Younger and older men and women are everywhere. Hair dryers are whirring, make-up is being applied. Actors leaning close to the wall of lighted mirrors to check their painted-on face lines, or to make sure that the flaming red bow tie I’m wearing is on straight. People are moving around half-naked, getting into costumes. Nervous rookies are in the corner, going over their lines, their lips silently moving as if they are in fervent prayer as they go over the highlighted portions of their scripts on more time. (If you don’t know it by now, you ain’t never gonna know it!)
The costume that I am wearing is typical for an old man in 1938. Grandpa is seventy-five years old, and, in the first act, he sports a white cotton shirt covered by a cardigan sweater, red bowtie, black suspenders, pleated pants and oxblood-polished shoes. (Much to my chagrin, no talc is needed for the graying of my hair, and only a few age lines need to be added to this craggy face that I carry around with me. My wife sweetly and lovingly calls them laugh lines. Friends call them crow’s feet. I call them reminders of advancing age.) In a half-hour, at the end of the act, I’ll be drenched in sweat thanks to the sweater and about seventy intense, blinding kleigs, spots and frenels. The white shirt will become transparent with moisture, and I will simply tear it off my body and throw it and the rest of my costume in a heap on the floor at the end of the act.
I look up at the clock. 7:55. The stage manager appears at the door and calls for places. A hush falls on the room. All of the actors in Act 1, Scene 1 stand. A chorus of leg-breaking wishes goes up as we head from the bright lights of the green room to the shadowy regions of backstage. We all stand behind the flats of the set and listen to rustle of the audience on the other side. Then, the house light fade, and the audience noise diminishes. The recorded public service announcement comes over the sound system, explaining about the evils of flash photography and cell phone ring tones, and pointing out where the rest rooms and exits are.
Then, all is dead quiet and pitch black. The actress playing one of my grand daughters puts her hand on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, "Break a leg, Grandpa!"
My hands go numb.
Then the lights come up, the set doors open, and we walk out there…and knock ‘em dead!
posted on May 21, 2008 5:28 AM ()
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