Some time ago, I was dating a guy whose friend was in a performance, and we happily trotted off to the West Village to see it. The show consisted of three scenes, each one 20 minutes or so in duration, from classic plays, and my date's friend was in the middle one, though I have no recollection from which play it was excerpted. Or the friend’s name. Or, in fact, anything at all about the evening, other than the glorious tragedy of this incident.
My feelings about it require some back story, dating back to about 12 years before that night. At that point, I was a freshman at UNH, and I was all gung-ho about my first college theater class. Our first assignment was to pair up with someone and perform a 2-person scene of our choosing, and I got paired with one “Maria,” a fine example of a purebred milquetoast. Maria was the sort of person who always buttoned the top button of her peter-pan collars, wore no makeup at all, and whose dorm room walls were festooned with assorted depictions of a suspiciously Aryan Jesus, and a number of creatures enjoying rainbows.
Given Maria’s otherwise somewhat floppy personality, I was taken aback when she announced, “We’re going to do the scene between Juliet and her maid. I’ll be Juliet.” There was no discussion or options. She’d clearly set her heart on being Juliet, and who was I to shatter her tiny, tiny dream? I’d never even tried speaking Shakespearean English before but, since I was a total stoner at the time and was, frankly, way more focused on my hippie boyfriend, I was like, “Okay. Whatever.”
My feelings about it require some back story, dating back to about 12 years before that night. At that point, I was a freshman at UNH, and I was all gung-ho about my first college theater class. Our first assignment was to pair up with someone and perform a 2-person scene of our choosing, and I got paired with one “Maria,” a fine example of a purebred milquetoast. Maria was the sort of person who always buttoned the top button of her peter-pan collars, wore no makeup at all, and whose dorm room walls were festooned with assorted depictions of a suspiciously Aryan Jesus, and a number of creatures enjoying rainbows.
Given Maria’s otherwise somewhat floppy personality, I was taken aback when she announced, “We’re going to do the scene between Juliet and her maid. I’ll be Juliet.” There was no discussion or options. She’d clearly set her heart on being Juliet, and who was I to shatter her tiny, tiny dream? I’d never even tried speaking Shakespearean English before but, since I was a total stoner at the time and was, frankly, way more focused on my hippie boyfriend, I was like, “Okay. Whatever.”
Working with that woman was an excruciating handful of evenings that felt like weeks (and not just because I was stoned out of my gourd for most of it), and it all culminated in a thoroughly horrifying performance for which our teacher tore both of us a new one, mostly because we had far overreached our abilities. I felt I’d been railroaded into that stern lecture our teacher gave us, and I probably would have been upset about it if I’d been paying attention.
Again, I was like, “Okay. Whatever,” at the time, but subsequently my friends and I would reenact Maria’s god-awful performance on many an occasion. We could never quite capture the nuances of her colossal ineptitude, but we got some great giggle fits out of it anyway.
Now (or, rather, THEN), it was 12 years later as we arrived at the little New York theater, Maria a distant, forgotten memory. The theater itself was quaint; the “box office” was a little wooden podium in a kitchen-sized lobby just inside the door, and a block of 7 or 8 steps on the left led up to a curtained doorway. Beyond this curtain was the center aisle of the theater, which was maybe 35 or 40 feet from door to stage, with short rows of seats on each side. At the stage end of the aisle was another block of 3 stairs that led up to the stage. It was a charming little venue, and my personality-challenged beau and I sat a few rows from the back.
Now (or, rather, THEN), it was 12 years later as we arrived at the little New York theater, Maria a distant, forgotten memory. The theater itself was quaint; the “box office” was a little wooden podium in a kitchen-sized lobby just inside the door, and a block of 7 or 8 steps on the left led up to a curtained doorway. Beyond this curtain was the center aisle of the theater, which was maybe 35 or 40 feet from door to stage, with short rows of seats on each side. At the stage end of the aisle was another block of 3 stairs that led up to the stage. It was a charming little venue, and my personality-challenged beau and I sat a few rows from the back.
When I opened the program, my experience from a dozen years ago came back in an instant as I read that the first scene was, in fact, the same one that I’d chewed up with Maria way back when. “Well,” I thought, “it’ll at least be nice to see how it was supposed to be done.” As soon as the scene began, however, it became immediately apparent that I was witnessing Maria: The Next Generation.
The actress was beyond awful. Every line was emphatic, every word was way too loud, and she swung her head around constantly like an epileptic heron. Predictably, I quickly became lost in thought. I began to daydream assorted scenarios; she slips on a banana peel, someone farts loudly at just the right moment, the whole thing suddenly shifts into a brilliant surrealist take on the whole thing… none of which, of course, were likely to happen in reality. I eventually settled on a favorite fantasy that sprouted from my natural tendency towards schadenfreude, and played it over and over in my head as Juliet hooted and gesticulated at her long-suffering maid on stage.
In my mind’s eye, I saw Juliet at the end of her rant, the back of her hand on her forehead, delivering her last line at the center front of the stage. I saw her sprint all the way up the center aisle, flounce through the curtain, and then totally wipe out on the stairs beyond. Sometimes, I even saw Maria’s face on the poor girl, and I giggled quietly to myself.
As the end of the scene approached, Juliet made her way to the center front of the stage and, to no one’s surprise, actually delivered her last line with her head thrown back and the back of her hand in the widely accepted “woe is me” position on her forehead. I was delighted by this partial fulfillment of my expectations. Imagine how eerie it was, though, when my musings came suddenly to life as she then actually did canter up the center aisle, throw the curtain aside, and fall down the stairs beyond with a noise like 300 books falling from a shelf.
There was a moment of profound silence, as my fellow theater-goers reeled from this development, while I alone had maybe one second of stunned surprise, as if a benevolent Shakespeare-loving djinn had witnessed the performance and been just as pained as I, then overheard my daydream and thought it was a lovely idea. Once that second of pause was up, however, I helplessly let loose with an explosive guffaw which turned into uncontrollable peals of laughter.
It was a theater. It echoed.
I tried to stop, I really did, but every time I got myself under some sort of control, I’d look over at my date’s expression and seeming inability to understand what the hell was wrong with me. I'm sure he thought I was the most colossal ass on the planet and, ironically, his demeanor only fueled the fire thereafter, as he nudged and poked me in a vain attempt at infusing me with maturity. It’s also important to note that the actress was fine, and required nothing more than a virtual band-aid for her pride. I, however, continued to spasm with silent giggles (and the occasional snort when I replayed it in my head) right through the third performance, and on into the night.
