Getting On And Getting On

I have an ally in my hatred.

C. (we'll just go by his first initial) transferred into the sophomore class this year, and he's probably the only student whose acting consistently floors me. He loves the same things I love: analyzing Shakespeare to look for hidden stage and emotional directions, top-shelf alcohol (just because the ED won't let me drink doesn't mean I don't miss it terribly), intellectual elitism, and cute boys. He also hates the same things I hate: the dean of the school of theatre, the director of this fucking play I hate, and the current environment surrounding this fucking play I hate. And, like me, he feels a need to keep all of this under wraps. Because "nobody else gets it, AJ."

"Well of course not; they're drinking the Kool-Aid."

I first discovered that he may not have been the biggest fan of our director a few weeks ago, when he made an aside comment about how she wasn't staging a particular scene in the way Brecht would have wanted. Not that "the way Brecht would have wanted" would have been more agreeable, in my opinion, but C. was right. He murmured something to me about her not achieving the alienation effect (also known as the V Effect), and I whispered back to him, "she doesn't really care about the alienation effect or serving Brecht or any of that. What she cares about is conveying her own political opinions. And the second either Brecht or epic theatre or the V Effect becomes incompatible with forcing her own biases down the audience's throat, she'll ignore the former and carry on with the latter and nobody fucking says anything."

I hadn't intended for my diatribe to be so scathing or hearty, but this contempt had been festering, unvoiced, within me for so long that I couldn't help myself. Besides, the more I spoke, the more C. continued to nod his head in vigourous agreement.

"Well, and she keeps saying, 'it's all about the ideas.' You read the introduction to this play by David Hare; it says Brecht wasn't about the ideas AT ALL. It's the opposite. It's about the action. Action OVER ideas, it says that."

"She doesn't care, C. She either doesn't know or doesn't care. And if she did know, which I'm sure she does, because she's read so much on him, she wouldn't care anyway."

C. continued to bob his head up and down as we enthusiastically denounced her directing philosophy. I was so elated to have found such an unexpected ally, and someone who wasn't afraid to complain because it might foster an "unhealthy mentality." If you want to grouse, fucking grouse, man. Commiserating is the only thing that keeps you sane sometimes. I should know.

I tested the waters with C. a bit. I still wasn't sure how deep his loathing was for the director; whether or not he was just having a rough week and decided to take it out on some minor annoyance about the alienation effect. No. As I soon learned, C. was in his disdain for the long haul. Aware that he now had a confidant in me, he took to exchanging blank glances with me every time Herr Direktor said something particularly infuriating. No eye rolls. No arched brows. We had to be more subtle than that. One breath of eye contact was enough. Sometimes one of us was lucky enough to be standing behind her, and we could convey our fury facially.

"I never knew you hated her," he gushed to me the other night. "You always seemed so eager and affectionate. But you didn't overplay it."

"Dude, I felt the same thing about you! I thought you were one of her disciples!"

C. grimaced. "Nooooo."

Anyway, lately we've really been beginning to bond. He was thrilled when I told him I was staying here for the majority of the summer ("we're going to hang out, right?"), and today in acting class, after his scene partner unexpectedly burst into tears because "I just don't feel 'in the moment'; I just feel like I'm reciting lines," C. shot me another glance. It was a note the student (who was doing a perfectly lovely job, by the way) had been given the night before, in a very public and humiliating directorial session. During break I zoomed over to him.

"That is what I like to call the Z Effect," I said, using the last initial of Herr Direktor. "It happened to me Freshman year; I lived that shit, she had my class reduced to tears constantly, but you never say, 'it's because of her.' You say, 'it's because of me; I'm not thinking what she says I'm supposed to be thinking; I'm not approaching this the way she says I'm supposed to be approaching it; I'm not feeling what she says I'm supposed to be thinking; the only way out is to judge myself harder than she judges me.' And where are you living? In your head, C., you're living in your head and acting isn't fun anymore and she has crushed your healthy mentality and turned you into a fucking wreck, and you only get worse from there."

"Yep. Yep yep yep yep yep." C. flipped through his notebook. "Do you want to see the notes I took last night?" He turned a page to face me and showed me a series of bullet points, all of which read something along the lines of, this woman is ridiculous and here's why. Best of all, at the very top of the page he had scrawled, "THIS IS A TOXIC ENVIRONMENT."

Toxic. I'd used the word before. It described the circumstances perfectly.

"She's bitching about how the cast is developing a negative mentality, whatever the fuck that even means," he went on, "and she's right. But it's - because - of- her."

I was as happy as I was angry. A very odd combination, if you've never felt it. But really beautiful. Like spiced rum, or bourbon: so fiery and biting, yet sweet and warm at the same time. You feel it burning through your core and it's marvellous.

"We need to get together for cocktails soon," he implored. "Like Friday."

"I like the way you think," I said.

Man, if that boy were straight... People have "gay crushes," right? Why can't gay people have straight crushes? Like, "I might go straight for a night with so-and-so."

I'm only joking. Kind of.