Denouement, Parte Deux

All right, so now I'm sort of over my mini-OhmyGawdI'mgoingtoEnglandbutohmyGawdIhaveaneatingdisorderhowwillthisfadge freak out and am ready to continue my little end-of-semester wrap up series.

UPDATE, PART TWO: TALK-BACK/BACK-TALK

As soon as classes were over and out for reading week, the sophomoric sophomores were all asked to convene for a post-show "talk back" discussion with Herr Direktor, our Movement professor, and The Dean. In real life, I've been referring to the guy as "Oilspill" because, in the words of a sonnet I once wrote, he is "initial'd like to that which once did drain/ the life and beauty of a nearby sea." So let's just call him Oilspill here too and make it blog-official.

Anywhore, the purpose of this talk back (which I insisted on calling a "back talk" and excusing it as a slip of the tongue) was to give everyone a chance to share their experience in the play. Now by this time, I was really looking forward to watching the lions turn on the ringmasters, because within the final two weeks leading up to the show, the Kool-aid had started to wear off and everyone was beginning to loathe Motherfucking Courage and Her Toxic Rehearsal Process, save for maybe three people. The smelly, cramped joke of a coed dressing room backstage turned into an aerator for the cast's dirty laundry and I delighted in it. A lot of people are against complaining; they think it brings everyone down, but honestly, having a sounding board (or a listening board to hear all my gripes echoed back to me as I sit quietly) makes me feel SO MUCH better about my situation. It's out. Nothing's pent-up. I can get on with my life because I feel at least partially understood. It's very therapeutic.

So there we were, sitting in a circle with Oilspill and Herr Direktor and Movement (whom I really dig for the most part), and, my friends, the dogs were hungry. I was pumped, contempt coursing through my veins, and couldn't help but turn my own reactions to the experience into a sort of case study. I had spent the semester hating hating HATING Herr Direktor, but the second I walked into the room all of my rancor and rage turned, with laser-like precision, to Oilspill. Herr Direktor was but Mark Antony; Oilspill was my Caesar.

And so it began. One by one the actors, particularly actresses who had been forced to play men in the "ensemble," switching characters multiple times throughout the show, not spending more than one scene on a character, voiced their truths -- very diplomatically but powerfully nonetheless. I must say, Herr Direktor was quite cooperative about taking her beatings. I will give the woman this: she has integrity. In her own odd way. In fact, I even began to feel for her when, at one point, she spoke up and said that she'd honestly had no idea of the pain this show was causing all of us until one of her freshman students brought it to her attention via hearsay. When she spoke the words "I had no idea," her voice cracked, she put her hand to her heart, her eyebrows furrowed upward, and she became teary. The fact that all of these things happened simultaneously leads me to believe that her sadness was genuine, and what was more, I saw some significant indicators of guilt as well. Oh, there now, I almost forgot you were human, I thought. I don't really hate you as a person; you piss me off and I hate just about everything you do but you have a good heart. For Oilspill, I could not say the same.

"Well let me tell you what I'm hearing right now," he barked in. "I'm hearing two things: negativity and expectations." The 'expectations' jibe was a nod to me; earlier I had put in a very respectful motion of support for a student struggling for words, saying that blah blah blah niceties blah blah this level of training programme blah blah we should all have the opportunity to work on a show that is suited to us and have a chance to spend a significant portion of the show honing and developing one character blah blah blah more fitting for the actors to be cast in roles they might be called to audition for; say, roles that are at least compatible with their gender. So...

"negativity and expectations." He even looked at me when he said it. Oh, you have just engaged a willing and capable foe, sir. If it's a repartee you want, then it's a repartee you shall get. "And what I want to know is, just where are these expectations coming from? I'm actually wondering why you believe you should have any expectations of what this training programme should be at all --" stay intact, jaw, stay intact -- "or why you think you're more qualified than we, who have been at this since before you were born, to judge what should and should not be included in a training programme." You pompous, bloated toad. Civility, AJ. This is your game and he's playing it just so. I could see, within my peripheral vision, that nearly all heads had snapped toward me. The sophomores knew I hated Oilspill. They hated him, too, albeit with less passion than I did. I had backup. Oilspill went on for a moment, and then turned his argument to the members of the "ensemble" who had complained. I wish I could remember this bit verbatim. I can't. But what I say in summary, I say with full confidence that this is as near to a concise paraphrasing as I can come. I am not exaggerating, nor am I twisting the space between his words to infer something he did not say. This man, I tell you, and all the sophomores concur, placed the ensemble's negativity squarely on the fact that they were bitter about having small parts. They were angry, they did not commit to their roles, and they had a bad, unprofessional attitude. Immediately, one of the ensemble actresses retaliated, with increasingly tearful shock, that she was floored by the suggestion that her experience of the play had anything remotely to do with her feelings about not getting the lead -- "I didn't even want the lead," she said, quite honestly. And then she went from being hurt to being angry, angry that he would assume she and her colleagues were so immature, angry at the notion that this was about cast rivalry or anything else.

"I don't believe I was addressing you directly," retorted Oilspill.

You *insert expletive of choice here*. When you address one of us, YOU ADDRESS ALL OF US! Wait, what the fuck. Did I really just think that? Careful. I'm trending towards the edge of misanthropy.

"If I may," I said politely -- collective headsnap -- "If I may address your point about expectations, I guess that as Jack [our acting professor] would say, this is why they make chocolate and vanilla..." smile, let the class chuckle, I'm so fucking amiable, "...because I actually think it's very healthy to have expectations about this programme. Given the fact that we put so much time and money into it -- I mean, tuition's not cheap -- one can look at it as an investment of sorts, and it's quite reasonable to expect that your investment will unfold in a way that's agreeable to you." I could see the wheels in Oilspill's head turning, trying to formulate an argument that would make me look foolish and petty for comparing the programme to an investment. Let him try. I was ready and capable to defend myself. I could take him with half my brain tied behind my back. Which it pretty much was, at this stage of the starvation game. "And as for your question of where these expectations have come from, I can only speak for myself, but while I don't have a lifetime of experience teaching and directing, I do have a lifetime of experience with, well, myself. Knowing my needs, learning by trial and error what I can do to get those needs met, and knowing how and under what conditions I work best. So that's what I think" -- now invoke the army, make eye contact with a few of them -- "and I don't know whether you all agree with me or not, but..." the rest of my speech was drowned out by the aforementioned "you all" clapping. They actually clapped for me. Yes! Yes, children; it is your revolution and I am your Jean-Baptiste Lamarck! Your Marat! Your Robert Bruce, to whom I am actually directly related in real life!

(Note to readers: please take all of these self-reverential internal monologue bits with an air of tongue-in-cheekery.)

"I have to wonder what you yourself invested in this play, then," said Oilspill.

"Really everything, professor," I said truthfully. "I mean, at the very beginning of the semester I resolved that no matter what play I was cast in, no matter what part I got, I was going to commit fully and completely to that story and to that character. It didn't matter how I felt about the play or anything else; that was irrelevant in my exploration process. It had to be, and honestly I think that was really my saving grace throughout this play. And I really have to say, I think that goes for everyone. I don't believe there was a single person in the cast who didn't give everything they had to their work in this play. Everyone in this room, I was with them, I saw them work, and there wasn't one who didn't give it a hundred percent; I can say that with confidence."

More applause! This is out of a fucking movie, I tells ya. You could almost hear the Newsies anthem "The World Will Know" swelling in the background. Oilspill and Z., they think we're nothin'! Are we nothin? NO!

Oilspill was quelled. For a moment, he seemed eager to jump back on the attack, but an even more diplomatic "yes, fuck you" from Movement was issued, and he fell silent for good. Oh Movement. I really do love you.

After the back-talk-back was adjourned, I felt compelled to give Herr Direktor a hug. I wanted to ensure that she didn't believe there was any bad blood between the two of us, and I think I was successful. The woman is powerful when it comes to casting decisions. I'd best keep in her favour, which I do find it odd that I am. I think it's the hair.

More anon! (As Movement would say)...