Alan (my ancient genius director) says that theater is a service art. I thought about that and decided it was only too true. Actors must find the story they are telling, live through it multiple times, and only then generously give back to the audience.
Yet when we are in rehearsal, he refuses to speak of the audience. We focus on controlling our own bodies and speech in entirety, breathing down to our loins and centering ourselves, doing balancing acts around the room with our scene partners, getting personal and sweaty with them- reciting lines all the while…
…taking every thought and attuning it to the minds of our characters, stepping into their bodies without an apology and putting them on like pants… Alma, the spinsterish minister’s daughter in love with a wild-hearted young doctor; Celia, the exhausted housewife of a postwar crackhead; Sheila, the mother of a 9-year-old vegetable daughter; Fanny, a closeted recluse in a fantasy world… until we are slathered like butter on the stage floor, dripping with body fluid and immersed in the full euphoria and misery of our new mutant-person-thing. Every thought has been turned into a mixture of myself and of she (and sometimes he) who is on my script- and all of this happens before I’ve said one word.
We give and give and give to the audience. All the frustration, headbanging, memorization, pantomiming… plus Alan cursing at us: in the end we give 150% of what we earn. Feels like a ripoff, but I guess that’s what service is. And it also explains why Alan looks so, so old. (Hopefully he never discovers computers… he’s probably seen one before though. Okay hopefully he never discovers the internet.)
