Break a Leg

I am one of those actors, one of those people, in fact, who abides by certain traditions, rituals, okay... superstitions.  But particularly in the theatre.  You've had heard it before:  "good luck is bad luck in the theatre," which is why we don't tell one another 'good luck" before a performance.  We say the words "break a leg," or in the dance world "merde," which for the non French speaking, is the fancy-dance-pants way of saying "shit."  Or, numerous other opposites of well-wishing.  My friend Jarvis used to say "go pee."  Basically, it's always Backwards Day backstage.  (Except for my husband, who likes to turn a joke around three or four times and then tell it three or four hundred times.  He learned this fun trick from an older seasoned actor and has repeated its utterance to many a younger actor in his own career.  He waits until "places" is called.  The nervous young actor awaits his/her entrance.  The lights dim, and then the older seasoned actor whispers low, but articulately:  "don't fuck up," and walks onto stage, leaving the fledgling actor sweating and peeing himself in the wings just seconds before he is to enter.)
There are other things, too. . .
For instance, one is not supposed to utter the name of the Shakespearean titular character, Macbeth.  Countless nicknames have been created to refer to the poor guy (well, he did kind of bring it on himself), my favorite being "Mackers," and for his wife "Lady M."  The play itself is most commonly referred to as "The Scottish Play."  Just the other day my cast-mate pursed her lips at me and ordered me out of our dressing room until I had spun around three times and spit to remove the curse I'd brought on myself and all the rest of the cast for saying the word.  (There is huge debate among actors about whether or not you can say it in the dressing room and be safe.  The die-hards won't allow it anywhere in the building.  Personally, I think that's okay, but I never, never say the word on a stage.)
On a separate note, generally, leading up to an opening night, I have what is known as "The Actor's Nightmare."  This is a dream in which the dreamer finds him or herself at the theatre to do a show, but totally unprepared.   There are so many versions of this dream, you cannot imagine, and every actor I know has them.  Sometimes the dreamer realizes he or she has never learned the lines to the play she is expected to perform.  Sometimes, she's learned all the lines, but for a different play.  Sometimes, she is expected to perform a play that she did five or ten years prior in life.  Other times, she is backstage and cannot find the entrance to the stage.  One time, she leaves the stage at the end of a scene, goes to reenter, and then discovers the door to the stage has locked behind her...  oh, oops, no that one really happened (it made for a very dramatic entrance in the final scene of The Taming of the Shrew.)  And in the worst of circumstance, the dreamer-actor is about to enter, or has entered and discovers she is wearing no clothes.  My husband woke from an actor's nightmare not too long ago.  He sat up in bed, rubbed his weary eyes, and frowning, summed up the sensation of said dream:

HUSBAND:  I like dreams where I know who I am, I know where I'm going, and I have my clothes on.

That's good for life, too, I have found.

Two weeks ago, I opened a show and revisited a common thread in my acting career:  Bad-Dress rehearsal = Great Opening Night.  It is an extension of the theatre-people superstitions mentioned above. Truth be told, I get a little worried when something doesn't go wrong at dress rehearsal.  It's not that far from karma:  get the crap out of the way so there's good stuff left (very loose definition, there.)  So, two weeks ago, in front a semi-full house of discounted audience members, my cast and I embarked on what is known as "Final Dress."  The is the last Rehearsal in which the director, stage manager, crew, and even actors have the liberty of stopping to fix a problem.  Theses are terrifically awkward moments for the audience who must sit there patiently wondering what has gone so wrong that the story had to be interrupted and brought to a halt.  Murmurs abound:  "I think the chair got caught on the carpet."  "There was supposed to be a telephone ring."  "Did that poor boy fall off the lip of the stage?"  ... And, so, needless to say, if we can, we do our best to stumble through minor mishaps to avoid stopping the show.

The show had been going swimmingly!  I had a small problem with my small dress in One-two (Act I., scene two.)  The dress is short and tight to begin with, and because of the gathers that run down both sides, it had a way of inching up with every step I took.  By the end of the scene, I might as well have been wearing a bathing suit.  That's live theatre people!  That's the very excitement that a dress-rehearsal audience can count on.  Little things, but a sense of "how are they gonna handle that???"  We were five scenes in when the theatrical shit really hit the fan.  The fan being me.  Act I scene 5 is a cozy little scene among three characters drinking wine and battling out religious differences in a friendly but antagonizing way.  My character had enjoyed only a few sips of the grape-juice wine before dribbling a bit on her pretty sweater (it happened to be a red sweater, so I was not, in fact murdered by the costume designer.)  Then... the "stumble..."

After the show when asked what had happened, I was at a loss to describe it.  I don't know.  I don't know.  It was like one shoe stuck to the floor and the second shoe stuck to the first shoe... I was in motion, though, so while the second shoe stuck, my foot, of course, kept going, and before I know it, my face was waaaay too close to the floor.  There was a collective gasp from all present; audience and actors perched on the edges of their seat with these simultaneous thoughts:

AUDIENCE:  Was the supposed to happen?
(Simultaneously...)
ACTORS:  That was NOT supposed to happen.

Half-shoeless is not a great way to walk.  Especially when the surviving shoe is a tall patent leather heel. Luckily my character doesn't stray too far from my actual personality or behaviors, so it was all too easy for me to scoop up my right shoe, remove the left one, and ad-lib the fact that I'd had too much wine.  (I think the playwright would forgive me, under the circumstances.)  Great.  Problem solved.  Moving on.

It will not surprise you, I think, that as all things wicked come in threes (The witches in the Scottish play being a shining example), so would my blunders.  Backstage loomed a palpable waiting.  Something could still go wrong.  The other shoe could drop, (so to speak.)  So...  Final Scene.  I am almost home-free.  I am two lines away from the end of the play.  TWO LINES!  All I have to do is say I am going to pick up a prop, and then pick up the prop.  This is easy.  I can do it.  Except, you guessed it, NO PROP!  Awesome.

And opening night was just lovely.

Brioso is on High Street, two blocks north of Broad in Downtown Columbus.  It is perfect in every way except that the hours are pretty limited.  It really caters to the business people of downtown, closing at 4 on weekdays, which is sadly, just when I am getting on a roll.  But, otherwise, it is a great spot and the coffee is great.