In any other given year, this memory wouldn’t be nearly as vivid. I wouldn’t be able to recall the actual date. The night would just be another evening where I found myself down at The Long Beach Playhouse. I have come to consider it a home away from home. I love theater and consider it one of the best hubs for my local scene. I’ve been going there for years, watching some actors evolve with each new role. Sure it wasn’t as prestigious as the shows at the major venues around Southern California. To me, it was always about the community atmosphere, the sense of enjoying art for art’s sake.
February 28, 2020 wasn’t all that significant of a date. My aunt had won tickets to the show and we had dinner before, discussing the upcoming election primary. When we got there, we had the familiar experience of this theater: a single-stage surrounded on three sides by seats. There were a handful of walkways that, due to the venue’s small size, the actors used to enter and exit scenes. I loved how small it was, every inch used for practicality. The staff was nice and the lobby packed with flyers for nearby venues. Upstairs was a smaller, more conventional stage where B-Level shows played. There was always something going on.
To be totally honest, Noises Off! was far from the best show that I saw at The Playhouse. It was very entertaining and the cast did very well with the madcap comedy. However, the memory lingers more in my memory because it was the beginning of my last weekend of live theater. At the time I had picked up a flyer for their upcoming shows and was excited. That July they were going to put on Stephen Sondheim’s Company: a show that I have been dying to see for years. Much like the New York counterpart, it was only days away from being canceled altogether. This was it. A story about a play going completely wrong was the grand metaphor that The Playhouse was entering our new quarantine life on…
How ironic.
I am not going to act righteous and claim that theater should’ve gone on. March 2020 was a major turning point that I’m sure everyone will always talk about. Everyone who was there has their own personalized story of how the grocery stores were bare, the world in paranoia and nobody knew what the next step was (the only thing that deserves to die in all of this is toilet paper jokes). For me personally, I started this website as a countermeasure. Until January 2021, March 2020 was the longest, strangest month of this decade. Everything felt like it was changing by the hour and those refusing to listen were annoying, but not yet monsters. Like the virus, it would get out of control quickly and invisibly.
The following day, I went with my family and friend Rocky to see The Book of Mormon at The Ahmanson Theater in Los Angeles, CA. It was another chance to geek out about theater and talk about everything from the shows I had seen there to the crazy underground garage and The Dorothy Chandler Chandelier™ across the way. Overhead were banners for an upcoming show of Once on This Island. I was contemplating buying tickets on the stage since it was a rare option. We may have sat in the furthest back balcony, but we got to meet Tom Lennon and had a great time.
The last line I heard in any live theater was: “I still have maggots in my scrotum.”
I promise everyone reading this that when I say I miss live theater, it comes with this unbearable sadness and desperation. While I’ve gotten by on pro-shot recordings and various stunt events, it hasn’t been enough. At a certain point, the crowd cheering on video feels distant. You’re not in that theater, doing the ritual of driving out to see the latest spectacle. It’s become very difficult to really love consuming theater media in any form because it only serves as a reminder of what we’ve lost. As every theater announced their canceled shows, it felt more predictable. Was I ever going to step inside an auditorium ever again?
This week is a year since that day, and the absence has only hurt more with every passing week. As fondly as I can recall all of these shows, there is something that gives me pause. Live theater benefits from the spontaneous. It could be as simple as discovering something onstage that conflicts with your expectations. Maybe it’s an audience member not quite reacting correctly. I take in the conversations of people around me, feeling some joy in knowing that there are people out there who love this art form like I do. Even if I never met her, I still think of the woman sitting in front of me at Assassins talking about how there wasn’t any perfect show except 42nd Street and trying to figure out how many times she saw Davis Gaines.
Oh sure, I’m still sad that I never got to see Les Miserables for my second time in September, or how I won’t know when Hadestown is coming around. I definitely want to be in the room where it happens, having it surround me and feel part of a personalized experience. I want to see the costumes in the lobby, meeting random fans at the merch booth. To me, there is something as much about gawking at the show as it is the people who showed up. It’s seeing how diverse the market is for any given show, witnessing those who feel like they’ve had a spiritual awakening. For me personally, some shows don’t work until you’ve seen them on stage. And I mean ON a stage.
I’ve felt a little lost without theater because on average I see a dozen shows from a variety of venues. The month prior I had seen young adult theater group MyArt put on a great production of Annie. There is something encouraging about artists following their dreams no matter the age. I admire those who have the talent and patience to learn, to make a stage their own. It is why I have trouble ever hating a show so long as I can understand its intent. Every gig allows you to express yourself and, as a writer, I endorse the idea that every opportunity gives you a chance to grow and find something meaningful in the experience.
The past year has been difficult because I haven’t seen any of those people. While there have been those creative enough to make up their own work, I have to wonder how they’ve gotten by. Live theater is about the community, and without an audience, it’s hard to ever feel like you’re really getting the point across. There is nothing like sitting in an auditorium, consuming those spontaneous moments that at worst will disappear but often produce something that is crucial to life. It’s the feeling of inclusion, of agreeing that for this moment in time this is the most important thing in life. No matter how much you believe that a live stream is a good substitute, there’s no way to believe that you’re sitting with someone, taking in the same air.
So sure, I really liked Hamilton (2020) and every Sondheim recording that I’ve stumbled across. They are great works of art that deserve to be preserved, but again… at some point, you realize how little needs to be done to enjoy them. You don’t need to put on nice clothes and drive out to a theater, stand in line, and hope you don’t get stuck to someone annoying. There’s no anticipation, just a programmed reality, like Netflix. It’s dull at a certain point, having no real conversation point that matters. In fact, you can stop and start that reality at your own leisure which for my money is too much convenience.
I want to believe that theater will recover at some point. A theater will open and I’ll get to watch a show. Even if it’s something I ostensibly hate, like Carousel, I think that I’ll just be grateful to be with a crowd. But, what will that be like? When will the fear be entirely gone? What health protocols may alter it permanently to the point the next generation will not appreciate old theater? As much as I’m hoping this vaccine will cure everything and the world will return to normal, I can’t be so sure. It’s been a year since I’ve been in a theater and I’m confident your date is quickly approaching. The sensation still rattles through me, but I worry it will fade into a number memory in time.
That is why I ask everyone to be safe and rational. Things ARE getting better (much more than I actually thought they would be). That is a good sign. I know that there’s an energy that many of you want to get back to work. Thank you for holding your spirits high and doing everything to make art still be meaningful. It’s bittersweet to know that whereas most years have dozens of memories of theater for me to recall, 2020 only had about six (and 2021 is looking to have zero). To everyone else, stay strong and hopefully, the world will heal itself well enough that the fear will dissipate well enough that we get to see a show and not worry about death. I don’t know what that world will look like, but I’m anticipating something that will shake me to my core, reminding me of why we love theater in the first place.
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