Real Life

I volunteered to usher last minute at a play at The Rattlestick last night. Ushers are called an hour before curtain, and house doesn't open until half hour, so I mostly spent half an hour sitting in the theatre (because it's in a west village brownstone and there is no lobby) watching the crew/team set up. This play is the third in a trilogy and on Saturdays and Sundays they run all three in repertory, and thus have to changeover between each play. I could easily pick out the SM and ASM, the hair/make-up person, a couple crew members, actors, the house manager, and the director (who was there, I imagine, because they just opened this past week or so). It was remarkably akin to what long days at Playwrights are like during tech/performance runs. I'm not sure if it's comforting or not to know that the "real world" is not that different from what we're doing in school on a daily basis. I kept hearing things the team were saying in passing, and kind of sheepishly nodding my head in a knowing way - yeah, I know changeover sucks. Yeah, I know that's got to be perfectly clean and the angle's got to be just right, and we don't want to see that part of the blanket yet. So, on the one hand, I'm clearly being very well trained to deal with what making theatre off-off Broadway will be like, which is encouraging. I have the tools I need. (Classes at this point are really more reminders of our first three semesters than they are new ideas, for the most part.) On the other hand, it's a little discouraging to know I'll be dealing with the same crap out of school that I have to deal with now. There's not enough gaff tape. That light keeps getting knocked out of focus. Why are all those lights coming on instead of just that one? CHANGEOVER. Ah well. I'll take the blessing of the education and just use it to make good art the best way I can.

So then the audience came in, and then the play happened. I think I was sitting next to a critic from The New Yorker. I peeked at a few of his notes, curious what he thought since there were several moments when he seemed particularly intrigued, but also several moments when he was bored. This was an Adam Rapp play, and I know his work rather well at this point - there was a phase in my life where I read every play and novel of his I could get my hands on. (These haven't been published before.) I know his writing style, and he grew up about fifteen minutes from where I live, so he often makes references to things I know well, like towns and highways and such that I grew up with. I know there will probably be nudity, ineffectual women, sexually frustrated men, and more than likely excessive bodily fluids behaving badly. (All of the above were present in this play, as they are in almost every one of his plays.)

When it was over, I thought about what I could say to Adam about his play - he was in the audience. "Great work, Mr. Rapp, I really like your writing." Well, that is far less true now than it used to be. He needs to figure out how to deal with women in real life or stop writing them in his plays. And even though they are not all the same play, there is much about his style that is predictable.
"Well done, Mr. Rapp." Fine, but he hears that all the time, so why do I need to say it?
"Why did you write this play?" He would probably just glare at me. He's really antisocial and doesn't like talking.
"I once wrote you a letter; I've been interested in your work for a long time." Most likely would just be awkward.

I mean, if I had Adam Rapp to myself for an hour or two, I would have plenty of intelligent, in-depth questions to ask. There are all sorts of stylistic things we could talk about, or we could talk about the south suburbs of Chicago, or about the challenges of writing plays that don't change location, which he likes to do a lot. We would not talk about his brother, even though that's the reason I started reading his plays in the first place. I have questions about what he thinks about the world and the future (well, less so after the play last night). Just like big questions about life. But I had nothing of consequence to say in the moment when I could have said something. Perhaps a certain teacher of mine would be proud I no longer have to talk anytime the opportunity presents itself. Ooohhh, more growth. Lalala, school works, or something...