The Roar of the Greasepaint, the Smell of the Crowd, or, Big River

I'll never forget the first play I went to see. I couldn't have been more than 8 or 9 when my mother took me to the local community theater's production of Hamlet. Small troupe, small stage, small audience, enormous impression on my young mind. I was absolutely entranced, and begged her to bring me back to every subsequent show left in the run (which was about three more). It was also my first introduction to Shakespeare, and even at that tender age I don't remember having any trouble understanding the play (but having taught myself to read by the age of 4, this is hardly surprising). To this day it remains my favorite (besides Romeo & Juliet).

The only other play I can remember seeing before the age of 10 is Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None and again wanting to go back (this time only once more). I was bitten by the theater bug, though not hard enough to ever want to be an actor. In high school I attended Godspell, then worked backstage for Fiddler on the Roof and our church's yearly Passion Play. I was lucky enough to have a best friend whose father's employer offered tickets to Cats, once at the Winter Garden and a second time in Hartford. The third year we got to see Les Miserables. Then it was on to college and a world of theatergoing opportunities (love that student discount!)...Sweeney Todd, Equus and best of all, Jesus Christ Superstar (all amazing beyond words). Then I met Tery and saw her sister perform in Runaways in Boston. I saw Mump and Smoot in "Ferno", Canada's premier "horror clowns," at the Yale Repertory Theatre (still have the program). Since moving to Denver, we've seen Stomp!, Blast! (Stomp-like, except with drums and bugles), Rent and best of all, The Lion King (which comes with its own enormous ticket-buying saga, too lengthy to describe here).

I don't know why live theater is so enthralling to me. Perhaps it's the artifice, the clever, low-budget designs used to simulate a real environment. Perhaps it's the naked vulnerability of the actors, up there with no safety nets, no camera tricks or editing rooms to fine-tune their performance, baring their souls night after night. Perhaps it's the immediacy and the in-the-moment feeling of a live show. Probably it's just a combination of all of these. But each and every performance I have seen has left an indelible mark on me, like a tattoo on my brain. While the rest of my life blurs by, all but forgotten, these magical nights remain like bright little archipelagos in my memory.

I only mention all this because last night I was invited by MyFriendDeb to see Big River, the story of Huck Finn told with a half deaf/half hearing cast. She won the tickets from a radio station, so all the better. The play itself was excellent, with inventive set designs and a unique collaberation between the hearing and deaf actors....for example, Huck's "Pap" was played by two actors, dressed identically, although the deaf one was noticeably skinnier than the other. With no explanation given or necessary, both actors shadowed each other, sometimes with comic and sometimes with creepy effect. Huck himself was deaf but his voice was provided by Mark Twain, who never left the stage. Deb was impressed that he could speak and sing with such emotion while appearing to stand detached and still. I was more impressed by a different speaking actor who belted out his deaf counterpart's lines while stretched out on the floor in front of him. The big ensemble numbers looked very cool with 10 people signing the words simultaneously, especially at the end when the music cut out but they kept "singing" silently.

Apart from the play itself, the journey downtown was equally filled with highlights. I agreed to drive to the train stop and backed out of the parking spot at Deb's complex...straight into the trash enclosure behind me, with a bang so loud I swore my bumper had to be totally crumpled. I reluctantly got out to assess the damage, but not so much as a scratch. Have I mentioned how much I love my Honda? At the train stop as we waited and chitchatted, a scruffy, shifty-looking fellow wandered around us in a circle with his bike. I was talking about getting roped into donating to the policemen's widow fund by phone, hopefully at least in exchange for a sticker to put on my car. I was sharing my ex's theory that when stopped by the police, that sticker might buy you a little leniency.

"Nope, nope," he loudly cut me off. "They don't give a damn about them stickers. I had one and they still threw me in jail." Well, I was thinking more along the lines of a minor speeding infraction. I don't imagine they make much of a difference in the case of say, vehicular manslaughter or outstanding arrest warrants. I don't mean to judge someone before knowing them, but I'm sure there's a very good reason he rides a bike now. Thank goodness after imparting this bit of wisdom about dealing with The Man he got bored and returned to shaking his fist at every train that whistled by marked "Out of Service," as if the RTD was deliberately mocking him.

We got into the city without further incident and into the theater. I was feeling a little underdressed in my semi-dressy black short-sleeved shirt and jeans, until a guy walked down the aisle wearing a greasy trucker's cap, faded black Harley t-shirt and jeans. After seeing two (much better-dressed) guys together that left an obvious trail of gayness in their wake, Deb started to tell me about a new guy at work. In her words, "He's really funny and interesting, except he's gay." What she meant was, "I might find him attractive if not for the fact that he's gay," but I chose to interpret it as slightly more derogatory. I wryly thanked her for tolerating me all these years and we both had a good laugh. As the show's start time began to draw closer, we realized that something was going to happen that never would have if we had paid for our tickets: the rest of our row AND the entire row in front of us was completely empty. Which sort of made up for the fact that the seats weren't really that terrific for being won in a radio contest. And, wonder of wonders, we even had people behind us who somehow fought the urge to kick our chairs the entire time. Is it possible that civilized, courteous folk DO still exist?

Our seats were perfectly positioned for intermission, however...close enough to the back of the auditorium to get to the restroom before the lines started forming. The ladies' room was obviously carefully engineered to discourage lingering. Ample seating (for a change) but only three mirrors for cosmetic touch-ups (more importantly nowhere near the sinks), and the motion-activated sinks actually cranked the heat up automatically to uncomfortable temperatures if you tried to scrub too long. The message was clear: get in and get out, ladies. Deb and I were both quite thirsty after the first act, so agreed to split an extortionately-priced bottle of water from the bar. Call me crazy, but when I pay $3 for plain old Aquafina, I expect it to at least be cooler than room temperature. Deb quipped, "So where do we go to buy the ice?"

The train ride home was equally uneventful, except Deb was facing two women speaking in sign language and confessed she felt like she was eavesdropping, even though she can't read sign language. According to our program, Wicked is coming in Oct, and Little Shop of Horrors after that. As Deb said, "Good. That gives me plenty of time to sell all my stuff to buy a ticket." *sigh*