Chapter 2
TWO
Olly
It’s been great meeting (almost) everyone but stepping into the main studio we’ll be rehearsing in this week snaps me into competition mode. It’s time to focus.
Not even moody Tarun Attri, who looked at me like I was barmy whenever I mentioned anything from a musical, can make me falter. Maybe he thinks he’s too cool for me? Or doesn’t care what the competition and musical theatre means to all of us?
But it’s everything to me. And I’ll do anything to show everyone that.
We’re all filtering into the studio, and Harrison Kay picks up a black plastic chair from a big stack in the corner, prepared for the usual ‘first day of rehearsals’ meet and greet clump of chairs. Little does he know how things run at The Larry Awards…
‘Stop right there,’ calls out Elaine Yung, in a manner so powerful you’d be forgiven for thinking she was wearing a microphone and had a spotlight operator following her with a beam of light.
She’s pointing directly at Harrison, 24who freezes.
‘Chairs have no place in this rehearsal room! Chairs are solid! They get in the way. What we need is open space for our minds and creativity to flourish. Come, join me on the floor.’
Sheepish, Harrison puts the chair back and joins the rest of us in a circle with our legs crossed. Elaine, our singularly unique director for the week, surveys each and every one of us.
‘Why do we sit in a circle in my rehearsal room?’ she asks, and I shoot my hand into the air before anyone can beat me. She gives me the nod to answer.
‘Because it fosters a culture of openness and sharing without any hierarchy,’ I reel off, parroting the answer she gave when she told Zeb off last year for picking up the chair, this all a part of the ritual of the first day of rehearsals.
People in the circle look at me amazed, and I think I even see a wrinkle of approval on Elaine’s face.
‘Exactly,’ she says. She’s wearing an outfit that can only be described as a mishmash of several different continents – harem pants, a kimono and gigantic bow in her short black hair.
‘And that is the central ethos of making theatre: collaboration. So, in the name of our partnership beginning, I’m Elaine your director and choreographer for the week, and over there is Marty who’ll be your MD. ’
Marty, a lanky Scot with long flowing hair and painted 25nails who looks after the musical aspects for the Larrys, leans against a mirror and waves casually. He’d never degrade himself by sitting on the floor like a primary-school child with the rest of us.
‘We’re also lucky enough to be joined by a student Assistant Stage Manager, thanks to a generous placement funded by the Hudson Foundation. Give everyone a wave, Nate.’
A boy marking out the stage on the floor with tape gives a small unbothered wave, and he’s literally the most cliché trainee stage manager I’ve ever seen, dressed all in black, wearing a beanie and with two lip piercings.
‘In the words of Oscar Hammerstein II, one of the parents of musical theatre as an artform, let’s play a game of “Getting to Know You”.
Tell us your name, age, pronouns and what your favourite musical is,’ Elaine says, causing panicked murmurs to spread around the circle.
Today’s answer to the last question will be what decides whether everyone perceives you as a superfan, a know-it-all or basic as can be.
People take their moment in the spotlight, mostly to approval. Oisín even gets an ‘ooh’ in response to him naming some niche Irish musical that ran in Cork for about all of ten minutes.
‘Hey! I’m Olly, he/him. I just turned eighteen, and my favourite show would have to be – discounting 26Sondheim, because he exists in a different realm – Billy Elliot,’ I say, looking around the full circle.
I could have said any number of obscure Off-Broadway musicals, but the story of a working-class miner’s son flourishing as a ballet dancer was the musical that first enraptured me when I was a little boy.
From the smiles and nods I receive, including from Elaine, it seems I made a good choice.
The answers carry on with a delightfully eclectic list of musicals, from Annie to Zanna, Don’t!
until it reaches Tarun, who seems to be the only person here not grinning and laughing as we learn more about each other.
What is his problem? He mumbles something about being seventeen and maybe says Les Mis, but it’s hard to tell.
Can’t be much of a fan if he doesn’t know ‘I Saw Him Once’!
‘This week’s going to be challenging,’ Elaine shares with her understated command of the room.
‘We want you to have fun, but you’re going to be treated like professionals.
The industry’s eyes will be watching you on Saturday night at our West End showcase.
It’s a performance that might change some of your lives, so we want to make the most of the six days we have together to ensure you shine. ’
Eyes dart around the room, excitement spreading from one contestant to another. Getting to say I’ve performed in the West End never gets old – it’s something even my 27cousin Dylan, who has only ever seen The Lion King, can understand is a big deal.
‘We’ll start with a group opening number, followed by four medleys of your nominated characters.
Then one last group number before the interval, when the judges will choose the nation’s top six performers.
You’ll all have one-to-one time with us this week to rehearse a solo for the judges to decide which of those six are our two victors. ’
The mention that some of us will win, and some will have to lose, changes the energy in the room, excitement replaced by focus and drive.
Well, everyone except Tarun who looks more blank and unbothered, like the stock image of a moody model used on a Spring Awakening poster to convey adolescent ambivalence.
‘We’re not going to think about your solos and the medleys until tomorrow morning – so don’t come and ask me what you’re performing. That can wait! Today’s all about working as an ensemble to get our two group numbers on their feet.’
Oisín is already stretching out his ankles, and Beth Hampton is peeling off her shoes.
‘Group number’ means one thing – we’re about to dance, which can be a blessing or a curse depending on what kind of performer you are.
While Gabby, for example, can pick up complex choreography in five minutes and rival Ginger Rogers, others find dancing mortifying, regarding themselves ‘singer-actors’. 28
I’ve always been more of a ‘park and bark’ performer, relishing any chance I get to take my place centre stage and belt out a big dramatic number, acting out the trauma of a man twice my age.
I’m hopeful though that the hours I’ve spent in dance lessons over the last year, following a suggestion Elaine made to prepare for my drama school auditions, are about to pay off.
It’s not the easiest challenge to make my hulking frame appear graceful, but I hope I’ve improved enough that she’ll notice.
‘Okay then,’ calls out Elaine. ‘Time to get moving!’
Tarun
‘I’m going to conduct a quick dance assessment, so I can get to know what your bodies can do. Then I can tailor the choreography for our dance numbers to make you all look your best. First though, let’s warm up.’
The scary director, who treated chairs with the outrage that most teachers would reserve for drug possession, says ‘dance assessment’ like I was someone with enough brain cells to realise dance would be a part of the competition.
The most ‘dance’ I had to do in Les Mis was march backwards and forwards in ‘One Day More’, driving Mum mad by practising in my bedroom every night when I got home from rehearsals.
That took three months for me to 29(nearly) get right, so I’m not sure how this is going to go, especially in my jeans and sweatshirt.
Everyone else is unfazed, peeling off layers to reveal sports clothes suitable for dancing. Of course, they all knew what to expect.
I would have been willing to throw my uncoordinated body into dancing an hour ago, as part of the ‘try it’ experiment I’m meant to be running on myself. But how clear Olly and everyone else made it that I’m unprepared has rattled me.
Heavy bass music plays on the speakers, and people around me are quickly off the floor and jogging on the spot, so I scramble to my feet.
Without warning, everyone spins to the right and I have no idea how they all knew what to do. I stand still, looking for who to follow, when a small girl with box braids crashes into me and falls to the ground.
‘Sorry!’ she shouts over the music, which is ridiculous considering it’s my fault she fell.
A massive smile appears on her face as she picks herself up off the floor.
She focuses past the front of the crowd, watching Elaine who’s facing us and directing what move comes next.
They’re copying her; that makes sense. I struggle to keep up, but I move in the right direction and avoid any more crashes at least.
The thumping track is replaced with something more easy-going, and we’re shown several stretches, leaning over 30in various directions. Once the pattern sets in, keeping up becomes easier, although my jeans strain, probably one lunge away from splitting.
‘Now everyone over to the corner by Marty,’ Elaine announces, pointing to where the man they introduced as the ‘MD’ is tinkering with the piano. Oh! ‘MD’ must be short for Musical Director – I had no idea who he was when she first introduced him. MD, MT – why can no one use full words here?
Elaine shows us several different steps that I wish I could make my body recreate. When you’ve never tried to do a ‘Fosse pose’ or ‘step ball change’ before, it’s a bit like trying to order a full meal in Spanish after only completing one five-minute lesson on a language app.