Chapter 5 #2
‘Isn’t that expensive?’
‘Can be, but lots of theatres have cheaper ticket schemes, especially for people our age. I’ve seen shows for as little as ￡5, but I work as a student drama teacher for tiny kids on a Wednesday and Saturday.
I save all that money for shows, though I’ve had to be pickier for the last year as I was saving for my drama school auditions. ’
‘Hang on. They make you pay to audition?!’
‘Yup! Some of them are fifty to a hundred quid for the first round, and that’s before thinking about trains and hotels and the like! I’ve just forked out for the flights for an audition over your way in Belfast actually.’
‘Woah. Is Zeb doing drama school auditions as well?’
‘No,’ Olly says, chuckling. ‘Not to blow your mind, but he’s going to Cambridge to study medicine.’
‘No way? He’s a genius?’
‘Haha, yup! He got all 9s for his GCSEs, and his teachers will riot if he doesn’t get A*s across the board for his A Levels this summer.’
Zeb’s dancing is amazing, and he gets to have brains 89as well? I’m the worst performer at the competition, and I’m only a middling B/C student. ‘It’s not fair some people get to be talented and smart.’
‘I know. He’s planning to stop performing after this week to focus on his degree. It’s a shame though because he’s going to miss the after-show party of his final performance on Saturday to get a coach to Cambridge at stupid o’clock on Sunday for an induction day.’
My focus shifts to a commotion on stage.
‘What’s going on?’
Olly
I’ve avoided spoilers as much as I can, but I’ve heard about Sisyphus Rising’s pre-show, now playing out on stage in front of us.
Ten actors, all dressed identically in worn-down, muted work clothes have entered, but each of them are radically different in body shape, gender, height, race and energy from the performer next to them.
They’re standing in a circle, each holding a different instrument, and they begin the process of tuning up.
I grin over at Tarun, who’s watching the proceedings with deep suspicion. ‘It’s a special something they do for this show.’90
‘So, it’s started? Why are people still talking?’ he asks, looking around at the chatting audience with outrage. How could I have mistaken this ‘stickler for theatre etiquette five minutes before the show’s even scheduled to start’ as a musical-theatre hater yesterday?
‘No, it’s a pre-show. They’re all actor-musicians, so there’s no band in the orchestra pit. It’s just these ten performers playing all the parts and the music! They’d normally tune up their instruments backstage, but for this show, they do it in front of us.’
Tarun’s face turns from confusion to awe as the woman with a tiny electronic keyboard around her neck plays a starting note, and all the performers check their pitch against her.
‘This is so cool…’ Tarun says, lifting out of his seat to watch as the warm-up takes on a ritualistic practice.
He observes the guitarist particularly closely, as the performers move away from the starting note and improvise freely, kind of like Tarun did last night.
‘All the shows I’ve seen in Derry, the lights go down and it starts, not giving you a chance to really think about the work before the show begins. ’
‘Exactly! Whereas, by making us watch their process, the entire audience are conscious of the effort, preparation and patience it takes to perform for us. I believe that’s kind of applicable to the themes of the show.’91
He turns his head to me, forehead screwed up. ‘How do you know that? I thought you hadn’t seen it.’
‘But I’ve read up on it and watched reviews on socials! I’m always trying to learn more. Zeb may be a science nerd who wants to be a doctor; I’m a theatre nerd who desperately wants to be an actor.’
Tarun’s face drops, deadpan. ‘Wow. You want to have a career on stage? I never would have guessed…’
‘Ha ha,’ I reply, matching his sarcasm. ‘What do you want to do after school?’
There’s a shift behind his eyes, his straight face replaced by a sliver of worry. ‘Oh … I don’t know. I’m not all set and certain on my future like you guys…’
‘That’s okay,’ I say, hoping not to inadvertently cause a spiral like I did yesterday morning. ‘You’re the year below me, right? Year 12?’
‘Yeah, but … not long till I have to start making decisions. I did best in my geology mocks so … maybe that.’
‘Geology? As in rocks?’
He nods, and my eyes light up. ‘Oh wow, this really is the perfect first West End show for you!’
‘How do you mean?’ he asks, but the lights are dimming, marking the real beginning of the show. ‘What do you mean, Olly?’
I elbow him in the ribs to stop him talking now the show’s starting, but his face turns sharply to pain.92
‘Owwwwwwww,’ he mouths, but he smiles as he rubs his side.
‘Sorry! Don’t know my own strength sometimes,’ I whisper.
‘It’s okay, theatre nerd. Just don’t make me do a stage fight scene with you.’
I laugh, weirdly disappointed that Tarun’s face is now fully consumed by dark shadows, obscuring his attractive features. The blackout means the show’s beginning, and our conversation’s over.
The actors start to share the narrative through the lyrical first song, and I can’t help but peek over Tarun’s way to check he’s enjoying his first West End show.
His face is hard to read, but he’s definitely studying the opening number closely.
It’s not long until I’m absorbed enough myself that I stop checking what he’s thinking and let myself enjoy the show, confident Tarun won’t have a terrible time.
Tarun
This isn’t like any of the musicals I’ve seen before.
Actors create the world out of nothing, using just their bodies, instruments and the occasional discarded piece of costume to tell the story.
But there kind of isn’t a story. 93There’s no overarching plot like the other shows I’ve seen where a guy meets a girl, a misunderstanding (or war) splits them up, only for them to reunite by the end.
Sisyphus Rising is way more interesting than that. And Olly was correct, it’s uniquely suited to a boy studying geology.
The person I thought was the lead during the first song is stood at the back, ‘just’ another of the ensemble, by the second number.
The Greek myth of a man eternally charged with pushing a giant boulder up a steep hill is taken on by each of the cast members in turn.
Their reason for pushing the boulder before it inevitably falls at the top of the hill is the only thing different between each version of the person (and not an STI) Sisyphus.
They each have their own hope of what completing the task will mean for them.
By the third cast member taking on the role, I’m gripping onto the padded arm rests of my seat, the velvet under my forearms worn down from years of audiences doing exactly what I am now: clinging to their seat as the drama takes them over.
My knees press against the hard back of the seat in front of me, bouncing lightly with enjoyment as the new motivation is explained.
My ears hum from the varied songs, the music cool rather than cheesy or old-fashioned like the other musicals I know.
Each song makes sense as part of the interconnected sound of the whole score, but where one 94song sounds like the lovechild of Joni Mitchell and Sufjan Stevens, the next is like a collaboration between Reputation era Taylor Swift with Bjork and ABBA.
Words hit me: nuggets of wisdom wrapped in a conversational poem about mundane, everyday observations.
The next Sisyphus talks about taking anxiety medication and carrying on pushing the boulder up the hill even when their hands tremble with nerves.
They sing at the top of their voice, ‘I am not just my prescription, my grave needs better inscription,’ and my throat goes dry, tasting for myself what it feels like to be represented on stage.
Each performer has their own perspective on their toil, showing the previous songs’ meanings in a new light, or contradicting, or reflecting, and I am wrapped up in the world, sound, feeling of what the creators of the show have made.
It’s only when they’re halfway through the final song that I realise it’s the closing number.
There’s no interval or interruption to the unfolding stories.
All ten versions of Sisyphus are centre stage, pushing their own rock up the hill one last time.
They believe so hard that this time they’ll conquer the challenge.
I believe too. They have to reach the top, achieve every hope and dream that has fuelled them the entire show.
My hands are probably drained of blood from how 95tight I’m gripping my arm rests, waiting to discover how the show will end. I’m in an audience of nearly a thousand people, but right now it feels like it’s just me and the cast telling the story in this room.
They hold one epic long note, and it has to be coming… The release from their struggle.
I inhale, my breath waiting for the moment of release. Of conclusion. Of satisfaction.
But Sisyphus Rising isn’t like other musicals.
The lights turn out. The music cuts. Silence fills the auditorium.
The show is over.
No… That can’t be the end. They didn’t achieve their goal.
The lights on stage come back up, and the cast take their bows. The audience around me jump to their feet, applauding the cast and the show. But I’m not ready yet. I’m sat, frozen, in my chair, my brain too busy thinking about the show and how it ended for me to do anything else.
I don’t know when I started crying, but my face is wet and streaked with tears.
So I let my body tell my brain what it’s not clever enough to realise: that was the perfect ending.
How often do you, day-to-day, feel you’ve got your rock to the top of the hill?
It’s always rolling back, needing to be pushed up 96again and again.
The actors will tell this story again, and we’ll all live it a thousand times over. Feck.
A hand touches my shoulder gently, and I look up to see Olly, standing next to me. I wasn’t alone with the cast. He was right next to me the whole time. And luckily, he’s crying happy tears too, pausing his applause to wipe his eyes. ‘Pretty good, right?’
I laugh, finally adjusted enough to jump to my feet and clap the cast too.
I turn to my giant roommate and shout over the standing ovation, ‘Pretty good? That was fecking amazing.’