Chapter 7 #2
Oberon’s sidekick is the fairy Puck, played by Theo.
Titania is at all times surrounded by a band of fairies.
In an interesting bit of casting, my father has made all the fairies in their sixties and seventies, as opposed to the lithe and delicate young beauties that you expect to play fairies.
Usually, it’s just a bunch of dancers in tulle.
At first, I’m worried that these fairies are going to be caricatures, spoofs, “rude mechanicals,” if you will.
But I am almost touched by the grace they bring to the roles.
They are witty and charming and strangely elegant.
They all have white hair, except for Glory, who has pink streaks in hers, and she informs me that she has no intention of changing it for the play and that I can tell my father as much.
I do not comment. Among the group is one giant, round, bald man named Ron, who plays his role as fairy with absolute sincerity.
The scene opens with Titania and Oberon fighting.
It’s interesting watching my father direct.
He has each beat blocked, has aerial drawings to scale of each scene, swooping arrows across the page, numbered, as each actor moves.
He has a tendency to bark at people—his family, anyway—in real life, but in rehearsals he speaks gruffly but clearly, and he even has moments of levity, though his quips are so esoteric that they go over most people’s heads.
He rarely sets foot onstage, but paces in front of it, staring.
Admittedly, he brings a level of intensity to rehearsal that is not always fitting a romantic comedy, but people are very into the Shakespeare-ness of it all.
They feel that they are doing a Serious Play, even though right now we are watching six geriatric fae draped in rehearsal bedsheets, Theo weaving maniacally among them.
It almost hurts to watch him. He has always edged me out, talent-wise, which I guess is why his career is thriving and mine is presently sponsored by my parents.
His face makes me ache for the version of myself I used to be.
I don’t know what to say to him, though.
I don’t know how to explain myself. I hunker down in my metal folding chair, turn away from them, and go back to my script, looking for anything I have missed that will add to my performance of a character I don’t really want to play.
When his scene is done, Theo catches my eye across the room and raises his eyebrows at me, as if to say, You ready to stop acting like a little bitch?
The door is open. I slam it shut. Being back here, in this room, with these people, brings so much to the surface.
I can’t handle Theo. This whole thing only works if I keep my head down and don’t let anyone get to me.
I pick up my script and strut out of the room. I don’t look back.
After the break, we start the lovers’ first scene.
“Okay, so, recap,” shouts Sally. “Hermia and Lysander are in love, but her father wants her to marry Demetrius. Hermia’s best friend, Helena, is in love with Demetrius, who has led her on and then dropped her.
” I relate. “Hermia and Lysander decide to run away together, and Helena decides to warn Demetrius of their departure in hopes of winning favor with him. Got it?”
Hermia and Lysander (Bailey and Max) already know each other; they both just graduated from the acting program at the university.
They have the practiced comfort of people who have done many scene studies together, who know what they are doing, and who trust each other.
They are the next-generation Theo and Mira, a thought I quickly catch when I remember that, until recently, Theo and Mira were estranged.
We still are. Bailey and Max are young, both beautiful, and both technically excellent.
They are not magic in the way Theo is. You can’t take your eyes off him onstage, but they are smart, present, and entertaining.
My entrance as Helena is a big, whiny monologue at the top after my friends flee to the forest. Woe is me, everyone’s happy but me, I’m as pretty as her, why doesn’t Demetrius like me?
Love is stupid! It’s not exactly a stretch.
It’s my first run at it, so I know no one is expecting much, but I have been nervous about it.
I spent the last day learning my lines, practicing in my pink bedroom so I would come off well today.
It has paid off: It falls out of me, loose and easy, and that feels good.
It surprises me, actually. The others applaud when I am done, and I immediately look at my dad, who is nodding, expressionless, which from him reads as moderate praise.
I catch the eye of Will, the guy who plays Demetrius, who raises an eyebrow and cocks his head, a small smile.
Kudos. For some reason, it sends a swell of pride through me.
It’s been so long since I’ve done theater.
I am used to lights and cameras all around.
Rarely do we have the luxury of running a scene multiple times.
Better shows do, for sure, but on Listings, we all got pretty used to just figuring it out on the fly.
Two hours to rehearse a scene and a half feels luxurious.
On tight days on Listings, we often skipped rehearsal altogether, hoping for enough good takes to cobble together a passable scene in post.
“We have a little time,” announces my father. “Let’s just try the start of the next scene. Demetrius and Helena in the woods.”
“I haven’t learned that one—” I say, but he cuts me off.
“Relax, Mira, it’s just rehearsal.” Nothing pleases me as much as being told to relax, especially by my father, especially when faced with spontaneous Shakespeare. Anxiety floods me. I know there are people here just waiting for me to fail again.
I grudgingly get up and follow Will to the stage.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I haven’t figured this part out yet.”
He looks at me sideways. “Relax, Mira.” He winks. “It’s just rehearsal.” I almost smile.