The end of a show, of the process of taking a play, breaking it apart, and putting it all back together, is like a relationship. You meet, you're nervous, and sometimes you don't get it or get in, but sometimes you get that first date- in showbiz, we call that a callback. And sometimes you're right, and it's an instant click, or, in actor's terms, you get the lead. Sometimes, you're needed more than the leads though, because it's a real adventure to have to really get to know someone, or to commit so wholeheartedly to such a role as sitting on stage and reacting for the whole second act. And then there's the dreaded moment when it's real, and you're really in a relationship.
Read: first rehearsal.
You're scared, you don't know how people will be or react, and everything, no matter how many boys or girls or plays there have been, is so new and different, even though it may be nearly the same.
Soon, you're consumed, and all you think about is this person or this play, and this quirk or line. You spend more and more time together, meeting new people, making new friends, becoming a better person. Then, just when you think you know the person, when you think the little quarrels have been nothing, the real test comes: tech week.
The first run is stressful, but you're patient. You know everything will work out, you still want so badly to be there. The second run, that second or whatever huge fight with this person or play, suddenly feels like the world is ending and nothing seems to be right, nothing seems to be ready, nothing seems to work, and you're ready to go. But you stay.
The opening night. You think this is all alright, but here's the secret to it all: it's whatever you make it. Maybe this is the run through or the moment you realize that, truly, this is about far more than you. Maybe you finally understand how it feels to be totally given to something or someone. This show proves to the audience, to the critics, to everyone that you have something to say.
The second show, this is when it all feels real. You'll lose yourself for a moment, caught in the play, convinced that you're really there. But when you take that final bow, lean in for that final kiss... You realize that it's time to let go.
The last show, the last moment. You memorize every intonation, inclination, motion, emotion. You'll never see her laugh like that, speak like that. You'll never see him smile at you inbetween scens, or sing this song with these people on this stage, or see him lose it. You'll never get this moment, this feeling, this specific, exact chance again. Every sound, every breath, every word. One. Final. Time.
Act one is done. Time to tackle the hard part: the real goodbye.
A good actor, a good person, you do it slowly, breathing in this one last time before taking your final bow.
Suddenly, it's gone. The grace period you were promised is gone: there is no slow and easy slide back into "before." This is distinctly "after," and there's no going back.
Suddenly. No more rehearsals or dates, no more running lines or joining lives. Kisses, cues, hugs, costumes. All gone. Tomorrow, you won't see this person, these people, again.
What was a part of your anything is a part of your past, and nothing you say can make it last any longer.
It's not easy, or smooth, or even melancholy. It's a heartbreaking, treacherously terrifying experience because, as my friend so wisely said, with the end of a show comes the fear of never making one again.
There will always be another boy. There can't always be another show.
So you'll remember months from now that line or mannerism, but in years you remember the play as a whole instead.
And it's goodbye.
You'll see it or him or she down the road at some point. You may be happy, or may cry, but never forget: it's always a part of you.
This week my show Inherit the Wind ended, and with it, the directing career of plays at our highschool of our director.
Tonight, our show went out to the man she inherited her job from, who also performed this play, and passed away this last week.
I performed for myself, my director, the cast of my Freshman Play, the people who didn't make it, for those who did, the cast and crew of the 1996 production, and, most importantly, those who lived through the real trial.
Thank you.
Goodnight.
-R
