All photographs, save the last image, appear courtesy of Steven Ross. For more information about his work, visit his website.
The odds were stacked against us for opening weekend. It was the start of college football and Labor Day weekend and yet, as we approached the opening, the seats were filling up. Dutifully, I kept tabs on the Birmingham Festival Theatre (BFT) website, checking to see how ticket sales were going. I thought, for a weekend with so many things stacked against us, playing to crowds of 15-30 was pretty good, especially since I had seen BFT’s opening show of their 50th season, Paula Vogel’s How I Learned to Drive with an audience of only three others, including the usher.
Opening night, we gathered at 6:30 and put on our full costumes, still stinking from the Final Dress Rehearsal. Already my main memory of performing Waiting for Godot is sweating for two and a half hours, so much so that makeup was out of the question as it would have done nothing but stain our shirts. Places were called and, as far as memory carries me, it was a performance filled with a good bit of laughs. One among them was my mother, who I was most afraid would chastise me for putting her through it. In her own words, once she realized it could be seen as a precursor to Seinfeld (a show famously but wrongly about nothing), she enjoyed herself immensely. Over the course of the three weekends, most comments given to me were for my facial expressions which, in themselves, were exhausting. Gogo goes through highs and lows, quick changes from levity to depression. He played me like a fiddle.
Even as a child actor, I detested going out to see the audience after a show. But, as my mom and her friend were there, I went out and found the remnants of a surprisingly satisfied crowd. The only negative murmuring I heard that night was one audience member who mouthed, “Jesus Christ” a few times. Well, you can’t win ‘em all and Godot is definitely not for everyone.
The Saturday evening performance was, for me, a sadder one, but still a well-received show. Laughs were plentiful, but I found myself pretty spent at the end. Afterwards, all I could do was sit in the dressing room, staring into the mirror. I could see what the play was doing to me. My eating habits had been horrible, my exhaustion palpable. I looked at a face I hadn’t seen in a while—spent, riven, distant. The director, who I had made up with after our kerfuffle kept encouraging me for this not to be my last show. But, that night, I saw the actor in me again and I didn’t care for the sight. I had been getting depressed during the rehearsals, steadily, and I was ready for it to be over.
Sunday came and the audience was eerily quiet. We got nothing. Maybe some light nose-laughter that gives you nothing with which to play. During intermission, we commiserated as to whether this was the result of a post-lunch food coma or whether they were seeing more of the tragedy than the comedy in this tragicomedy. But much to our surprise, we got a few standing ovations after the performance. So, they clearly appreciated it, but were just a different kind of audience, more contemplative, I suppose. Who really knows?
We got three much-needed days off from the show before arriving on Thursday night for a line pick-up rehearsal with the Production Coordinator, the lovely Virginia Sardelis. She reminded us of the parts of the text we would probably never put in the show as we had memorized it without them, but with her help, we were able to restore some bits that had been absent on a nerve-jangling opening weekend. I knew that the majority of people I knew would be coming the second weekend. Every one of my coworkers on Friday night, an estranged friend on Saturday, and my church family on Sunday. So, I felt the pressure, but it surprisingly didn’t get to me.
My true surprise was that the stage fright I had only ever experienced with my last show, seventeen years ago, was nowhere to be found. Each performance, Cliff Spencer (Didi) and I would shake hands or buck each other up and I went on, just ready to go. Perhaps I’ve changed. Perhaps that one bit of stage fright doing Screwtape was just a blip in my acting repertoire—who knows? My coworkers stayed after Friday night and wanted a picture with me on the stage, which the theater allowed. They are all supportive, lovely people. Also present was my brother, his wife, and one of his sons and hiswife. They were all a little more non-plussed. These are sports fans, not theatre goers. My brother’s one comment was, “We’ll have to talk later about the meaning. Seems Biblical.” I’m not sure I have anything deeper to offer. I still don’t understand Pozzo and Lucky and I still think Endgame does what Beckett did in Godot better, deeper—bleaker yes, but that one’s the masterpiece.
Saturday evening brought it with it another audible crowd. I recognized the laugh of my former collaborator in the audience. I, at first, hesitated to go outside and see him, but as he is also friends with Ray Cole (our Pozzo), an awkward after-show encounter ensued. That’s all I have to say about that. The second weekend’s Sunday audience was entirely different from the last—ready to laugh, ready to go with it. My church family were equally supportive. They had sent me off from potluck with good vibes and the show went off without a hitch. It’s funny—I thought I would remember more sitting down to write this, but in a run memories bunch up and you only really remember when you screwed up or on nights where people you know are in the audience.
Another three-day break. Another Thursday line rehearsal where we pinpointed lines we’d still missed each performance (I hope the Beckett estate aren’t reading this). But overall, I was impressed with how much of the material we continued to absorb and even add in after the fact. I don’t remember much about the Friday show. Saturday’s show, on the other hand, was significant as we dropped maybe three or five minutes’ worth of Act II material—easy to do in a show where lines in both acts are similar. If one wasn’t careful, you could start doing Act II in the middle of Act I.
Afterward, however, I was greeted by a current student at my alma mater, ASFA, who was appreciative of my work. They are apparently studying Godot (so many more of his classmates should have been there). A nice young man, his feedback greatly appreciated.
The next morning, I combed the house looking for end-of-show presents I could give to the cast. I had always intended on giving them some of my written material. I was feeling more and more like a writer caught in an actor’s nightmare. Over the course of these weeks, I’ve gained weight, I’ve let Godot’s tragic side affect my life, my daily work, and all writing (save these blog entries) had ceased. So, I wanted to give a true part of myself to the actors.
Before the show, Cliff and I talked about how we both wanted to savor the show and also were ready for it to be over. It had been exhausting. Drenched in sweat at the end of each act from the sheer physicality of it, I’m sure we displeased every audience member with our rankness when we went out to greet them. Again, I mostly remember how my costume stunk and how Cliff’s stunk and how I had to eat carrots each night that were stuffed in Cliff’s suit pocket. It’s amazing I haven’t contracted anything.
So, what to say of Godot? It would have been probably an entirely different experience in January and February when it was supposed to play. Certainly, back then I had a job that was less mentally taxing, I was in better shape, I was game and ready. Since April, this slowly approaching 40th birthday has been messing with me existentially and Godot didn’t help that at all with my character’s talk of hanging himself.
I am glad I did the show. And I’m not glad at the same time. Some experiences are good with no asterisks. Some make you contemplate life and the decisions you’ve made. Some remind you of the rut you might find yourself in as you look in the dressing room mirror.
As with Keke, I had alluded to much of the cast and production team that this would most likely be my last stage performance. As I left closing day, Virginia—our unofficial “stage manager” in our line rehearsals—also encouraged me not to. And that day, there were more random audience members who were complimentary to my performance. Again, their responses remind me of what Terry Gilliam said to John Cleese when they met—“I like the faces you pull.” But then, the audience members go home, and you go home and you never really know if you had any affect at all.
I can never know what play they felt they saw. I know I saw a more energetic Beckett (that was still reverent) than most productions, either videorecorded or the one I saw at the University of Montevallo many years ago. It was certainly fun working with my friend Ray. It was wonderful to watch Sydney and Tank in their parts. It was an immense pleasure to work with Cliff—he was fantastic from day one and I hope I did well by him. And I hope to work with him again, albeit in some different capacity. Still: time to let Godot go (he’s not showing up anyway) and move on.
The theatre is such an ethereal world. It’s all over now. BFT is moving on, finally, to their fifty-first season, and I go back to the daily grind. This will be my first real weekend in quite a few months—one with no distractions except the little critters that roam around the house, bossing me around.
I hope it’s healing, but with that birthday Sunday, I worry it will be full of regret and, next week, we’ll reflect on turning forty here on the blog. Hope to see you back.
Thank you to those who came to the show, thank you for those who followed the blog posts chronicling the experience.
Dear acting, you have broken me physically, somewhat emotionally. I still love and hate you. I hate rehearsing and learning lines has become a nightmare. And yet I love performing for people and we had consistently strong crowds, even on one particularly rainy night.
Never be ungrateful for rain. Or for any opportunity, for that matter.
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