Actors are an interesting lot. Yes, the applause is thrilling, and there is a certain amount of glamour associated with working in theatre. But if you’ve read some of the older blog entries, you know there are downsides. You work in close quarters with at least a few eccentrics in the group who may at any given time smell bad, spit uncontrollably, choose lingerie poorly, and regale you with tales that will require therapy to cleanse your soul. And just when you think you have it all mastered, the stars align to make it impossible for the show to truly go on as it was originally intended.
Yet the level of dedication inspired by a life in the theatre is stunning. I’ve seen actors go on with the show after being in a car accident, or after hearing their best friend died. What drives this kind of devotion?
I’ve found two answers to that question. One is that you do it for the audience, for their education, for their entertainment, perhaps even to change their lives in some way. The other reason is more basic, but we’ll get to that.
One of the most memorable moments in my theatre experience came via a letter from an audience member. We were producing a play called “Mama Drama”, a series of vignettes about the various aspects of being a mother. Contrary to the title, it was a comedy, not a drama, although there were numerous moments of thoughtful reflection interspersed throughout the comedic scenes.
One of these thoughtful scenes involved a young woman telling the story of her mother’s premature death and how she handled the relationship with her mother during the final months and weeks of her life. It was an oddly inspiring and uplifting scene and wasn’t as out of place in a comedy as you might think.
Which brings us to the letter from an audience member, a woman who also had lost her mother prematurely. This woman (Sally) had never dealt well with the loss, and thereafter was unable to watch movies, plays, or TV shows that even touched on the theme of loss.
Until now. It took only a few moments for Sally and her husband to see the direction the scene was going. Sally’s husband started to gather their things, anticipating his wife would need to leave the theatre. But Sally hung in there, and by the end of the scene the tears she shed were tears of relief. Something about the scene had broken an emotional log jam for Sally, transforming her painful memories of the time with her mother into something she could honor with a full heart. Sally’s letter was a thank-you for restoring her ability to remember her mother. It was as unexpected to her as it was to us.
I think, if we are very lucky in this life, we are granted maybe one such experience. One opportunity to know without a doubt that we made a difference in someone’s life. Clearly we made a difference to Sally and her husband, and it made all the hard work of producing the show worthwhile.
The second reason people devote themselves to theatre is more primal. They do this work because to do anything else is unthinkable, because to do anything else would bruise them irreparably and make of life a dull and soulless treadmill. They do this work because every now and then the theatre gods smile upon them and they are blessed with a perfect performance or even a perfect scene. And in those moments they remember why they went into theatre in the first place: because there are so few opportunities in this life to lift ourselves and others above the mundane, to enter another world, and to contemplate what it means to be human.