Wreckage of My Presence : Essays (9780062960634) by Wilson Casey

Author:Wilson, Casey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2021-03-30T00:00:00+00:00

Tears of a Clown

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing some truly incredible theatrical performances in my life. I saw Patti LuPone play Mama Rose in Gypsy. Denzel Washington in A Raisin in the Sun. Lisa Rinna in Chicago.

And I’ve been lucky enough to perform with some of the all-time greats. Catherine O’Hara in For Your Consideration. Don Cheadle in Black Monday. Lisa Rinna in The Hotwives of Orlando.

However, hands down, the greatest performance I have ever seen was in a black box theater in LA on Santa Monica Boulevard. This is not usually where one goes to see dynamic theater, but rather where dreams go to die.

It didn’t start out well. My boyfriend and I were there to see a production put on by friends of friends and they were serviceable, but the space was very cramped and it was extremely hot. The play was not a comedy. In fact, it was quite serious. The director sat above us on a plank, her legs swinging directly over our heads, which was unnerving. Again, this was very much not a comedy and it was very, very hot.

By intermission, I was ready to leave. But my boyfriend pointed out there were only ten of us in the audience and were we to go, the fact that 20 percent of the audience had skipped out would be both extremely obvious and a blow to the actors.

I knew what the actors were going through because I have been in some terrible theatrical productions myself. In college, I was in a performance of Much Ado About Nothing that was so bad, the head of acting said ALOUD to the audience, like a Greek chorus no one asked for, “We’re in hell.” It didn’t feel good to hear that from onstage and have to continue trotting around on all fours because I was playing Dogberry as an actual dog. #Choices!

During an agent showcase, where you are performing specifically for agents in the hopes that they will see your face and pluck you from the multitudes, I made the choice to do a scene in which I had been kidnapped and the kidnapper had put a paper bag over my head. I had two minutes to make an impression and I chose to use one minute and fifty-seven seconds of that time with a Vons bag obscuring my face.

He was right. We had to stay. I sat down and settled in for the long haul. I could feel the director’s dirty Birkenstocks brush the top of my head. She was literally watching us watch it, which annoyed me, because I hate when directors are in the audience doing their own performance of “director.” It felt like undue pressure to respond stirringly to what was, sadly, a bad play. It was a lot of masters to serve.

But what was done was done. I made peace with the fact that the next hour of my life would be a wash.

And then it happened.

A man appeared on the street outside

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