Behind the Scenes

There is an unmistakable titillation that accompanies the whir of the stage curtain being whisked open; it is heightened by the just perceptible pause of an entire crowd of people as they draw breath in anticipation of action. Strip lights and spot lights choreograph every shadow and moon beam, with painted window curtains and staircases that wind up a plywood surface. The scene is suggested, and the audience eagerly accepts the lie. With the curtain open the cast begins to paint the impression of reality with scripted lines, motions, and emotions. Behind the black teaser and tormentor curtains, beyond the legs and borders that mask the wings of the stage a stark alter world spins in unpolished reality. Unscripted, unlighted and unappreciated, it upholds and supports the illusion. The common atmosphere of the back of the stage is the tether to the kite, the asphalt to the mirage that is a stage production.

High school drama students are ravenous for the spot light. They lust and crave the heady glow of leading roles with an appetite that is primal. Not all actors can be the lead: A play full of Romeos and Juliets would only result in the entire acting troupe’s death―staged of course. The crush of a minor role relegates the minor actor to the back of the stage for many long hours of rehearsal time. The exiles occupy the bleak undefined recesses of the back stage while the charmed leading ladies and men grace the dream land of center stage.

The back of the stage at Casa Grande is a cacophonous structure. The loft, a closed off room directly behind the stage ―a compilation of wooden beams and Styrofoam sheets, broken chairs and unlevel tables, grimy toolboxes and dusty paint cans―is a mishmash of past show mementos. Along the wings of the stage there are rogue pieces of wood and scentless plastic flowers that have become the toys and accessories of the bit actors’ underworld. The black walls are splattered with an array of paint colors that add character and personality to the partitions. The walls hold ancient hieroglyphs, little notes scrawled out on the barricade by past performers to amuse generations to come. The most famous of these notes lies in an area where ropes that support the curtains hang; there is a duct tape sign reading, “DON’T TOUCH THE ROPES”. With sharp wit, silver graphite letters respond, “I touched the ropes!” Though one may have seen it multiple times, it does not fail to entertain the would be entertainers. The premises displays the occasional immaturity of those who inhabit it.

There is little light backstage and the light present, glows blue; this eerie half light robs the eyes and heightens the other senses. Though faint, each in-drawn breath smells vaguely of paint and dust, no surprise, for both substances are present. The air is cold and chills the nostrils raising little tingling goose bumps on our arms. The leads wear lovely costumes and are warmed by the roaming spot lights; the outcasts backstage wear jackets in the tech light. We hear our cues through heavy fabric and light whispers, giggles, and the occasional ruckus of tripping feet. Hearing Shakespearian lines and Shakespearian adlibbing and laughter and gasps, actors feel a rush of adrenaline while waiting to perform for themselves. We savor the dialogue onstage and the reactions of the audience, salivating like Pavlov’s dog for our own moment to step into the light.

I have had quite some time to spend backstage, part of the “counter culture”. It can be boring. The inane becomes wickedly funny; we once draped a Styrofoam wig form with black velvet fabric and made it fly around behind the wings, while on stage Demetrius delivers the line, “Do I entice you?” Another time, when I was finally on stage, my fellow “minors” blew up latex gloves and held them inside their own sleeves waving their bloated hands fondly at me while I tried to make the dramatic most of “There is a brief how many sports are ripe.” I have found entertainment while taking every fake flower I could find and placing it in my hair, and comfort while curling up in a dark corner to sleep when I would not be onstage for awhile. Dark, quiet, relaxed―backstage is the perfect place for a nap. With the backstagers, I have experienced camaraderie that is hard to come by. Sharing the common thread of passion for the theatre, we talk to each other and make each other laugh, usually quietly out of respect for those performing, and if a disgruntled director comes to reprimand us for our loudness, we do settle after a little chuckle. While behind the literal stage, we leave the figurative stage of the social world, and reveal our true nature, to find it is accepted.

Perhaps it is a habit of society to recognize the romanticized ideals and disregard the unrefined reality in life. The work behind stage is unappreciated; what is not seen is not acknowledged. The staged performance, the fantasy, is worshipped, and the truth, the mechanical gaffs and pulleys, the cords and beams, the character actors and dancers that support the story are pushed aside to make room for the dream. The quirky backstage world with its raw glamour-less common reality lifts every production to its potential.

~Ava