HO HO HORROR – PART 12

 

HO HO HORROR – PART 12

The argument is already in full swing by the time we enter the theatre. Several cast members had an early morning rehearsal, which left the rest of us to enjoy an extra hour of sleep. We arrive at the casino, enter through the theatre doors, and head down the ramp to the stage. We drop our dance bags on the tables, silently avoiding the tension. We can all feel it, but no one says a word. We all exchange glances, but we know better than to speak up.

"Fuck you!" screams The Director, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "I’m the senior show director at the parks, and when I give you a direction, you take it! You don’t question me!"

The cast member he’s yelling at is visibly shaking, her eyes brimming with tears. She keeps her head down and walks quickly up the ramp, away from the director’s anger. He follows her, still shouting, as she grabs her dance bag, pulls out a piece of paper and a pencil, and starts scribbling. She starts to write in exaggerated gestures, as if she’s the star of some over-the-top TV drama. “Dear Mom, this place sucks. The director is an asshole.” She looks up, glares at him, and storms out of the theatre without another word.

Back in rehearsal, when we ask The Director for any kind of character development or direction, he simply tells us, "Watch the cartoon version of the film." As though we were all professionally trained in the Stanislavsky method of acting. Soon, the responses to his barrage of ridiculous questions like, "Why can't you move faster?" "React bigger?" and "Jump higher?" are summed up perfectly by one frustrated cast member who yells, "Because we aren’t fucking cartoons!"

Honestly, I half expect an anvil to fall out of nowhere in the middle of our scenes.

Another day spent with lunatics. In a moment of desperation, another cast member and I pretend we’re trapped in straitjackets, our arms tied behind our backs. We rock back and forth, singing "It’s a Small World."

The Choreographer, of course, is doubled over with laughter at yet another of his "brilliant" ideas, though no one else is laughing. When he gets one of these ideas, we know we’re in trouble. This time, he has come up with new dance steps for a section we’ve already learned. The steps feel familiar, and that's because, as we soon discover, they’re either straight out of a current Broadway show or stolen from a television commercial.

After two hours of this nonsense, someone finally asks for a break. "I always give breaks," The Choreographer replies smugly. "I came from Equity theatre," he adds, as if that justifies his refusal to give us a break when we need one. "I’ll give one when I’m ready."

Blue in the face and gasping for air, we push forward. But soon, one of the cast members begins to slow down. Her face turns red, and she bolts off the stage and into the wings. I follow her.

She’s doubled over, crying. "I can’t do it," she sobs. "This is too much. I was hired as a singer, and this pressure is too much for my knee."

"You can do it," I say, trying to calm her down. "Get back out there before we all get in trouble."

"I’m not going back out there," she says, shaking her head. "This is bullshit."

I take a deep breath and return to the stage, trying to get The Director’s attention. "What now?" he shouts, clearly irritated with me.

I explain the situation, and one of the choreographer’s assistants walks into the wings. Unfortunately, the cast member in trouble has just danced her way right into a meeting scheduled for the next day.

We break for lunch. It’s pizza again. We all meet at the pizza parlor in front of the theatre and share stories of our early morning woes. The atmosphere is tense, everyone venting their frustrations, but knowing nothing will change.

When we return to the theatre, the flight information for our upcoming break has been posted. The thing is, none of us are leaving on the same day. We’re all scattered, our breaks misaligned, further adding to the chaos of our already fractured lives.