7/22
I am going to the Bryn Mawr Film Institute, which is actually more like the Anthony Wayne, to see the early stagings of a famed musical. Coincidentally, many people I knew in high school have been cast.
Technically, I am not supposed to be here. The premiere isn’t for another few months, but everyone wants to see this. It is a romance and a fantasy, and staged by Steve Martin. Every magazine in the country wants the first look, and he won’t give it, but I am lucky enough to be close by, and familiar with the place, that I have told my editor I think I can sneak in.
When I arrive, there is a boy reading Scott Pilgrim at the desk, and he barely glances up as I pay for my ticket to whatever the matinee is. He rips my ticket, but not even along the perforated line, and sends me inside. The girl at the convenience counter looks up from her homework and smiles, and I walk past her, down the long hallway with the four theatres… but instead of stopping at mine, I take a left and go in through an employee hallway. The actual theatre, I have scouted before, is guarded, but not by the emergency exit to the theatre, and that is where I will get in. I pause outside the door, wait until I hear people moving around, and inhale quickly as I press on the door and walk inside as though I am supposed to be there. No one notices me, and I breath a sigh of relief as I casually make my way to the back row.
I sit back on a rounded red couch, and look up at these people moving along on wires and singing, astounded by the beauty of it all. I sneak out my notebook and start to take notes for my piece. The lights dim, and I look up to see a short black-and-white film start. The actor is familiar, and he dances across the screen silently. A man on the stage is warbling along to the images, singing about death. It is more beautiful than I thought it would be, than anyone expected it would be, and I am crying, thinking about how difficult it will be to write this article, because it will ignite an even greater hysteria for this, as it should. The actor has stopped dancing, and then resumes, to run (in a lyrical way) across this rolling hilltop, to a stream, where he makes artful jumps from rock to rock, his slippers never getting wet.
As the man on stage finally silences, the lights come up, and everyone, even the actors, start to applaud their director. I do not see Steve Martin anywhere, and am annoyed that I cannot write his reaction. Then, abruptly, the lights fall, and another movie starts on the screen, this a talking head with David Spade about becoming a vegan. I laugh; this is obviously a mistake on the part of the theatre techs, and a hilarious one at that. The man who was singing before laughs too, and then starts to sing along to this as he had before, making everyone on stage crack up.
A voice leans in behind me and whispers, “Are you convinced to become a vegan?” I jump, and my head whirls to look at who is talking to me. It is Steve Martin, and my heart races. I am fucked. And furthermore, I have no idea if he’s joking or not.
I pause, and then say, “No. Well, yes. I mean, I was considering it anyway, but he’s not really helping my decision either way.”
Steve Martin nods at me. “Yeah, I know. It’s not his best work.”
We start to talk a bit, and I wonder if he has no idea that I am here to report on this, that I have snuck in to see this early stage production.
Suddenly, he cracks the whip. “I want act one from the top!” he says to the actors goofing off on stage. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, but I want you to get the rhythm. When you’re not supposed to be on stage, just step around the scene, don’t leave though. Just do it.” They all nod. “The lights!” he shouts. “The lights!” And they dim again. “Watch this,” he says. “Just watch.”
For a few minutes, we watch, and I am transfixed. It really is masterful, the best work he will ever do, so completely unexpected. Everything I’m thinking is a synonym for excellence.
And then I feel his hand slide under my shirt. And I realize he knows exactly what I am doing there, but I can’t well leave and miss this opportunity for my career. So I sit, watching the show go on, as his hands grope me, slide under my skirt, causing me to inhale sharply, as I struggle to take mental notes without crying out. It is awkward, and I hate myself for not leaving, and I hate him for doing this to me, and I just want to leave.
And then, finally, the lights come up, the act is over, and I can. I straight my skirt, and try to make the rip in my tights less noticeable, trying to calm the flush I know is in my cheeks. He looks at me, and grins, licking his fingers. I shudder, and stand up to leave. I feel like shit.
“The pleasure’s all yours, I guess,” he laughs. I spin on my heel, and leave through the main entrance this time, ignoring the calls from the employees who are wondering how I got in there.
A girl a year below me from high school is walking up the theatre as I walking out. I recognize her from a press release as the female lead, and wonder why she wasn’t there. We wave, and I go back to my car. I throw my notebook out the window.
