Who wants to plow through paragraph after paragraph about a first-time staged reading of a play based on a self-published book – being “performed” in a small, nondescript theatre far from Hollywood’s glittering glamour?
Oh well – here goes:
Setting: 6pm on a cloudy evening in a 46-seat theatre on Victory Blvd., Burbank, California.
Program: First staged reading of “The Secret Life of a Weight Obsessed Woman” based on my book.
Three actors playing eight characters.
90 minutes – no intermission.
Reception in a tiny vestibule to follow.
The first and only rehearsal started at 2pm. By Page 23 in the script, the two playwrights realized that the actor playing “me” had the wrong version of the play. Without access to a Xerox machine, the playwrights frantically cut and pasted together an accurate script for the main character.
My two friends – Francine and Michele – and I arrive at the theatre at 5pm to chaos.
The door to the restroom (located outside, in the back alley) wouldn’t open. The person who was supposed to be setting up the wine, meat and cheese platters and crudités for the post-play reception never showed up and the usher wasn’t present because she lost her car keys.
Nevertheless, the theatre-goers filed in – actresses, film and production people, playwrights, small theatre owners and a random collection of folks I knew in the LA area.
I watched with glee as every available seat filled-up and every single person I invited showed up. The lights dimmed and the play started. I am wired.
From that moment on, I felt like I did when I stood under the wedding canopy and married my second husband. I knew it was a surreal and milestone moment. Part of me was fully participatory – drinking it all in. The other part of me was looking on as an ever-present observer.
What did I see?
A fully engaged audience.
No head nodding.
No snores.
No sneaking a look at an I phone.
What did I notice?
When the audience laughed. Or didn’t.
When the emphasis was off kilter.
When there was too much repetition.
When sequences didn’t seamlessly connect.
At the reception following the play: lots of congrats, hugging, and “you are so brave to tell your story,” stuff. And picture snapping.
L to R: My friends Michele and Francine on each side of me, bookended by the playwrights Debra and Lee.
I left the theatre in an ambivalent, slightly manic mood. The event I had dreaded, looked forward too, and obsessed about was over. Staying up until 3am laughing and cackling with my friends after French Fries and burgers at the iconic “In & Out” burger place near the theatre mellowed out my mood.
The next morning, we met at one of the playwright’s homes – an eclectic Spanish mini villa in the Hollywood Hills – where she cooked each of us made-to-order omelets laced through with avocado and finely chopped scallions.
We then read the comment sheets out loud to each other – carefully compiling the data – in order to guide us in revisiting, revising, strengthening and beefing-up the script. And we strategized about our next moves forward.
Here’s some feedback:
What a moving evening of theatre. If that was only a staged reading, I am flabbergasted! The writing and acting were superb.
Iris came alive with all her love, longing, self-sacrificing nature, shame, guilt, fear and eventual courage. Her relationship with E.D. was explicitly clear.
So many took the time to point out what could be improved upon and what was impactful. I think this endeavor is going to be okay. More than okay.
I love you all for being the oxygen in my tank – for being the cheerleaders in the stands. And having the courage to provide honest and helpful feedback. Even when you don’t read the column!
Thank you and keep PYB,
Iris Ruth Pastor