I apologize for the obscene amount of time in between updates. I made the (rather stupid) decision to do Cross Country this year, in 5000 degree weather, and I'm almost about to collapse. Sorry about that.
Anyway. Ahhhhh...Oh how I love Terry Pratchett. The majority of this was influenced by Maskerade, which, incidentally, was based on The Phantom of the Opera. If you want me to love you forever, then read Maskerade. Yes, this is one of my favorite chapters.
Disclaimer: Natch on mine. The Catastrophe Curve is mostly Terry Pratchett's.
It is the opinion of many theater dilettantes that the theater, particularly the area of musicals, operates on a Catastrophe Curve. The Catastrophe Curve is not the particularly sharp turn on a mountain side that Grace Kelly so ungracefully drove off, thereby nullifying her namesake. That's not what it is.
The Catastrophe Curve consists of all the components of the production being pushed to their limits constantly, put together under the unfaltering certainty that on opening night, the large number of variables will amazingly fail to go wrong.
It is the opinion of many theater fanatics that...well, that the theater dilettantes were right.
Three weeks from opening night, The Phantom of the Opera was about to fall off its curve:
Gabriella's tightly wound nerves were, for now, giving her a good run. Amanda's weekly pep talks, whispered in a furious pace every Monday morning just before Sharpay made her entrance, did wonders. That, and the fact that she got the bigger dressing room even when Sharpay was the diva. But she couldn't do her scenes with Michael. That was the tiny, tiny thorn that was threateningly close to the overblown balloon.
Sharpay Evans was not about to crack. She was not about to fall off the curve. She had decided that being the understudy was better than being Carlotta. Who wasn't even in half the scenes, and was fat, anyway. She could not afford to fall off the curve. What was keeping her held together was the Pajama Game next season, and she knew she had that. It was more her par than Phantom, anyway.
Yes, she was rationalizing, but it was the only thing that made sense now, besides the fact that her brother was obviously better than Gabriella on stage. If she was in high school, she'd go for a hit of Troy Bolton. But now that Troy was at her disposal for anything, it didn't really matter. Right now, she would be happy for just a hit. Of anything. Even a hammer. Provided, of course she was the one holding it.
Michael McKinley was in fact, perfectly under control. The only issue was, the girl kept faltering in his scenes, and since almost all his scenes included her, he was about to push her off the stage and break her leg. That was an exaggeration, but not much of one. He wanted Sharpay. He needed Sharpay, and if opening night came and Montez cracked, he just might cry. Of course, being the Phantom, he was allowed to cry. Maybe he could go into hysterics and demand Sharpay as a replacement.
Amanda was close to mental collapse. It wasn't the actors, which would usually be the most of her concerns right now, as the head make-up artist. It wasn't the low-running supply of eyeliner, which she had been keeping tabs on, honestly, didn't know how it got that low, and god knows, she can't order more greasepaint now, you can't very well use new greasepaint on opening night. It wasn't even the astounding hours she was keeping, which ran into 18 on good days.
It was the actors and the lack of eyeliner and the ridiculous schedule and the fact that it wasn't Sharpay Evans's fault at all. It was Gabriella's constant fudging of lines.
Oh, the kid could sing, but she just would not deliver in the last few scenes, and of course they had to do dress rehearsals now, Montez had to get used to the idea of performing, so they had to keep the make-up fresh, and it was already hard enough trying to tone down her genetically encoded tan, but when you've stayed awake for two days straight, living on the stray cup of coffee that Evey managed to get you, in between her errands for the rest of the cast and crew, you really, really wanted to break someone's jaw.
Ryan was happy. He was eating the rest of the cookies, the latest batch turned out by Meredith, Sharpay's ever-present pastry-chef-who-also-baked. Considering the fact that he played a wuss who walked around, looked pretty, and waved his sword, he was actually a little too stressed for a person of his caliber in this role. Several people were close to contaminating his lunch with Texas Pete.
Peter, the main stagehand, was looking longingly at his full bottle of Acid Rain, wishing he could dump it in someone's food and watch in juvenile amusement. The only reason he allowed himself such leisure right now was because he believed in the Catastrophe Curve, in the most stupidly optimistic way. What he should have been working on was the rigging of the famous chandelier.
Oh, there was no problem with it dropping. There was a slight issue with getting it back up. It wouldn't. For some reason, the problem was more harrowing for the director than for the stagehand. Maybe because all Peter had to do was re-oil the pulleys. The director did not know this.
Jordan, the sound operator, was less indulgent in his leisure time. The mikes were working fine last week, but right now had a habit of clicking at the most inopportune moments. Only half of the mikes did this at any given time, and...
...here was the dramatic literary kicker that would probably translate better on screen...
...it was never the same ones. He sighed and started mike checks for the fifth time that morning. Dammit, it was going to work! They couldn't afford to have a rendition of Riverdance in the middle of "Masquerade." Just wouldn't work out. None of the actors could clog, anyway.
To go through the rest of the cast and crew that you don't even know would be rather tiring and a little exhausting on my part. It was safe to say, however, that the people involved with the production were either outrageously relaxed, about to be sent away with helmets, or in serious self-denial about their need for some Valium.
Now, all that could have been said at the beginning of this, but where would the suspense be? The dramatic effect? That's right. In the huge bowl of ice cream you could have eaten instead of reading this. Geez, now you're distracted by ice cream. You don't deserve to be on any Catastrophe Curve, much less treated to a narrative version of it.
Anyway.
The thing about everything turning out fine is that if enough people hope that they do, the chances of everything going fine are pretty much secured. The thing about this production, however, was that the definition of fine was a little more varied.
Ah, the Riverdance. It's not clogging, it's actually Irish step dancing. Tapdancing with higher heels and straight posture. Looks freaking awesome. Watch the Jean Butler version, she's one of the best. And Colin Dunne; I like him better than Michael Flatley.
I'm rambling.
Review.