I'm in rehearsals for a production of Titanic - The Musical. (No, this is not a joke; no, there is No Jack or Rose in this production---almost all the characters are actual people who were on the ship; no, it's not a light-hearted, upbeat Broadway-style musical; yes, it's a sometimes funny, ultimately tragic show with wonderful music and an epic feel.) As with any show, rehearsals tend to be mostly fun, with a lot of support and sharing among the actors and directors, and there is also a fair amount of hard work---learning lines and music, hitting the right notes, focusing on performance, character, and blocking. But this show has an added dimension: we're dramatizing the true stories of real people who suffered through a horrible experience. The majority of them died.
We've all researched our real-life counterparts. Some who lived in real life die in the show, and vice versa; some are a fictional blend of several real people. But it's all a fairly accurate presentation of the real event. And therein lies the difference from most rehearsal experiences. We all recall at various times during the process that the events we're portraying are real. When there's foreshadowing in the lines--for example, Ida Strauss's husband (both of them will die in the second act) offers to go get her coat to protect her from the cold, even though he fears he'll get lost on such a large ship, and she sings, "No thank you; I'd rather freeze"---we know these two real people actually drowned. When my character--the ranking officer on the bridge when the ship struck the iceberg--apologizes to the captain for the accident, I know I'm playing a real person. I can imagine what he might've felt, and it hits harder because it really happened to a real human being.
Yesterday, we blocked the scene where we load the lifeboats. We officers were on the upper level of the stage; passengers stood with us, and the ones who would ultimately survive were allowed down to the main level, where benches awaited, representing the lifeboats. Once the "boats" were full, the rest of us onstage were the ones who would perish. I imagined the distance from the upper to lower level as it would have been that night in the north Atlantic: four to five stories down. The magnitude hit me. By the time we all sang together, survivors below and the doomed above, there were tears in some eyes. This was just a rehearsal, mind you, with people trying to remember their lines and blocking and vocal parts, and still the tears came. It has been half-seriously suggested that we should sell boxes of tissues in the lobby.
I have always been fascinated by the Titanic story, and have happily found several other "Titaniacs" among the cast and crew. Others have joined us, and there are emails almost every day from someone involved in the production who has discovered a new graphic comparing the size of the Titanic to a car, bus and airplane, or a link to a new museum opening in Belfast, or "gin and Titonic" ice cubes (yes, the macabre goes hand-in-hand with the serious). All this will mean, I hope, that our performances will be infused with an extra layer of intensity; that perhaps the audience will feel the realness of these people a little more.
Several people have asked me, why do such a tragic piece? Why even write it? Those questions might just as well be asked of any Shakespearean tragedy, or great American drama such as Death of A Salesman or Long Day's Journey Into Night. Or the James Cameron movie. This play is almost an opera, with grand themes and epic emotions. That it is based on a true story that continues to fascinate people a hundred years later just makes it that much more heart-wrenching. And people love a good cry. It can be cathartic to blubber over someone else's troubles.
So, during the next few weeks, I'll continue to experience deep emotions at certain, sudden moments even as I am, paradoxically, carefully molding my performance to entertain others.
The ultimate goal is to move the audience. But on this show, I get to be moved myself as well.
We've all researched our real-life counterparts. Some who lived in real life die in the show, and vice versa; some are a fictional blend of several real people. But it's all a fairly accurate presentation of the real event. And therein lies the difference from most rehearsal experiences. We all recall at various times during the process that the events we're portraying are real. When there's foreshadowing in the lines--for example, Ida Strauss's husband (both of them will die in the second act) offers to go get her coat to protect her from the cold, even though he fears he'll get lost on such a large ship, and she sings, "No thank you; I'd rather freeze"---we know these two real people actually drowned. When my character--the ranking officer on the bridge when the ship struck the iceberg--apologizes to the captain for the accident, I know I'm playing a real person. I can imagine what he might've felt, and it hits harder because it really happened to a real human being.
Yesterday, we blocked the scene where we load the lifeboats. We officers were on the upper level of the stage; passengers stood with us, and the ones who would ultimately survive were allowed down to the main level, where benches awaited, representing the lifeboats. Once the "boats" were full, the rest of us onstage were the ones who would perish. I imagined the distance from the upper to lower level as it would have been that night in the north Atlantic: four to five stories down. The magnitude hit me. By the time we all sang together, survivors below and the doomed above, there were tears in some eyes. This was just a rehearsal, mind you, with people trying to remember their lines and blocking and vocal parts, and still the tears came. It has been half-seriously suggested that we should sell boxes of tissues in the lobby.
I have always been fascinated by the Titanic story, and have happily found several other "Titaniacs" among the cast and crew. Others have joined us, and there are emails almost every day from someone involved in the production who has discovered a new graphic comparing the size of the Titanic to a car, bus and airplane, or a link to a new museum opening in Belfast, or "gin and Titonic" ice cubes (yes, the macabre goes hand-in-hand with the serious). All this will mean, I hope, that our performances will be infused with an extra layer of intensity; that perhaps the audience will feel the realness of these people a little more.
Several people have asked me, why do such a tragic piece? Why even write it? Those questions might just as well be asked of any Shakespearean tragedy, or great American drama such as Death of A Salesman or Long Day's Journey Into Night. Or the James Cameron movie. This play is almost an opera, with grand themes and epic emotions. That it is based on a true story that continues to fascinate people a hundred years later just makes it that much more heart-wrenching. And people love a good cry. It can be cathartic to blubber over someone else's troubles.
The ultimate goal is to move the audience. But on this show, I get to be moved myself as well.
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