It’s Monday. Across the stainless steel counter, a customer with a soft mullet and easy smile asks me to see his play. It’s community theater, a production called Still, Life.
“I’ll see if I can make it. I’m not sure.”
It’s Friday, late. I’m stepping out the door, the amber sun lazily crashing toward the city of Atlanta. I have no doubt the collision will be catastrophic, not to mention the traffic. This blog post is getting its first draft on the walk to the theater.
When I arrive, I realize “theater” is an aspirational title. We’re in a painted over basement cellar. The show is sold out, shockingly. I find a seat toward the back of the dungeon. My view is 70% the head and back of the patron in front of me. Another 20% is a solid support beam that keeps the ice cream shop above us from caving in. The last 10% is the stage which, I might add, is a more-than-generous way to describe a corner of a room. With my vision incapacitated, I try my best to follow along.
April Moore is 25 year old and a bit of a loser according to her mom. Under duress, she leaves the confines of her apartment to audition for the local community theater. There she meets the frenetic director played by the guy from my work. At least I think it was him, I couldn’t see much more than a mullet. He was great. Strong presence, real funny, and talented. After the show I went to congratulate him, and I’ve never seen someone more shocked in my life. Is it that surprising I showed up? Do I have “Flake” written on my forehead? I took a blurry photo of him and his friends on his phone. I could tell they weren’t going to use it.
Anyway, April gets the lead and forms a friendship with her male costar. He’s adorkable, sincere, and looks remarkably like David Dobrik. This man spoke very quietly at the start of the play which was terrible for me. I already couldn’t see anything, so not being able to hear meant 15 minutes into this thing I was literally dozing off. I think he got a pep talk at halftime because he came back much louder in time for me to tell you how the play ends.
April is ridden with anxiety and self-doubt throughout the entire rehearsal. In her real life, she’s an award-winning artist, but she can’t help but feel like a total fraud. Even in a small community theater, she can’t help but put so much of herself on the line. She has a great line at one point, “If I’m not good at [this play] then I’m not good at life!” It’s tragic how a deadly cocktail of perfectionism and low self-esteem can make the smallest things weigh so heavy. Though, I wouldn’t have the slightest clue about that. April finally snaps when the bossy director screams at the actors for being on time (which is actually late, in theater world). April is sobbing, curled up on stage… totally bummed out. It’s only her recently loud costar who can console her. He tells Mary and through the 4th wall the audience, that community theater is both trivial and pretty beautiful. As actors they’re trying to capture real life. Not just trying, but struggling and practicing and reworking. Not many people are coming to see them, but it’s still art, it’s still life, and the work matters.
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