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“Ring, ring.”
That’s my cue.
I walk onto the stage and go through the motions of putting groceries away. Anastasia continues to act like the phone for two more rings, which is my cue to walk over and take the phone out of Ian’s hand and start my lines.
He’s holding his iPhone, which won’t be the actual prop since this is set in 2001, but we don’t have the prop phones yet, so I yank his phone out of his hand and start the dialogue exchange.
It’s a stilted exchange, as I know my lines and Ian is still reading almost every word directly from the script. I’m acting my heart out, trying to discover the roller coaster of my character’s emotions. I want to portray the pain of a New Yorker experiencing the aftermath of 9/11 and the frustration of a woman with a lover who’s hesitant to be with her, but it’s damnnear impossible when I feel like I’m acting alongside a cardboard box.
We get through the whole one-act, which is only supposed to be a half-hour long but takes an hour. Even Anastasia looks a little tense when she comes out of the audience chairs and joins us onstage.
“Okay,” she says. She presses her hands together as if in prayer and then presses them against her mouth. “So maybe not our best. But I have seen worse.”
There’s no way she’s seen worse. She’s even dropped her accent, and that is a bad sign with Anastasia.
“I’m sorry,” Ian says. “I know I’m the deadweight.”
“It’s fine!” Anastasia says in a pitch too high. “Once your lines are memorized, it should be much smoother.”
God help us.I refrain from rolling my eyes.
For most people, line memorizing sounds like the hardest part of being in a play. But everyone who’s been in a play knows the real work only happens after you’re off book. Once the scripts are down, you’re able to dive deep into the inner lives of the characters, which is when all the rich, emotional moments happen onstage. It’s nearly impossible to do that work glued to a script.
Which is why I’m already memorized and Ian should be too.
“Let’s pivot. How about we just work through one section?” Anastasia says.
I sigh and drop into one of the audience chairs.
“Let’s talk through the emotions of the first bit there, right when Abby”—Anastasia gestures to me since my character’s name is Abby—“gets home with the groceries and Ben”—she gestures to Ian—“is staring at the phone, and we’ll work through . . .”—she walks over to her seat and grabs her script, flipping through it—“the first moment Ben really gets angry.”She guides us to the line and takes a seat in the front row. “Let’s just chat through the emotional beats of the scene.”
Anastasia has still not picked her fake accent back up. This is how I know she’s finally taking this seriously. Which should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I would feel better if she were starting to see the error of her ways, having to direct a newbie, and maybe personally apologized to me for having to endure it. The most likely option, though, is that she’s excited by the challenge of it, and I am just the collateral damage. I grind my teeth.
“Okay, Jade, let’s start with you.” Anastasia shifts her body to face where I’m sitting. “What does Abby want in this moment? She’s just come back from witnessing the horrors of the immediate post-9/11 world, and she’s come home to this man she’s been with for quite a while. What is her expectation of the moment? What is she hoping will happen when she comes home?”
“I think Abby is used to brushing her emotions off to the side for work. She’s an executive and didn’t get to where she wants to be by playing around, so she’s trying to do what she always does, but it’s harder when it’s something this big. So I think she’s struggling with her own emotions about the event, maybe trying to push them aside for now, but on top of that, she wants to be with Ben. She wants him to tell his wife the truth, and she’s kind of a little bit sick of his shit. She wants him to get it together. I think she left the apartment with the hopes he would have pulled it together by the time she got back, and so when she sees he’s in the exact same position, doing the exact same thing, but this time with his phone in his hand, she’s really annoyed and disappointed.”
Ian stares at me like I’ve just monologued in Latin.
“Good,” Anastasia says and turns to Ian, who has a fine sheen of sweat over his forehead. “And what does Ben want inthis moment? What are his expectations of Abby? He may be surprised that she’s home, but in general, what does he want from her in this scenario?”
“Um . . .” The muscles in Ian’s neck work as he stares at his script for answers. “I think he . . . wants . . . Well, he’s kind of selfish. He wants things to go his way. But in this particular bit, he’s kind of zoned out.”
Anastasia nods encouragingly.
I cross my arms. He should have done this work outside of rehearsal—we shouldn’t have to use rehearsal time for this. This is foundational Beginning Acting stuff, and he’s taken a Beginning Acting class, so it’s not like he doesn’t know what to do.
“Why is he zoned out?” Anastasia asks.
“Maybe he’s thinking. And he’s just in his head.”
“Okay . . . Is that something you can relate to in any way?” Anastasia asks.
Ian nods—just a slight up-down shake of his head.
“So Ben is thinking, and Abby comes in and interrupts him. So what does he want in this moment?” she asks, repeating herself.
“Um . . .” He flips through the script again, and this time I take a seat in an audience chair.
