The Actor's Nightmare

You know that dream? It's the final exam, you haven't studied, and there's only two minutes left? Around the classroom, everyone else is casually scribbling away? And you're not wearing any pants? An unpleasant feeling. Except maybe for the not-wearing-pants part.

We're talking, of course, about anxiety dreams. And it may interest you to know that performers have their own variation of this dream, called, logically enough, the "actor's nightmare." In this dream, it's opening night, the curtain is about to rise, you are the lead, and not only have you not rehearsed, you've never even read the play! And you're probably not wearing any pants.

One doesn't have to be Freud to understand the source of such dreams. Performance anxiety is a fixture in cultures worldwide. As has been mentioned before in this space, the fear of public speaking is more common than the fear of death, and the most overwhelming aspect of this fear is that one gets up in front of an audience and is exposed as a charlatan, as a fake, as woefully unprepared.

Come back with us now to summer 1988. We had just returned to New York from Syracuse University, where we had been studying in the Drama Department. We had decided that we did not wish to continue studying acting, but, since we lived in the theater capital of the world, we thought we would take a shot and go on auditions. Somehow, defying everything we had ever heard from our drama teachers--words like "fundamental lack of talent" may have been uttered--we were successful in our first attempt. We tried out for, and were accepted into, the ensemble of the 13th Street Repertory Company--an established Off-off Broadway theater, the kind of hole-in-the-wall joint probably once used to house a sweatshop where Lithuanian immigrants labored secretively to produce horseshoes at the turn of the century, but which had since found second life and a measure of respectability as a place of culture. There, a steady stream of aspiring actors trod its boards, and there bohemian scribblers watched as their dramatic worlds came to life. And we joined this troupe in its production of a work of massive socio-psychological import, a world-altering cri de coeur, a dramaturgical Molotov cocktail hurled at the feet of bourgeois society!

The work in question? "The Rose That Refused to Bloom"!

Did we mention that we were cast in the Children's Theater Ensemble? We might have skipped that part. Still, a gig's a gig, and we were pleased to know that we would soon be entering the theatrical garden where. . . well, where a rose was refusing to bloom.

Actually "soon to be entering" is a bit imprecise.

See, the production was already running, but the director was looking to recast with fresh blood. There were three male roles in the show: the Snail, the Caterpillar, and the Boy (a role you might say we were born to play). We were sort of cast as the Caterpillar--kind of the male lead, actually--"sort of" because we were actually assigned to be the Caterpillar's understudy.

We like to tell ourselves that there are roles less impressive than "understudy to a Caterpillar," but thus far, we've found little evidence of that assertion. Still, it is how George Clooney got his start. . . .

Anyway, we were actually cast as the understudy to all THREE male parts, and we were also assured that we would have the opportunity to play the Caterpillar. We were even given a date some three weeks in the future when we would make our debut. So we weren't complaining too much. We went about learning the role and circled our calendar for the big day.

Now, a few days before what we were privately referring to as "The Day That Would Alter the Course of Theater History," we received a call from Woody, the first-string Caterpillar. He had been offered another "better" gig (???), and he was wondering if we would be willing to step into the role permanently. Well, what could we say? Everything was falling into place!

Saturday:

Barely able to contain our excitement, we arrived at the theater nearly three hours before curtain. We were sitting around, going over the script, thinking about what new and interesting depths we would plumb in the character of Alfred C. Pillars. The Third. Not too much later, the lady who was playing the "Sun" came in. She said, "Hey, Solipsist" (just go with it!), "you're playing the Caterpillar today?"

"Well, in fact," we replied, struggling to remain humble, "not only are we playing the Caterpillar today, but we are actually taking over the role permanently!"

"Oh, congratulations! You'll be great!"

"Thank you!"

"So," she went on, "who's playing the Snail?"

"What?"

"Who's playing the Snail?"

"Well, isn't Gene playing the Snail, like always?"

"No, Gene's not here today."

"Oh, uh, well, then JB must be playing the Snail." (JB played the Boy, and in previous productions, the Snail and Boy would be played by the same actor.)

"No, JB isn't going to be here today, either."

"Well, then. . . Who. . .? How. . . ?"

Then the Sun fixed me with her solar gaze and said, "Well, aren't you the understudy for all three roles?"

You may have noticed in this recounting the utter absence of anything resembling rehearsal. The Director, you see, was basically on his way out and had barely any time to rehearse the replacement cast, to say nothing of the understudy. Our "rehearsal," in fact, had consisted of watching the play a couple of times. And, in fairness, we had been so wrapped up in living the part of the Caterpillar that we had neglected to, y'know, learn the other two roles.

Back to Saturday:

"Uh, well, yes, we are the understudy for all three roles, but. . . Can that even WORK?"

We scrambled through our script and, after ascertaining that none of the male characters are ever on stage at the same time, we figured it COULD be done. We looked at the clock: Two hours to learn two roles. We could do this!

The Rose walked in a few minutes later:

"Hi, Solipsist. So you're playing the Caterpillar today?"

"Well, in fact, not only are we playing the Caterpillar today, but we are actually taking over the role permanently, only we just found out that Gene and JB aren't going to be here today, so we have to learn the Snail and the Boy really fast, so can't really talk, memorizing."

The Bee buzzed in a few minutes later:

"Hi, Solipsist. So you're playing the Caterpillar today?"

"WellinfactnotonlyareweplayingtheCaterpillartodaybutweareactuallytakingovertherolepermanently, onlywejustfoundoutthatGeneandJBaren'tgoingtobeheretodaysowehavetolearntheSnailandtheBoy reallyfastsocan'treallytalkmemorizing."

By the time the Daisy Twins showed up, we were. . . in a less than optimal mindspace:

"Yes. . .not just. . . Permanently! Gene, JB. . .not. . . Ack! Must learn. . . Can't talk. . . Memorizing."

Understand, on top of our not knowing our lines, we were about to attempt something that no one had ever attempted before: playing all three roles. This was scaling Mount Everest! This was a moonshot! This was a first term, African-American Senator with a funny name being elected President! THIS WAS NOT POSSIBLE! We'd say we were running around like a chicken with its head cut off, but headless chickens have more dignity.

Well, of course, it all worked out. With support from an incredibly patient cast and some unavoidable improvisation, the show went off relatively flawlessly. Indeed, my mother, who had come to see our New York debut and was expecting to see us only as the Caterpillar, assumed it was all some sort of diabolical plot on our part: "What, did you have somebody tied up backstage?"

We suppose we should conclude this narrative with some major life lesson: perhaps something about facing your deepest fears--we lived the "actor's nightmare" and came out OK on the other end. But we think the more important lesson here is, just because you're asked to understudy a Caterpillar, you should always--ALWAYS--prepare to be a snail.