Well, friends. I’m in love. Falling in love is probably the most sung about, rhymed about, written about human experience, so I will not add to the heap of prose that seeks in vain to write a love story—or love song-- like none other. As my wife and I prepare for our 30th anniversary in October, I have fallen in love with an old flame, or at least an old ghost light. After a four-year hiatus, I’m getting back on stage.in October---more specifically, I’ll be performing the role of Grandpa George in theSouth Bend Civic Theatre’s production of the musical Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
As I walked around the neighborhood this morning, it struck me that falling in love with my wife, Rosie and falling in love with acting (again) are two very different love stories that share some surprising steps.
Falling in love with another usually follows a familiar narrative: You don’t know each other. There are awkward first glances, awkward first words, a slow but steady building of something of substance; a shared story is formed and then, it’s love. The more time spent together, the more substance is created. There is that liberating moment when you have sufficient knowledge of each other and you can go “off-book”, ditching the “script” to breathe life into your new identity as the significant other, you are part of each other’s story. You will go public, the curtain will rise. . . after all, you have spent so much time together that you can predict each other’s words and thoughts So, there you are--- abundant shared stories and abundant time together, you need an audience. Giddy, you are, as if the two of you are the first to know what love is, and you must shout it to the world: I LOVE ROSIE!
Putting on a community theater production follows a similar narrative: a group of people who don’t know each other awkwardly interacting through the text of a script they don’t know very well. Nightly rehearsals gradually create familiarity (boy, she can really hit that high note!), as do the inevitable forgotten lines that always lead to funny stories that only the cast will find funny; just like lovers who laugh about a mishap that they experienced in a restaurant will be the only ones laughing. The more time spent together, the more substance is created. So, there you are--- lines and songs memorized, character developed, you need an audience. Thrilled, you are, as if you were the first to discover that acting is something that you can love, and you must shout it to the world: I LOVE ACTING!
October is approaching . . . so, as Rosie and I celebrate our thirty-year anniversary, and as we celebrate my return to the stage, I find myself struck by one more similarity: Belief. Friends and family of a couple falling in love would do well to set aside any of their cynicism about love, and just delight in the privilege of watching two persons discover and build their love for each other. The same can be said for acting. Of course, Charlie doesn’t exist. The chocolate factory doesn’t exist, either; however, in this musical, Willy Wonka sings a song called It Must be Believed to be Seen. That clever reworking of the saying that seeing is believing is an open invitation to us all to risk the vulnerability and the potential for hurt that is inherent with loving, and to savor the gifts that can come from loving anyone or anything; that is to say, leave your plausibility meter in the theatre lobby, and just savor the spectacle before you. Love is your golden ticket. Especially in a world of pure imagination.
Music: "Pure Imagination" sung by Gene Wilder in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" (1971)
