All the World

“Line!”

“… ‘when playwrights give us under a thousand different guises the same, same, same old stuff, then I must needs run from it’…”

It was clear that Jeff was, in fact, not off book as he promised he would be. His first monologue had been a study in tedium so far, with him calling line every five words. The stage manager, Tina, had done more acting than him.

“Hold!” I called from the table at the front of the rehearsal space, “We open in less than two weeks. How can we focus on actual acting if we don’t have our lines memorized? How can we create art if we are constantly coming out of character, calling for line, and struggling to remember words? Where is the emotion in blandly reciting lines back to poor Tina? You were all supposed to be off book a week ago! Take five. Think about why you are here. I need a break.”

“But, Julie, we just started,” whined Nichole, clearly upset she had not been able to be on stage yet.

Ignoring everyone, I walked out into the brisk March air. Maybe Chekov’s words were correct. My theatre troupe had become complacent, just making it to opening night and eking out a barely decent performance. The last show, some Shakespeare drama, had been one step below a disaster. Thankfully, the average audience member does not know the entirety of Shakespeare’s work by heart, and if they do, they need to audition for me. But I can’t entirely blame the actors. A production gets its life energy from the cast, sure, but also from the director and the stage managers. Missing lines can be forgiven if the soul of the performance is there, but lately we have all been feeling beaten down. My theatre company had started strictly performing plays in the public domain. No fees that way. Ticket sales alone could never pay for rehearsal space, performance space, storage space, and all of the cast and crew, so most of my spare time was spent writing grants and organizing fundraisers. Even with the grants and donations, we were barely able to stay open.

*Ding*

My phone notifications startled me out of my self-pitying thoughts. I swore as I read the headline for the news article on my screen and rushed back inside.

I walked into a wall of noise, the sound of actors on break. “The mayor just announced her response to this new virus,” I explained once I had everyone’s attention, “Outings are to be limited to absolute necessity, like groceries or work that can’t be done from home. And no public gatherings over 10 people.”

The faces of my cast and crew all fell. “What does this mean for the show?” asked Nichole.

“Don’t worry, we can postpone the show,” I reassured my troupe. “The mayor said these restrictions will only be in effect for a couple of weeks. It’s supposed to be more of a preventative thing, keep the virus from running out of control. So, why don’t we try to run the show tonight and then you all can take the next couple of weeks to really work on your lines. We’ll come back when this is all over refreshed and ready to really make something special.”

An encouraging speech full of reassurances I did not feel. The rest of rehearsal proceeded with fewer line calls, but the energy was all wrong. Suddenly the world had shifted, and none of us knew when it would return to normal. If it ever could return. By the end of the first three weeks, it was clear that “normal” was a very long way off.

Hello Everyone!

I hope this email finds you well. I am sad to report that our production of The Seagull has to be postponed indefinitely. As you may be aware, the restrictions on gathering size have not been relaxed to a capacity which allows for live theatre. I am not giving up hope for a performance yet! I will keep you updated as events change.

Break a leg out there!

Julie

Always the fake optimist. We were now two months into the pandemic. Despite the restrictions on movements, the virus had overwhelmed the globe. All theatres were closed. Tours were halted. Broadway had canceled every show for this season and the foreseeable future. May was supposed to mean the start of summer stock theatre, instead it would mean the start of draining my company’s emergency funds. I hit send on the falsely cheery email and opened my little black notebook. We had enough funding to cover rent on our storage space through the fall. After that it would get dicey. Of course I kept records in digital form as well, but I liked to take notes and have numbers on hand if I need a quick reference. Sighing, I deducted the rent I had just payed from the total in my ledger.

$11,735

- 1,212

$10, 523

This was going to be a very long summer.

The months dragged on, and I watched as an unseen foe slowly chipped away at my company. All of the bills added up like the constant drip from a leaking roof. I knew the rotten floorboards would give way soon and leave me in a deep dark pit. There was nothing I could do to pug the hole. Nothing to do but wait, and watch, and keep subtracting money from my ledger. My formerly encouraging and frequent updates to the cast and crew lessened and then ceased. I no longer had the energy to face them, and I knew any correspondence would just serve to stir up questions that I had no answers to.

$10,523

$9,311

$8,099

$6,887

$5,675

$4,463

$3,251

Three thousand dollars and a warehouse full of props and costumes. That is what my company had become. It was now November, and the global threat had not receded, only grown in intensity. I knew I could not continue on any longer, I had to sell what I could and close the company.

Hello All,

I hope you are surviving. It is my great misfortune to write you all saying that the company will be closing. Going months without any income has taken its toll, and unfortunately it appears as though we will not be able to put on our show. I appreciate all of the hard work you all have put into it, and it pains me so much to type these words, but this virus isn’t going away and we will not be able to do live theatre anytime soon. I will be holding a public auction to sell the props, costumes, and set pieces we have in storage. So, if there is anything you wanted from an old show, now is the time to claim it!

Thank you again for all of your hard work, and I hope to see you at some point in the future.

Julie

The day of the auction came. I had expected a poor turn out, it still wasn’t safe to gather in large groups, but as I pulled up to my storage space I saw more people than I had seen in one place outside of the grocery store in months. And was that the local news? Must be a very slow news day if a small theatre company’s going out of business sale warranted their time. I got out of my car and approached my stage manager, Tina.

“Well this is a much larger crowd than I expected,” I greeted her by saying, “I’m afraid we’ll disappoint them with our selection.”

“Oh, you might be surprised,” she replied, barely restraining a smile. What could she possibly have to be excited about?

“Julie!” exclaimed Jeff, “Before you start the auction, we have a surprise!” He gestured behind him and I saw my cast and crew for The Seagull. Not just for The Seagull, I saw everyone who was involved with my company. People who had not worked or auditioned for me in years. “This pandemic has been hard on all of us, but the thought that theatre was on the other side of this gave us all a little hope. Something to strive for. And when we heard the company was closing, we decided to do what we could to help, since you have helped each of us so much in the past. We did some fundraising and pooled our resources, and… Well… This is for the company.”

Jeff handed me a check for $20,000. My entire body went numb and I suddenly couldn’t see through my tears. I had been struggling alone all this time, and here I had this amazing community ready to rally around me to keep our theatre going. I had no words to express my gratitude or overwhelming flood of emotion, so I just grabbed Jeff in a tight hug.

Once I had composed myself, I thanked everyone profusely. Their kindness was so much more than I had hoped to receive. Not only did they give their money, they also gave their ingenuity. By the end of the day, we had formed a plan to rehearse and perform our show digitally and I felt a hope and creative vigor that had diminished even before the virus. Within two weeks we were rehearsing digitally.

The global community had been attacked by this virus and the crushing depression it brought, and only through community could we hope to survive. We may not be able to gather just yet, but just knowing that there is support and love in our local community and around the world brings hope for the future. Hope that if we join together, we can survive anything.

“Line!” Called Liam.

Tina sighed and him read his line “… ‘But we can’t do without a theatre’…”