By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
The audience is 50 percent of the performance,'' said the great old actress Shirley Booth. At least that much, I'd say. Maybe more. A good audience can inspire and ignite actors into giving the best performances of their lives. And a bad crowd can do just the opposite. Every actor knows too well the focus-busting power of live theater's two greatest enemies: cell phones and cellophane.
In 2004, Dallas audiences made themselves known as never before. As local theater companies dared to stage more nudity, more violence, more out and out weirdness compared with years past, showgoers sometimes leapt to their feet in approval and sometimes hotfooted it out in a huff. Dallas Theater Center's production of Suzan-Lori Parks' Topdog/Underdog provoked mid-performance walkouts by dozens of ticket-holders offended by the rough language and brazen sexuality of the play's two black male leads. Some longtime subscribers abandoned Theatre Three over the squirming orgy scene and brief glimpses of nudity in the musical The Wild Party. At Plano Repertory Theatre, Shakespeare's R&J, with its full-on boy-boy smooches, emptied the house at intermission.
At other venues, the theater crowd didn't mind hot content. Quad C Theatre's student production of Neil LaBute's The Shape of Things was a sexed-up stunner that earned standing O's. Uptown Players did brisk business with the singing whores and dancing pimps of The Life. Everyone seemed thrilled and mesmerized by dancers in the road company of Fosse and acrobats in Cirque du Soleil's Varekai going through homoerotic contortions wearing little more than scant strips of spandex and thin layers of sweat. The gay crowd buying tickets to Uptown's Love! Valour! Compassion! and to the touring comedy Making Porn expected unobstructed views of the naked male cast members and would have demanded refunds for anything less.
In a year that found broadcast media in a tongue-tied tizzy over a split-second peek at Miss Jackson's aureola, local theaters brazenly went for the full monty. Show after show stripped actors to their birthday suits in a parade of bouncing penises. But even amid bare bodkins, a few errant audience folk managed to upstage the thespians they'd paid to see. Leave it to the little people out there in the dark to outdo actors when it comes to acting like dicks.
I sat through about 100 plays last year. And along with scribbling the usual notes to myself about actors mispronouncing words and stage lighting so dim the dancers stumble into each other, I started keeping a log of audience incidents, some amusing, many simply appalling.
Take the opening night last January of the musical Spitfire Grill at Addison's WaterTower Theatre. Act 2 of this sensitive pastiche of small-town characters built to an emotional moment when a mute Vietnam vet slowly emerged from the woods to embrace his mother. The actors, Ted Wold and Pam Dougherty, took their time and the audience was with them all the way. Until, that is, a loud snort, a sort of treble snooooorrrrrrufff, erupted from a woman a few seats to my right. I thought she was weeping at the drama. But no, she unleashed nasal blasts for another half-hour. These were powerful, squealing, rhythmic inhalations, layered with the moist rumbles of inflamed sinuses. It could have registered on the Richter scale. Snort-woman trumpeted like a wounded elephant, ruining the climax of the play. The poor performers must have wondered why the brass section of the orchestra had suddenly begun blowing from the second row.
Are actors aware of such things? Of course. They tell me they hear coughs, sneezes, chit-chat, phones trilling in coat pockets, the unwrapping of hard candies from industrial Mylar coverings. They know who arrives late and who bolts early. They see the nappers and hear the snorters and somehow manage to keep it together onstage, never missing a beat or blowing a cue even as that family in the cheap seats starts chowing on a picnic lunch.
Which brings me to March and the opening night of Theatre Britain's No Sex Please, We're British. Seated in front of a row populated by theater reviewers, a couple settled in for the first act and soon were entwined in a major makeout session. With more tongue than a supermercado, they kept up the action, ignoring the show while putting on quite a PDA. Back from intermission, they turned their oral fixation to crunching fistfuls of chips gobbled from bags wedged between them. As they grazed like wild boars through all of Act 2, all I could think was, "No snacks, please! We're critics!"
Shakespeare's R&J at Plano Rep cast four men to act out every role in Romeo and Juliet. When the boy-on-boy kissing began in earnest, the audience stiffened--and not in the good way. "Oh, no! It's THAT kind of play!" shrieked a woman on the back row as she scrambled toward the aisle. Yes, dear, it was that kind of play, if by "that kind of play" you meant an ass-numbing exercise in bad writing, lousy acting and the sort of tepid gay-for-pay pawing that went out with Dynasty. Some 200 people made it through Act 1. After the break, there were 174 empty seats. Unfortunately, I had to stay in mine for the three-hour slog. "Drink that poison," said my date as boy-Juliet finally sipped her deadly potion, "and pass it around."