brigits_flame = Arrival
Tonight's Story Requires Songs from Your Favorite Musical
It is intermission during a performance at the Théâtre des Rêves, and the stage manager is a mishap away from collapsing to the floor in a seizure, complete with over-the-top foaming at the mouth. Already there were some issues with issues during the first act; forgotten lines replaced with nervous adlibs, last-minute costume changes, last-minute injuries due to carelessness or nervousness (or sabotage). Once too often, the stage lights during Madame Butterfly’s interweaving monologues have alternated between being too bright and too dim. It’s as if the lights department of the stage crew was, at the very last minute, replaced by a group of apes in black polo shirts.
One would think that intermission would mean a chance for even the stage manager to catch a break, maybe get some coffee, but of course not. There was lots of things left to do, people to scold-things a director would probably do if he wasn’t busy climbing out of one dress/wig combination and into another one at this very instant.
The Théâtre is small. Big enough to have a floor and balcony area, but smaller than most theatres in the Performance District of the Gray City. It is also new, replacing another theatre which had since gone bankrupt and fallen on hard times, and this show is their first. A revue, of all things! Who goes with an original revue on their first opening night? Better to pick something familiar, like Phantom of the Opera or Les Misérables or even (and here the stage manger nearly chokes at the thought) RENT! But Jamie LeBeau is an instinctive man, albeit a bit dreamy and perhaps reaching too high with his goals of becoming the best theatre on either side of the Mortal Coil, and he has faith in his fellow actors and in his techies. If any of the mishaps bother him, he doesn’t show it in the least.
No, that job has apparently fallen squarely on the skinny, narrow shoulders of the stage manager. Presently, he flits around backstage frantically, alternating the position of his clipboard from glued to his chest to nearly teetering off his arm. He shouts stressed obscenities after a techie nearly knocks him over with the loaded costume rack she pulls after her wispy body. The stage manager exhales in a huff. He yanks the clipboard away from his chest.
“Marcello!” His shriek cuts through the shuffling din of backstage. “Claudio Marcello! Where is that bas-? Marcello!”
“Here! Here. Here he is-”
“Oh, thank God-!”
The stage manager whirls on his heel in the sound of the girl’s voice. A petite, curvy girl walks up on the arm of a taller, black-haired man-Claudio Marcello. All at once, the stage manager’s face grows sour, unfazed by the young man’s handsome features. The girl with him (well-dressed for such an event in her top hat, silver corset and black tiered skirt) looks apologetic.
“Sorry,” she says. “You wouldn’t believe how long it takes this man to pick a suit.”
The stage manager looks increasingly unamused. “What the hell happened to the one he wore at dress rehearsal?”
“Ruined,” Claudio answers simply.
“By what?! You’ve never heard of a dry cleaner? It’s gonna throw the color scheme of the background off!”
“It’s charcoal gray, cut in the same Edwardian style as the other one,” Claudio’s companion says. “The vest is the same; the dress shirt and tie are the same… Look, the other one was ruined beyond fixing, so he called up some of his connections to bring him a new one. They got here just an hour ago with at least five suits to pick from, and when he couldn’t decide he called me-”
“Look, I don’t care, okay? He should’ve told his friends to be a little quicker!” the stage manager snaps, pushing up his glasses. “This isn’t a shopping mall, honey. It’s the theatre. This is the show of the century, and he goes on in fifteen minutes whether he’s in a suit or ass-bare!”
Claudio’s petite companion puts a lace-gloved hand to her hip, her gaze enhanced by her eyeliner. “Don’t you have an intern to decimate somewhere? He’s here, he’s clothed, he’ll be fine and on stage on time. Go make someone else cry or something.”
With a huff, the stage manager storms off, clipboard clasped tightly to his chest like a lover. Claudio smiles a little, about to speak when a blue vision of French glam from the days of Marie Antoinette flurried about the pair. It settles in front of them, solidifies, takes the form of a lavish dress and jewels and hair so impressively decorative one wonders how the head stays upright. Jamie-in the midst of a break from being Madame Butterfly, hostess to them and the audience-smiles at them sweetly.
“Is that old nut givin’ y’all trouble?” With his disguise so seamless, hearing his Louisiana twang come out of those painted, delicate features is a little jarring. “Don’t listen to a thing he says outside of cues. He died of a heart attack in the midst of managing Phantom of the Opera.”
“It was Les Mis!” the stage manager corrects from a distance.
“Oh, whatever it was; y’obviously still ain’t learned nothin’ from it,” Jamie says, waving a hand dismissively. He looks at Claudio, green eyes lighting cheerfully. “Y’as ready as you’re gonna be, sir? Oh! And Miss Cris, look at you! Gettin’ all sweetened up for this! That Matthew must be watin’ you home already, just to keep y’to his handsome self!”
“He’s terribly nervous!” Cris answers about Claudio, smiling her thank-you for the compliment. “He’s barely made a sound for a week, except to practice or warm up.”
“Well…” Claudio never finishes, simply shrugging.
“See?” Cris points at him. “He won’t even really talk, and he loves talking!”
“Oh, that’s just nothing, honey. All singers do crazy things to keep their voice in good condition,” Jamie says. “Back in the day, when Pinky would do shows with the bands that he was in, he would do all sorts of weird little things.”
“Like?”
“Ten minutes!” says the passing stage manager. “Madame, you’re up in five. You-what’re you still doing here? Are you in the show?”
“She’s my guest and Mr. Marcello’s manager. Is that alright with you?” Jamie has switched into his stage voice; sweeter, more appropriately regal and much more appropriately French-tinted. “Now, I know my cues like I know my own name, so would you please- (He gestures with a waving motion.) -go on off and find the other people who aren’t here yet and leave us be!”
The stage manager disappears again, silent this time. Claudio smiles a little. Cris turns him around to face her for a quick inspection and readjusts his tie. He rests hands over hers, tries to push them aside in protest-
“Dude, I’m not letting you go out there looking even the slightest bit like a hot mess. I know how much you’d hate that,” Cris says.
“Honey, he looks fine. Handsome as always,” Jamie assures in his normal voice. “Looks a bit nervous, though.”
“Oh, I’m scared shitless!” Claudio allows himself to say. “I haven’t done this in years! What if I suck?”
“Don’t be silly! You did amazing at all the rehearsals! I’m as sure as my daddy was a hypocrite that you’ll do fine tonight,” Jamie tells him cheerfully.
The younger man retreats into silence, flashing a look of uneasy and half-believing gratitude. An assistant to the stage manager comes and politely reminds Jamie to take his place on stage. Almost in the bat of an eyelash, the cheerful man in the lavish dress and wig changes his posture. He fully becomes the character, becomes female instead of female’s parody; he becomes the glamorous Madame Butterfly.
“Showtime!” She smiles at the pair winningly. “Just remember: Don’t give a damn about who’s out there. In the moment when you’re out there, it is all just about you.”
In a flurry of blue glam, she vanishes, walking towards the a stage darkened to signal the end of intermission. With her own assurances that he will do well, Cris departs to her seat in the audience after exchanging a kiss to each cheek. Claudio spends the next several minutes alone with his hands in his pockets, standing near the wings as he waits for his cue. The backstage area has gone eerily silent. Even the neurotic stage manager’s shrieking voice is nowhere to be heard. Other performers linger backstage, gathered in groups; no one talking, merely waiting. One of the ballerinas whispers something in Russian to another ballerina, something Claudio’s brain understands as, “He’s a very handsome man over there, no? The nervous one over there…”
Suddenly, from the silent darkness comes an explosion of light and sound. Applause. Madame Butterfly is made almost a burning specter of herself in the lights of the stage and she jokes glibly about it, making the audience laugh. Readjustments are made (whether this was planned or not, no one really cares because she plays it off so well) and Madame Butterfly goes from burning to glowing, as any proper goddess of the stage should be.
Claudio doesn’t listen to the words of the monologue or the occasional swell of laughter rising from the sea of ticket-holders. He paces. He practices his scales. He takes himself through every note and nuance of the song he picked. He reminds himself of little things-
Remember the staccato towards the middle.
Don’t forget to go higher, not lower towards the end.
Diaphragm! Diaphragm! Di-a-phragm!
-and so on and so forth. Nervousness makes him-no, not nervousness, exactly. It’s more like a nigh-paralyzing anxiety constantly threatening to shut him off and leave him drooling on the floor. It’s always been this way with any sort of musical performance. Childhood recitals in piano, violin, cello-it didn’t matter the instrument. The ever-confident Claudio Marcello would almost instantly become anxious and worrisome, even if he was the best in the class.
It always seemed its worse with his vocal concerts (because only instrumentalists have recitals) and it’s certainly no different now. In fact, it’s probably worse tonight. Claudio hasn’t really used his opera-trained voice in years, not since before his death. But he tries to assure himself that he will be fine. He tries to remind himself that he knows the song front to back. He did well at rehearsals and in his own practice. He will do fine. Jamie thinks so. Cris thinks so. Conradas, when Claudio performed for him, said so while wiping away some rare tears. Logically, they must all be right. Claudio will be fine.
Or maybe they’re all wrong and he will crash and burn the minute he opens his mouth.
No, not crash, really. It doesn’t count as a crash and burn if you just decide to melt under the stage lights.
However, if he steps off the stage into the orchestra pit, blinded and in pain from the lights-
“Mes amis, our time together on this night marches forward, and I do believe the clock is signaling the start of another performance, no?” Madame Butterfly’s voice has subtly risen, cutting through Claudio’s anxious fog. “So let us not stray too far behind. Please, give your warmest welcomes to Claudio Marcello!”
The swell of sound is deafening, dizzying. The sound is for him-a greeting, a reassurance of…of something. Briefly, he wishes for five more minutes. Five more minutes! Just to run through the lyrics again, or to practice his scales, or…
But his feet know better. There is no more waiting. The time is here now. Make or break, the moment has come, and come for him.
Claudio steps onto the stage and all that burns away from him is fear.
--
Yes, this is the same Claudio from the Hustler, Aspirations, and Demon prompts, as well as the October Mini-Contest. And let's not forget his cameo in the Beat prompt...
Claudio has some interesting and often contrasting talents.
More stories, if anyone is interested, can be found here: http://underthevangogh.blissful-madness.com
It is intermission during a performance at the Théâtre des Rêves, and the stage manager is a mishap away from collapsing to the floor in a seizure, complete with over-the-top foaming at the mouth. Already there were some issues with issues during the first act; forgotten lines replaced with nervous adlibs, last-minute costume changes, last-minute injuries due to carelessness or nervousness (or sabotage). Once too often, the stage lights during Madame Butterfly’s interweaving monologues have alternated between being too bright and too dim. It’s as if the lights department of the stage crew was, at the very last minute, replaced by a group of apes in black polo shirts.
One would think that intermission would mean a chance for even the stage manager to catch a break, maybe get some coffee, but of course not. There was lots of things left to do, people to scold-things a director would probably do if he wasn’t busy climbing out of one dress/wig combination and into another one at this very instant.
The Théâtre is small. Big enough to have a floor and balcony area, but smaller than most theatres in the Performance District of the Gray City. It is also new, replacing another theatre which had since gone bankrupt and fallen on hard times, and this show is their first. A revue, of all things! Who goes with an original revue on their first opening night? Better to pick something familiar, like Phantom of the Opera or Les Misérables or even (and here the stage manger nearly chokes at the thought) RENT! But Jamie LeBeau is an instinctive man, albeit a bit dreamy and perhaps reaching too high with his goals of becoming the best theatre on either side of the Mortal Coil, and he has faith in his fellow actors and in his techies. If any of the mishaps bother him, he doesn’t show it in the least.
No, that job has apparently fallen squarely on the skinny, narrow shoulders of the stage manager. Presently, he flits around backstage frantically, alternating the position of his clipboard from glued to his chest to nearly teetering off his arm. He shouts stressed obscenities after a techie nearly knocks him over with the loaded costume rack she pulls after her wispy body. The stage manager exhales in a huff. He yanks the clipboard away from his chest.
“Marcello!” His shriek cuts through the shuffling din of backstage. “Claudio Marcello! Where is that bas-? Marcello!”
“Here! Here. Here he is-”
“Oh, thank God-!”
The stage manager whirls on his heel in the sound of the girl’s voice. A petite, curvy girl walks up on the arm of a taller, black-haired man-Claudio Marcello. All at once, the stage manager’s face grows sour, unfazed by the young man’s handsome features. The girl with him (well-dressed for such an event in her top hat, silver corset and black tiered skirt) looks apologetic.
“Sorry,” she says. “You wouldn’t believe how long it takes this man to pick a suit.”
The stage manager looks increasingly unamused. “What the hell happened to the one he wore at dress rehearsal?”
“Ruined,” Claudio answers simply.
“By what?! You’ve never heard of a dry cleaner? It’s gonna throw the color scheme of the background off!”
“It’s charcoal gray, cut in the same Edwardian style as the other one,” Claudio’s companion says. “The vest is the same; the dress shirt and tie are the same… Look, the other one was ruined beyond fixing, so he called up some of his connections to bring him a new one. They got here just an hour ago with at least five suits to pick from, and when he couldn’t decide he called me-”
“Look, I don’t care, okay? He should’ve told his friends to be a little quicker!” the stage manager snaps, pushing up his glasses. “This isn’t a shopping mall, honey. It’s the theatre. This is the show of the century, and he goes on in fifteen minutes whether he’s in a suit or ass-bare!”
Claudio’s petite companion puts a lace-gloved hand to her hip, her gaze enhanced by her eyeliner. “Don’t you have an intern to decimate somewhere? He’s here, he’s clothed, he’ll be fine and on stage on time. Go make someone else cry or something.”
With a huff, the stage manager storms off, clipboard clasped tightly to his chest like a lover. Claudio smiles a little, about to speak when a blue vision of French glam from the days of Marie Antoinette flurried about the pair. It settles in front of them, solidifies, takes the form of a lavish dress and jewels and hair so impressively decorative one wonders how the head stays upright. Jamie-in the midst of a break from being Madame Butterfly, hostess to them and the audience-smiles at them sweetly.
“Is that old nut givin’ y’all trouble?” With his disguise so seamless, hearing his Louisiana twang come out of those painted, delicate features is a little jarring. “Don’t listen to a thing he says outside of cues. He died of a heart attack in the midst of managing Phantom of the Opera.”
“It was Les Mis!” the stage manager corrects from a distance.
“Oh, whatever it was; y’obviously still ain’t learned nothin’ from it,” Jamie says, waving a hand dismissively. He looks at Claudio, green eyes lighting cheerfully. “Y’as ready as you’re gonna be, sir? Oh! And Miss Cris, look at you! Gettin’ all sweetened up for this! That Matthew must be watin’ you home already, just to keep y’to his handsome self!”
“He’s terribly nervous!” Cris answers about Claudio, smiling her thank-you for the compliment. “He’s barely made a sound for a week, except to practice or warm up.”
“Well…” Claudio never finishes, simply shrugging.
“See?” Cris points at him. “He won’t even really talk, and he loves talking!”
“Oh, that’s just nothing, honey. All singers do crazy things to keep their voice in good condition,” Jamie says. “Back in the day, when Pinky would do shows with the bands that he was in, he would do all sorts of weird little things.”
“Like?”
“Ten minutes!” says the passing stage manager. “Madame, you’re up in five. You-what’re you still doing here? Are you in the show?”
“She’s my guest and Mr. Marcello’s manager. Is that alright with you?” Jamie has switched into his stage voice; sweeter, more appropriately regal and much more appropriately French-tinted. “Now, I know my cues like I know my own name, so would you please- (He gestures with a waving motion.) -go on off and find the other people who aren’t here yet and leave us be!”
The stage manager disappears again, silent this time. Claudio smiles a little. Cris turns him around to face her for a quick inspection and readjusts his tie. He rests hands over hers, tries to push them aside in protest-
“Dude, I’m not letting you go out there looking even the slightest bit like a hot mess. I know how much you’d hate that,” Cris says.
“Honey, he looks fine. Handsome as always,” Jamie assures in his normal voice. “Looks a bit nervous, though.”
“Oh, I’m scared shitless!” Claudio allows himself to say. “I haven’t done this in years! What if I suck?”
“Don’t be silly! You did amazing at all the rehearsals! I’m as sure as my daddy was a hypocrite that you’ll do fine tonight,” Jamie tells him cheerfully.
The younger man retreats into silence, flashing a look of uneasy and half-believing gratitude. An assistant to the stage manager comes and politely reminds Jamie to take his place on stage. Almost in the bat of an eyelash, the cheerful man in the lavish dress and wig changes his posture. He fully becomes the character, becomes female instead of female’s parody; he becomes the glamorous Madame Butterfly.
“Showtime!” She smiles at the pair winningly. “Just remember: Don’t give a damn about who’s out there. In the moment when you’re out there, it is all just about you.”
In a flurry of blue glam, she vanishes, walking towards the a stage darkened to signal the end of intermission. With her own assurances that he will do well, Cris departs to her seat in the audience after exchanging a kiss to each cheek. Claudio spends the next several minutes alone with his hands in his pockets, standing near the wings as he waits for his cue. The backstage area has gone eerily silent. Even the neurotic stage manager’s shrieking voice is nowhere to be heard. Other performers linger backstage, gathered in groups; no one talking, merely waiting. One of the ballerinas whispers something in Russian to another ballerina, something Claudio’s brain understands as, “He’s a very handsome man over there, no? The nervous one over there…”
Suddenly, from the silent darkness comes an explosion of light and sound. Applause. Madame Butterfly is made almost a burning specter of herself in the lights of the stage and she jokes glibly about it, making the audience laugh. Readjustments are made (whether this was planned or not, no one really cares because she plays it off so well) and Madame Butterfly goes from burning to glowing, as any proper goddess of the stage should be.
Claudio doesn’t listen to the words of the monologue or the occasional swell of laughter rising from the sea of ticket-holders. He paces. He practices his scales. He takes himself through every note and nuance of the song he picked. He reminds himself of little things-
Remember the staccato towards the middle.
Don’t forget to go higher, not lower towards the end.
Diaphragm! Diaphragm! Di-a-phragm!
-and so on and so forth. Nervousness makes him-no, not nervousness, exactly. It’s more like a nigh-paralyzing anxiety constantly threatening to shut him off and leave him drooling on the floor. It’s always been this way with any sort of musical performance. Childhood recitals in piano, violin, cello-it didn’t matter the instrument. The ever-confident Claudio Marcello would almost instantly become anxious and worrisome, even if he was the best in the class.
It always seemed its worse with his vocal concerts (because only instrumentalists have recitals) and it’s certainly no different now. In fact, it’s probably worse tonight. Claudio hasn’t really used his opera-trained voice in years, not since before his death. But he tries to assure himself that he will be fine. He tries to remind himself that he knows the song front to back. He did well at rehearsals and in his own practice. He will do fine. Jamie thinks so. Cris thinks so. Conradas, when Claudio performed for him, said so while wiping away some rare tears. Logically, they must all be right. Claudio will be fine.
Or maybe they’re all wrong and he will crash and burn the minute he opens his mouth.
No, not crash, really. It doesn’t count as a crash and burn if you just decide to melt under the stage lights.
However, if he steps off the stage into the orchestra pit, blinded and in pain from the lights-
“Mes amis, our time together on this night marches forward, and I do believe the clock is signaling the start of another performance, no?” Madame Butterfly’s voice has subtly risen, cutting through Claudio’s anxious fog. “So let us not stray too far behind. Please, give your warmest welcomes to Claudio Marcello!”
The swell of sound is deafening, dizzying. The sound is for him-a greeting, a reassurance of…of something. Briefly, he wishes for five more minutes. Five more minutes! Just to run through the lyrics again, or to practice his scales, or…
But his feet know better. There is no more waiting. The time is here now. Make or break, the moment has come, and come for him.
Claudio steps onto the stage and all that burns away from him is fear.
--
Yes, this is the same Claudio from the Hustler, Aspirations, and Demon prompts, as well as the October Mini-Contest. And let's not forget his cameo in the Beat prompt...
Claudio has some interesting and often contrasting talents.
More stories, if anyone is interested, can be found here: http://underthevangogh.blissful-madness.com