I don’t think you saw what I hoped you saw

Our Petruchio confided to me in whispers tonight, just before our first scene together in Taming of the Shrew. “I went for a massage today.”

I quietly cursed him for having booked the Only Massage Therapist In Prescott early enough to manage the five-week wait time.  He continued. “The therapist was here at the show last week. She thought that Hortensio” — that’s me, in case you’re wondering — “was married at the beginning of the play,” — he’s not, in case you’re wondering — “and that he was courting Bianca because he wanted to, I dunno, keep his options open or maybe have an affair.”

Strike two.

Our stage manager found me sitting outside the trailer tonight at the intermission .  Giddily, she said “there are some ladies sitting in the amphitheatre near me, and I just had to tell you… they have no idea that it’s supposed to be Hortensio disguised as a schoolmaster.  They actually think you’re a totally different person that Hortensio found to teach Bianca, and they can’t remember your name, so they’ve decided that you’re Fabio.”

Strike three.

Strike one occurred two weeks ago — the morning after opening night of Shrew.  I wandered upstairs in my Prescott home to find the (tremendous) people who’ve welcomed me into their place milling about their kitchen.  They said they liked the play a lot. “I had forgotten,” said (marvelous) Peter, “that you were playing two characters in this one.”

“I actually just play one character in this one — the other one is two,” I say.

There is an awkward pause from (splendiferous) Peter.

“Oh. Wait,”  I offer. “Do you mean when I come in disguised as Litio, the schoolmaster, in the robe and cap?”

“No…. no….” counters (sensational) Peter, smiling reassuringly. “I mean that other guy in the second half of the play. The one who gets married to the other shrew lady.”

Insert an awkward pause from me. Then I correct him: “That’s the same guy as the first half.”

There is an awkward pause from (sublime) Peter, followed by “Oh.” Then another briefly awkward pause. Then, “That’s good. Because otherwise I would have thought they were skimping on costumes.”

It is very hard not to take all this personally.  I will grant that Hortensio’s storyline has gaps in it; that there are problems to solve and questions to answer when portraying him.  I will also suggest that it can be confusing for an audience to understand how some simple disguises seem to fool everyone (through the Magic of Theatre) when other simple disguises (in the same play) do not.  However, I thought we had flagged these issues and made an attempt to resolve them in rehearsal.  As a result, I am vexed at the audience’s wide-ranging explanations for Hortensio, and dispirited by the knowledge that the show’s run is half over and there’s nothing we can do to help narrow that range.  From here on in I’ll likely feel like an actor in a nightmare, doomed to repeat the same muddy performance while the audience fashions a litany of interpretations: Hortensio has multiple personality disorder; Hortensio is an undercover reporter; Hortensio is an alien in disguise sent to Earth to prep the planet for an invasion by lizard-like overlords who eat people.

It’s one of the most humbling things that can happen to me as an actor: the realization that the message I think I’m sending bears no resemblance to the message being received. It happens far more often than I’d like, and in this case the only response I can choose is a wholehearted embrace of the failure.  So.  Bring it on.

Be Sociable, Share!

•