Little Women callbacks

I received an email that: Yes! I've been asked to come back and read and sing and dance. Since I had dressed conservatively (aka Little Women-ish) for the first audition, I thought, now what does one wear for a dance audition? Though I considered something frumpy, I just settled on shorts, a t-shirt and my favorite high tops. I knew it was probably more 'marketable' if I wore my dance shoes, but since I still wasn't over the horror at wearing those torture shoes all through Hairspray's doing the Pony, the Twist, and the Monkey, my feet cried out for mercy and I listened to them.

So I get to the callback, and knew one person--my friend Dana who'd played Motormouth Maybelle in Hairspray. We embraced. You have to do this in callbacks. If not, you look like a lone loser who doesn't know anyone else. There are politics everywhere--a Who's Who in the theater world.

Before Dana arrived, I hung back, watching the interaction. Some of the people I'd seen at the original audition were there, though one particular young woman I'd spoken to wasn't, and I was surprised. She had looked so Louisa May Alcott to me, with curly hair in a neat bun, a sweet cameo face, and the willingness to reluctantly say, yes, she'd recently played the lead in some musical whose title I forget now. She seemed perfect! This shows what I know about casting a musical about a bunch of stuffy girls in a rather stuffy story. (Does it seem like I wasn't enthused about this play?)

Some of the huge callback cast looked so professional, with their once again 'chic' leg warmers (a ridiculous fashion accessory the first time they became popular--hey--let's make what is usually the prettiest part of a woman's leg look like an elephant's!) and dance shoes. Apparently the feet of these women hadn't cried to them for high tops the way my feet had.

As is the custom here in Utah, and I imagine elsewhere as well, there were far more women than men. This could have been because there are more women than men required in the cast, but generally speaking, finding good, talented men who can act, sing, and dance and are willing to admit it is tough around here. Utah is a little conservative. No--it's very conservative. This rears its ugly head in the idea that if you're in drama you're gay, and gay is BAD. (And that's all I'll say on THAT subject in this blog entry. Exhale, folks.)

The people in the callback room, the same dance studio as before (which is down a somewhat winding, precarious staircase and across a carpeted foyer) were all milling around--the females twittering nervously, doing the obligatory embracing, and talking much louder than seemed necessary. "Look at me! I'm popular, willing to project, and am so remarkably confident!" they seemed to be communicating to the production staff who were looking on and maybe even noting this behavior. Who knows?

As I said, I hung back for the most part. People watching is fun, and I felt the delighted, almost loving smile on my lips, observing the continuing undercurrent of viciousness amongst the contestants. For this was most definitely a contest.

The choreographer swept in, a smile on his face and with more graceful, confident, and reassuring movement than I've seen in a long time. I instantly adored him. I could only imagine he'd be awesome to go see a play with, or maybe have over for dinner. He was just that kind of guy. Pretty cute in a tall, dancer sort of way too. And I don't mean this in a hubba hubba kind of way. He was young, I am not. He is married. So am I. He just seemed to scream: I am not scary. I am a likeable guy. So, I liked him.

He separated us into several groups and showed us a series of ballroom type steps. We all got a chance to prance across the dance floor as one big, mushy, cramped up, apologetic group. "Sorry--I didn't mean to hit you." "Oof, we're all so smashed together." And no, I wasn't the only one saying this.

Since the guys' group was smaller, he had them dance first and they did okay. Some glided, some galumphed. We who watched clapped. We women felt no threat here. They weren't vying for our parts, after all.

Then it came time for chick group #1. I wasn't in it, so sat back and let them do their thing. One girl stood in ballet's third position (I think), her feet in a little slanted 'T", and standing so straight I thought she might crack. So the first gal group danced, again, some gliding, some galumphing. The variety of this herd was something--far more young women, but several who were older than I, some in top physical shape, some, um, not.

My turn came and our group dipped and swirled. The choreographer had told us before we started that since we had to switch from turning right to left, this might goof us up. I blurted, "So THAT'S the reason why!" He laughed and said, "You're a spunky one." So I was spunky and wondered if this would make up for the fact that my career as a ballroom dancer is non-existent.

For some reason, I was in the back of the pack one way, which, when we turned around made me the leader. I felt sorry for the ladies following me. Oh, I did all right. But since I didn't do perfect, as I approached the end of that lap, I just spun (sort of) a couple of ballet moves that weren't part of that little dance snippet and twirled around when no-one else did. What. The. Heck.

That bit of the callback done, some of the near 50 people were asked to leave. We were assured numerous times that this didn't mean they weren't being considered, that they had done a great job and didn't need any more proof that they were awesome. I wondered if anyone believed that. I did not.

The rest of us were told what parts we were being considered for. Mine was some Scottish innkeeper who didn't have any solo singing to speak of. First indication I didn't want to do the show. Second was that I wanted to play Marmy though I hadn't expressed that on my audition sheet. I took the side to study, whipped up a Scottish accent (which for me is hard unless I can hear it first and then copy it) and found a couple of keen, talented young men to practice with who were doing the same scene as I was.

The more I practiced, the more I knew this wasn't for me. I hadn't been that familiar with the script, but now that I saw it, I knew that while the show was probably really neat, it wasn't funny. I wanted funny. I also, pridefully, thought that the show 'needed' me, but as I heard other women studying and reading the same lines I was, I realized, hey, these women are great. This show will go on without the likes of me.

So I took my slapdash Scottish accent, my happy high-tops-wearing feet, and left.