Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Lights, Action, Spew

My play which was produced this time last year is having another production here in Sydney. New Australian plays have a tendency to be done once and then disappear into the ether, so I’m lucky to have a couple of bites of this particular cherry (with a third to come in Melbourne next year).

On the weekend C and I went to see a rehearsal – and we took Tricky thinking this might be a good chance to introduce him to the feckless artiste existence of his parents. All very casual, just three people in the audience, opening night still a couple of weeks off. It would be a gradual introduction, like solids.

Some of my friends have brought their babies up in the theatre, they tell jolly tales of their little ones sleeping in the seats at the back of the theatre. Other friends, children of thespians, tell grand tales of having the run of the theatre and being inspired to put on their own little plays, with nothing but an empty chocolate box and a used pair of tights – precocious little moppets that they were.

I love the idea of Tricky being a theatre baby but having cast an eye over our finances we've realised that our best plan for retirement lies in our son becoming a plumber.

Before the run Tricky flirted outrageously with the director and was at his current-bun best. He’s so gorgeous, she shrieked. And I bet he’s so talented.

C and I hung our heads and muttered our modest denials. As soon as she turned her back he exercised one such talent – the Inappropriate Exploding Nappy.

Having dealt with that small crisis, the show began. Tricky sat on C’s lap and watched with interest as the four actors did their thing. Five minutes in however and the heckling began.

Small grunts at first and then tiny high pitched squeals. In vain did his father try to keep the dummy in his mouth. As the volume of the play became louder, so did the volume of the world’s tiniest theatre critic. Squeals became shouts became wailing gurgles. I attached him to one nipple and there was welcome silence. To be broken by snorting snuffling noises. The actors soldiered on.

The play came to an end. We clapped. Tricky vomited, leaving a small spattery puddle on the floor and a large trail of sick down my left breast.
I mopped ineffectually at myself.
Then I gave notes.
Then we left the rehearsal room.

We have decided we will need a babysitter for opening night.
Either that or a plumber.


Lut C. said...

Well, you know in showbizz the golden rule is don't work with animals, puppets and babies. :-)

Congratulations on the play!

lucky #2 said...

Opening night is almost here! :)

Yes, my visions of the "easy traveling baby" have been lost to my screaming child who wants things done HER way RIGHT NOW! So, maybe Tricky isn't ready for theater just yet! :)

cinnamon gurl said...

That totally reminds me of The Unusual Life of Tristan Smith. Especially since you call him Tricky. Maybe you did that on purpose?

OvaGirl said...

Don't know that one cg is it a film?... the tricky sort of comes from his 2nd name which is Patrick..

Gabrielle said...

Hehehe! We are already priming Gabrielle for the fact that she will become a plumber. Maybe Tricky was voicing his preference to be on stage and not in the audience? With all of his talents, he is probably a dooer, not a watcher. Love M

elle said...

We tried that as well - Shakespeare in the Park at 5 weeks. Macbeth IS intense, maybe he just wasnt ready. We ran before the dagger stares got any more intense. btw - he is ADORABLE!!!!!

Anonymous said...

Oh I hope Tricky hones his heckling skills to an art form!! One of the best poetry readings I ever attended was with a drunk Scottish exchange student in the audience. The poor poets were, at certain points, reduced to tears, but the heckling was so witty and entertaining it definitely was the highlight of the evening.

Congratulations on the success of the play!!

Rod said...

Hey, I've known critics behave a lot worse.

cinnamon gurl said...

Oh, The Unusual Life of Tristan Smith is a novel by Peter Carey. My memory is foggy at best but I seem to remember that Tristan Smith is pretty much raised in a theatre... I think maybe some weird things happen. That's all I can remember: go go maternal fog.