CRAP I KEEP FORGETTING.
Word on the street is that a good chunk of Sonorans have been saying they’re actually enjoying my performance as the Stepmother in Cinderella more than they liked my Rose in Gypsy. I…get that, I guess. Gypsy‘s some heavy stuff, and that’s not everyone’s cup of theatrical tea. I’m sure it’s much more fun watching me fling myself around the stage in a comedy wig, talking like Margaret Dumont and occasionally playing the trumpet and ad-libbing Twitter references, than it is to watch me, y’know, mentally abuse children and have a five-minute emotional breakdown via song. It’s like with the guy who reviewed Gypsy for some local mountain-y publication, who had no previous experience with nor knowledge of the show, and was basically all, “I mean, the performances are good and everything, but musicals are supposed to be happy and fluffy and light and this one’s such a downer. Dislike.” Which infuriates me slightly, because musicals aren’t supposed to be anything except at least partially sung — they’re not a genre, they’re a form; just like straight plays — but…I know those people exist. And they are staunch in their beliefs that people singing = happy-slappy-goodtime-fun-hooray. To each their own, I suppose.
I need to shut up and just be happy that people are enjoying the over-the-top, 100% bananas performance I am serving them six times a week. Their laughter is the only thing standing between me and feeling like a complete twatwaffle.
(You know what show nobody says anything about? Carousel. You know why? Because I was severely awful in Carousel. This sure has been a beneficial year in terms of breadth of experience, let me tell you what.)