Backstage and Bitter

Most people hate the idea of being on stage, but I quite enjoy it. Not because I can’t get enough applause, or that I have some troubled past that pushed me towards performance. Ironically, I think it’s because conversation is difficult, and dishing out wit and charm can be exhausting. It’s nice to be on stage, where you’ve rehearsed the conversation hundreds of times. Where your cues and responses have been written for you. There’s something comforting about that.

Non-actors always ask, ‘What if you forget a line?’ A terrifying prospect admittedly: freezing during a scene; unsure of what to say; the eyes of the crowd and your fellow performers burrowing into you, pleading with you to come out with something. It’s a possibility that’s often brushed aside: ‘If you forget your line, just move on and no one will notice.’ It’s a risk you accept when you agree to step into the spotlight.

Any actor can tell you what it’s like to forget a line. What’s often overlooked is when someone else has forgotten their line.

recite the script word-for-word, but they’re sure to notice if an actor freezes in place and starts sweating through their costume.

I could cold-read lines for a year, attend a thousand rehearsals, and still the show wouldn’t feel real until the dress rehearsal. It’s that whimsical window when everything is ready: the set, the sound effects, the props, everyone in costume; a full run-through of the performance, minus the audience.

The dress rehearsal was going steady and we were ironing out the final kinks. Warm beams from the overhead lights bounced off our makeup, giving us a sort of ethereal glow. Everyone was ready, except for Lulu. I really hoped that Lulu would get her act together and learn her lines by the following night. After repeatedly flubbing the same line, Lulu was met with an eye roll from the director. I could see the director’s logic; if she hadn’t learned her lines in the last two months, how would she miraculously know them by tomorrow night?

Lulu was playing the lead character, ‘Millie’. Lulu was the quintessential ‘theatre kid’, the first in line for school musicals, with several lead roles to her name. Working with Lulu was an odd experience. All I’d ever heard about her was how her exceptional talent was the highlight of every production she was in. She was talented, I couldn’t deny that. She was a great singer too. But I found her frustrating to work with.

Lulu hadn’t learned her lines. She was involved with at least two other productions, so sometimes wouldn’t even make it to our one rehearsal a week.

There was no point in me getting angry with Lulu for not knowing her lines. All I could do was ensure that I knew my part as best I could. On stage, I would hope that actors knew their lines, not solely for the sake of their own performance, but out of respect for the people they’re sharing the stage with. One missed line can easily spiral into a missed cue, throwing someone out of position. The audience won’t notice if you don’t

I was conflicted. Lulu had always been relatively nice to me. It was everyone else she fought with, especially the director. One side of me saw a decent person who I wanted to see do well. But the part of me who’d endured months of performing with someone who refused to put in equal effort, wanted to see her fail. Perhaps I was just curious as to what blatantly forgetting a line looked like on stage.

Showtime at last. We’d been told a week prior that a mere fifty-five tickets had been sold, until tonight, 170 seats. Fifteen minutes later, all 200 seats were sold, a full house. I sat with Lulu in the makeup room. We were still running lines as we were being slathered in powders and creams backstage.

As our scene approached, I braced myself for the dreaded speech that seemed to evade her, no matter how many times we ran it. She took her position and delivered it…flawlessly. Her movement, enunciation, emotions, all brilliantly executed. I was flabbergasted. She’d done it, and wonderfully so. And to think I’d been focusing on how I was going to swoop in and save it if things went wrong. What a relief, I didn’t need to say anything.

The theatre had become eerily quiet. There was a prolonged silence as Lulu turned to face me. Her speech had been one of hope and promise, so why was her smile beginning to falter?

I was so relieved that I’d forgotten the entire theatre was waiting on my next line.

As hundreds of eyes burned into me, I tried desperately to recall the last thing Lulu had said, but I just couldn’t remember. She had so many lines to learn that it could have been any one of them. It was an awful feeling, like trying to give an impromptu presentation on a topic you knew nothing about. I wondered if many people in the audience had noticed. I felt a trickle of sweat on my forehead. I didn’t know if it was from the lights or the disappointment that I felt in myself.

I don’t quite remember what I ended up saying- some jumbled mess of agreeing with whatever had just been said- while trying not to break character. What I do remember was Lulu’s decision to move on to the next cue, which I couldn’t have been more grateful for. I’d been so critical of Lulu for what I’d considered a lack of dedication. I’d always been praised for my ability to learn lines, the possibility of me losing my place hadn’t even occurred to me.

After the bows, we retreated backstage. I apologised to Lulu, and she shook her head, ‘Just remember, they don’t hand out the medals until everyone’s crossed the finish line’.

by Shea Fahy

I check my phone and read every single article I can find about Kellie Anne Harrington. I don’t watch boxing. Ever. But I watch her. And I bawl my eyes out along with her when the flag is raised to Amhrán na bhFiann in Tokyo.

That week, my kids go round the room doing jabs and crosses, wanting to be her. I put my Kellie-Anne’s to bed and tell them it’s hard work and determination that gets you an Olympic gold. I tell them we’ll do cardio work-outs and boxing every day from now on.

On TV, I watch the open-top bus and Portland Row party. I decide to have a Kellie-Anne party at the weekend. The kids will dress up in boxing gear and take turns in a make-shift ring.

It’s Saturday and all the Kellie Anne’s barge into the kitchen and I’m unsure about how to deal with them. Some are sweaty having done their warm-ups, others complain they’re not ready. We clear back the table and chairs, mark up the ring, agree some rules. We spray-paint some jar lids in gold and tie twine through them so they can all have an award at the end.

‘But Kellie Anne’s a champion by herself’, they say. ‘There can be only one champion’, they roar in unison.

‘Okay, fine’, I say.

I ref some matches and award it to my sister’s Kellie-Anne.

‘That’s so unfair. I was the best’, ‘No I was’,

‘No way, I’m way better’, they wail.

‘Right’, I say, and call all matches a draw.

Then all hell breaks out. One shoves the smallest boy, another pulls hair, someone retaliates with a punch, another with a kick. I intervene and get hit in the nose.

‘Right, that’s it’, I shout, ‘I’m the winner! Me!’ I place the knotted medals from my wrist around my neck and shepherd them all into the hall ready for home.

‘You look like a Christmas tree’, one boy says, messing with the flashing medals in their fake gold paint.

‘That may be so’, I say, ‘but a win’s a win’.

‘But you didn’t really win’, he says.

‘And this really isn’t a Kellie-Anne party’, I say.

by Rhona Trench