29 April, 2024

Making Marian with Katie

Doing The Music Man in Chicago has been a great blessing to and for me, and a great break from the dark dark plays I've engaged with over the last few years. 

There have been SO many revelations—many that have occurred, artistic and personal—some simply because I am spending so much time outside of work by myself, in contemplation). Which, though I miss Alec and Tati terribly, is always fruitful for me. I am an introverted being after all. Solitude always seems to “force” something to the surface, outward, forward. 



It’s a fantastic room, and it’s profound to work with such a close friend
Katie Spelman as director/choreographer because I know she trusts me utterly. 

Katie is one of my best friends-- and, compared to some of my lifelong friendships-- she is a relatively new best friend; one I've made in the last 5 years. Something about that feels special. It's challenging to make friends in adulthood, particularly with fellow women (many of whom pair off and have children in this era of life-- so friend groups break apart and re-assemble around those choices through no "fault"). It's been an expansive relationship in every way.

Katie has visionary ideas but also encourages other great ideas and creates an environment where people can express them with ease. She is passionate but not rigid. She IS visionary — especially in the storytelling-through-dance part. 

But I’ll say the most beautiful thing I've experienced here is a kind of intimacy that I never expected — a feeling of closeness with Katie because we both sort of understand that in many ways I am playing a version of me, but more crucially a version of her. She is Marian at the top of the show, and I am Marian at the end. And together, we are weaving this new vision of Marian together. It's an act of total mutual creation and it feels sacred in its intensity and intimacy.
 

*

    We had an almost inexplicable moment of platonic intimacy the other day in rehearsal discussing the (beautiful, underestimated, gorgeous piece of theatre I utterly underestimated) second act scene when Harold Hill comes to call at Marian's house, and eventually invites Marian to "the footbridge."
 

There was a moment the other day when Katie was begging to cut the line “My dear little librarian…” 

And I took paused. Took a beat. First of all, it’s not my line (it is Harold's), but the ferocity of her passion for cutting it made me pause. I asked what bothered her about it. She said she thought it was "demeaning and diminutive and not Feminist." Despite her intellectualizing, I could see her emotion just below the surface. I love this person. I know her. This was a moment of Knowing.

I asked for a quick 5. 

It was time anyway, but it felt like a good moment to pause. Katie is a 37-year-old woman who if she had her choice, would have a significant life partner. She has some walls (who doesn't?), and it IS hard for her to find a worthy partner because she’s extra, extra extraordinary. But she’s also part of the problem. A problem I know and relate to very well. Because it is a problem I had myself… 

 

For years and years I was unavailable to real partnership and to the real reception of love because I was overwhelmed by childhood trauma, grief and self-loathing, then by illness -- and all of those contributed to the story that "no one could possibly want to love me." But the problem was not that I was unlovable— it was the fact that I believed I was. And with the belief so deeply rooted within my cells, in every action I took that I almost missed it standing right in front of me.
 
For in 2019, Alec Silver was RIGHT THERE. He was standing before me, totally in love with me, with MY EXACT F*CKING NAME

… and I almost missed him. Because of my stories. My insistence on my unloveability. I almost missed and blew the greatest gift of my life  because of my walls and fears. 
 
And this brings me to my next point— the line 
:
“I just can't. Please. Some other time, maybe tomorrow...” 


 
which oddly is the line before the “my dear little librarian” line. 

 
 
I cannot tell you how much this line shakes my soul.
Because again, Alec. And why I had to play this role after Alec.
Because love is right there.

Harold Hill is man making an actual bid to connect with Marian. He is, shockingly, truly worthy of her. They are both as lonely and broken and intelligent and isolated as one another, they both need each other. 

He is saying “please meet me— not just at the footbridge but in a place of intimate love” 

and she says “maybe tomorrow”

That was me.
Until Alec. 

"There was love all around, but I never heard it singing..."




So we broke, and I took her aside in private:
 


     “Katie… my whYfe. One of my very best friends. Part of Marian’s agony is that she is capable of so much love and passion, but her years and years of walls are preventing her from allowing herself to BE loved. And sometimes that allowance looks “soft” and “tender” and “feminine”…. none of that is negative. None of that is anti-feminist. Let’s try the line as a man who is making a bid to be soft with her. Who sees she needs softness. And then we can allow this woman who is terrified of being seen as 'girly' because she thinks it means she is weak... to be a creature of desire and of being desirED. And I think you’ll see it’s right. 
And to allow ourselves to be vulnerable is also the key to all of our liberation… when we’re ready”



Afterwards someone asked:    

         “What was that?” 



        And I replied: “That was love” 

 

13 April, 2024

Broadway World: The Music Man Q & A

© Joe Mazza

Originally published at Broadway World on April 13, 2024


Alexandra, stepping into the role of Marian Paroo, a character known for her complexity and depth, what aspects of her personality do you find most compelling to explore?
Given your extensive background in theatre, including roles in Fiddler on the Roof and Master Class, in what ways does portraying Marian challenge you in new ways
?

Having spent many of my marriageable and child-bearing years as a Midwestern, bookish spinster myself, I feel adequately prepared to portray the role…

Okay okay. Jokes aside,

    Being an actor is as fascinating — just when you think you have landed upon the next realization, stage of growth, place of acceptance, or the next “AHA,” another one presents itself to you. What a gift. While Marian is in many ways “in my wheelhouse” (as a golden-age soprano, an American [I play a lot of not-Americans], a bookish, aging woman) she’s presented great surprises.

What I recall from the era of my solitary life before I met my husband, Alec (met him, at the age of 35—) was how very full-to-the-brim with love I was, with nowhere to offer it. I think many people relate to that state of being. I was certain my life story would not be a romantic one (which is absolutely fine, if that’s your choice— but if I could have been honest with myself at the time, it was not my choice). I possessed an equal amount of
    1. Reasonable standards/ principles about what I wanted love and partnership to be, and
    2. deeply unhelpful made-up stories I was telling myself that ultimately just perpetuated my solitude.

No, I was not merely “drawn to unavailable people,” because the most unavailable person in the equation was me. I was in my very own way, terrified of being known or seen or allowing myself to be vulnerable enough to receive love.

This is Marian’s plight.

More than her rigidity, her isolation, or her status as an outcast.
 
And perhaps this plight is why I have not personally played her until now. Perhaps I had to personally be on the other side of Marian’s second act— to appreciate the agony of her self-sabotage and recognize myself in it. To acknowledge how much time I wasted with my heart encased in iron locks. To fully appreciate how courageous a thing it is to allow yourself to be loved, and of course: love’s utterly transformative power on the other side of all that terror. 

© Joe Mazza
As audiences experience this production of The Music Man, what message or feeling do you hope they take away from seeing you as Marian Paroo?


All of the above, plus:

    - Women are people.
    - Read banned books.
    - Let yourself be loved.
    - We need both facts and poetry.
    - It’s never too late.




The Music Man is celebrated for its classic American storytelling and memorable score. How have you approached singing Meredith Willson's iconic music, and do you have a favorite number to perform?

    It is hard to believe that even though I have done a great deal of singing in concert or cabaret settings in the last 5 years, I haven’t been in a “proper” musical production since before the pandemic! So the first challenge is the discipline, technique and stamina to perform such a powerhouse soprano role 8 times a week with consistency and facility of expression.

    And honestly, it’s been pure joy to go to the “vocal gym” and celebrate what I do feel is my natural sound.

    I love the entire score, but I think my favorite song to sing is the “Lida Rose/ Dream of Now” number in the second act with our tremendous barbershop quartet.
Two reasons.
First, Marian’s verse is a soaring dreamscape of fantasy and yearning. It’s almost erotic in how fully alive her yearning is— and I don’t think I had ever previously acknowledged that about this character. (I mean: the clues were all there, she reads Balzac for goodness sake!)

    Second, theatre is a team sport. So while I appreciate a lovely solo as much as they next soprano (LOL), there is nothing like making music in a group— and this particular group is world class.


This production brings together an incredible cast and creative team. What has it been like worth with the incredible ensemble of artists?

A chef is only as good as their tools and ingredients.
A painter only as good as their materials.
A tennis player made better by the quality of their opponents.
By this logic, a theatre artist is only as good as their playmates (and it’s called a “play” for a reason.)

    Every member of our creative team and ensemble is world class-- I’m particularly awed by Raquel Adorno’s costume designs and honored beyond language to share a stage (and a dressing room!) with the Chicago theatre legend that is Janet Ulrich Brooks as Mrs. Paroo, and the rising star that is Kai Edgar Joseph as Winthrop.

These are only a few of the team players that awe me, daily.

    The majority of my work occurs with KJ Hippensteel’s Harold Hill. KJ’s Harold is one of the most fully-realized, heartfelt portrayals of the role I’ve seen— he has the stage charisma of a cult leader and the endlessly likable charm of Dick Van Dyke, and though I don’t know a great deal about the finer details of his personal life, one can tell he really loves his wife (it’s something you can see in his eyes, in his work.) I think one can always tell when an actor knows/has known true love— it’s incredibly special to act with.
    KJ is also so willing and available to exposing the vulnerabilities of Harold Hill (which always, on some level, requires exposure of the actor-self too— and that takes a tremendous courage).  To borrow a metaphor from above, it’s a gift to play “pro-tennis” with him. Long may KJ Hippensteel lead companies.

    But the deepest gift of this experience has been collaboratively re-creating a new vision of Marian Paroo with our director-choreographer Katie Spelman. Katie and I met and worked together 5 years ago, and formed an intense adult-friendship bond that was instantaneous (and mutually insistent upon being permanent.)
    One of the things that has been breathtaking is how our deep knowledge of one another has informed and shaped the mutual creation of this “new” Marian. This Marian is informed by both of us, who share much in common with Marian herself, and with one another as deeply feeling, intelligent women with much to give the world and sometimes getting in our own (different) ways.
    The moments of side-splitting laughter, of debate, of shared vision, of exponential, mushrooming creativity are endless between us.
    But it is the moments of what I can only describe as platonic intimacy that have defined our collaboration. One rehearsal memory is so private and tender it doesn’t belong anywhere but in my memory, but suffice it to say the exchange in rehearsal silently expressed Katie saying “let me give this to you” and my silent reply being “let me do this for you.” The end result is an act of service to Marian, to all woman, to art, and to one another. I don’t know that I’ve ever had an experience like it.
 

The Music Man has a timeless quality that resonates with audiences across generations. What do you believe is the key to its enduring appeal, and how does this production capture that essence?

    In many ways The Music Man as written by Meredith Wilson in the 1950s is about “America” with a “capital A.” America in the early years of the 20th century, in many ways still young, self-absorbed and foolish, in many ways brave, visionary and pioneering. I think what Katie Spelman is attempting to lead us all to do is envision and embody an America that was and an America that could be, when the best of us comes together as a community.
    In our production the fictional River City has recently been through a terrible plague (not at all unlike our world in 2024), experienced individual and collective grief, and in many ways has spiritually “died.” Harold Hill brings River City back to life— even if it is by accident.

    What human being doesn’t empathize with the sensation of dreams and possibilities bringing our souls to life? That’s The Music Man’s enduring appeal.

    Aside from that? Come on: the score is a hit parade (as they kids say “no skips” on this album), the book is impeccable, the dance numbers are bangers, and there’s an unlikely love story. What’s not to like? 


Marian Paroo's transformation throughout The Music Man is pivotal to the story. How do you navigate her evolution from a skeptical librarian to someone who embraces change and love?

    Everything changes when Marian sees what Harold Hill’s poetic lie has done for her brother Winthrop. Her grief-stricken, shadow of a baby brother transforms into a joyous child. The power of Harold’s promise changes Winthrop’s life, and brings the town of River City back to life— and it is palpable, undeniable. She can’t deny that though he may be a literal charlatan, he is in touch with something powerful that exceeds her understanding. That crack— that one aperture in— lets the light in to her soul as well.

    Not every fact with a perfect citation contains the poetry that makes life fully expansive. Harold provides—almost accidentally—that poetry.

    And what I find most interesting?
Marian lives a truthful life, and Harold lives an untruthful life.
But neither of them live honest lives.
They are dishonest in their own ways— with the world and with themselves.
That is, until they are in the presence of the other— honest at last.


Why must audiences see this production of The Music Man?

- You will see a deeply explored version of this story in character and context.
- You will see bodies of color inside the story in an all-embracing way, allowing new people to tell this story.
- You will see 37 brilliant performers on stage in the round (the second largest cast in the Marriott’s history)  
- You will hear a gorgeous orchestra play this classic score
- You will laugh, you will cry, you will fall in love. You will want to go out and buy a trombone.

See you at the library.



09 April, 2024

Sorrow/Grateful

On the first day of tech [for The Music Man,] I crumbled inside myself, gripped to the core by a wave of echoing grief and awakening emotion. 
 
Historically, I have always been someone who gets reamed by emotional tidal waves tardily: days, weeks, months, years after the event. Like a shipwreck survivor who only experiences the intensity of what they went through once they are standing on the shore. Except for me? I've been standing on the shore for a few weeks...or years, completely unaware that I haven't processed the shipwreck. Like at all. And I wonder why I'm having this panic response in the middle of a grocery store, on the subway, as someone is telling me a perfectly innocuous story... or, ya know: on stage.
 
Apparently this "shipwrecking" response is not uncommon. At the height of adversity I am razor-sharp, hyper-lucid, totally focused on nothing but getting through the storm.  I think my hyper-vigilance just never quite turns off... and then I get caught unaware. 
Or have a panic attack. 
Or, I give myself an auto-immune disease. 
Or D: ALL OF THE ABOVE!  
Fun

On this particular evening I was filled to the brim with memories of my voice not showing up for me. Bursting with recollections of my many counted inadequacies over the last decade of struggle. Once upon a time, I loved to sing. Singing was my great outlet, my greatest joy; a place of total honesty and freedom. Oh, how I had become just yet another loss. Another grief to grieve.
 
That night, I felt so small and diminished beside KJ [Hippensteel]’s panache and glitter. But I mostly felt like such a fool. My inner critic was in full force:
"Who are you to be here?"
"Who are you to try again?"
"Who are you to think you could do this anymore?"
"You are too old, too ugly and your singing voice is a disaster."
"You are so unworthy"
"Everyone is laughing at you." 
"You are such a foolish old woman, doing this role."
 


It was a deep deep thing…

I think I am having a lot of echoes of post-colitis awakenings during this because it is showing me quite deliberately how much time I really "lost”
 
I think yes. it’s the time, it’s the stories, it’s the experiences… it’s lost time. Un-reclaim-able.
 
I am holding two conflicting thoughts about colitis: 

 
1. I am so grateful to be here, and to have found a solution to colitis that appears to be really working for me! My life has been restored and I feel good and healthy and I’m so glad to have a new lease on life.
 
but also… 


2. I feel sorrowful about all the time that I missed. About a kind of 'loss' around my 30s, my "prime," my years to "be in full bloom," and a kind of female and adult expansion being “taken” from me by so much illness and (literal) unutterable pain. 

But an almost constant sensation that I was literally “disgusting” 

by the depths of loneliness and isolation and the certainty that no one would ever love me or find me attractive or be willing to deal with my illness and the “disgust.”
 
After the run I panicked horribly. I wept-- not for the "job" I had just done on stage, but for all of it. For all the loss and all the fear and all the pain and all the horrors. I released all the uncried tears. And then I did something out of character: I called friends. I let loved ones in to this experience of humiliation and loss and pain. I called friends whom I knew would understand, who loved me fiercely, who I know would hold me in this base and demoralizing moment; and uplift, validate and support wherever I "was." 
 
It worked. We are not meant to bear it all alone. I am humbled. 
 
So.
 
Onward. Onward, still. Just like this photograph of me in song-- however clumsy or imperfect: in a position of surrender and of flight, simultaneously. Eye closed in a kind of faith, heart open to the possibilities of all that life holds, arms outstretched ready to welcome it. Welcome it all.
 
Onwards with courage and integrity.  
Resilience is distinct from mere survival, and more than mere endurance. Resilience is often endurance with direction. Share this Quote Eric Greitens
Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/endurance-quotes
Resilience is distinct from mere survival, and more than mere endurance. Resilience is often endurance with direction. Share this Quote Eric Greitens
Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/endurance-quotes
Resilience is distinct from mere survival, and more than mere endurance. Resilience is often endurance with direction. Share this Quote Eric Greitens
Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/topics/endurance-quotes
 
 
"Resilience is distinct from mere survival, and more than mere endurance. 
Resilience is often endurance with direction." 

LinkWithin

Related Posts with Thumbnails