I always loved playing Marley for the sheer theatricality of it all -- I have entered stage to the cacaphonous wails of the souls of the damned, surrounded by clouds of liquid nitrogen smoke; in another production I rose up out of the floor, lit from below in the oranges and reds of the very fires of Hell, accompanied by a blast from the dry-ice fog machine and a deafening peal of bells. This last particular entrance was far enough downstage that I could witness, for a brief moment, the effect Jacob's apparition was having on those unlucky souls seated in the front row of the theatre. It amused me no end to see people practically jump out of their seats night after night; in fact, I was disappointed if I didn't cause at least one patron to let out an involuntary yelp. On one particular night I saw two small boys, seated on either side of a woman whom I can only assume was their mother, who upon my arrival simultaneously buried their faces in her lap and started screaming. I was wired and my voice was amplified and digitally altered --- but I swear those two poor young boys were louder than I was.
Common to most productions of A Christmas Carol are the hoardes of small children who fill out the ranks of the cast, taking on the obvious roles like Tiny Tim (and other members of the Crachit clan), Little Fan and, my favorite, the Turkey Boy. Depending on the size (and budget) of the particular production, these children also serve as London urchins, street carolers and assorted hangers-on that are used to flesh out such scenes as Fezziwig's Ball or the half-dozen or so musical numbers that producers invariably introduce into the story to liven things up. The state of the performing arts being what it is in this country, the addition of so many children to the mix is usually done with both eyes firmly fixed on the box office. The reality is that each child in the cast will generate massive revenue: tickets sold to parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors. One theatre had the brilliant idea of having three separate, rotating casts of kids; this was ostensibly done to accommodate the youngsters' busy schedules -- what with sports, ballet, music lessons, school -- it was reasoned that each group of kids would then only have to rehearse a few days each week and perform in 3 or 4 instead of a full 8 shows per week. A logistical nightmare for the production staff, to be sure, but a bonanza for the bottom line. Instead of, oh, say, a total of 15 children in the cast rehearsing and performing all the time, you would now have 45 kids total, each of whom (as detailed above) would potentially generate sales of 8, 10, even 20 tickets each to family, friends and neighbors.
The presence of a large number of children in a theatre environment presents its own host of problems, of course; but in one way, I guess you could say that being cast in a play in the professional theatre is a highly educational and enriching experience. For example, it can expose these children to a vast and very colorful new set of vocabulary words, many of which I can almost guarantee will not be seen anytime soon on the usual standardized tests. But I digress.
The story I actually set out to tell here involves the family of one of the children in a company of Christmas Carol I was in some years ago. One evening, about half-way through the run of the show, I arrived early as usual to the theatre, since the elaborate make-up I was doing for the role took about an hour to apply. As I came down the stairs into the lobby, I noticed one of our young charges (I believe she played one of the Crachit children; we'll call her Janie), in the company of an attractive woman and a much younger child. The woman spotted me and immediately came over with her hand extended. She introduced herself as Janie's mom and we exchanged a few pleasantries. She then proceeded to explain to me that the whole family, including Dad and another, older sibling, had come to see the show on opening night, sitting right in the front row. They had all (with one exception) enjoyed Jacob Marley's ghost immensely, and it was pretty obvious as to which family member wasn't next in line as president of my fan club. Janie's younger sister (we'll call her Suzie), stood behind her sister and mother, with both arms clasped tightly around one of her mother's legs. Janie's mom went on to explain that Suzie had been so frightened by Marley's ghost that she suffered nightmares; this in turn had traumatized her so much that now she absolutely refused to sleep in her own bed but had insisted on spending every night since in-between her parents, awake in fearful vigil awaiting the re-appearance of the spectral Marley.
It was clear from the haggard look on Mom's face that this situation had reached critical mass in the last several days; there was also a desperate tone in her voice that she could barely keep under control. Neither did it escape my thinking that, implied but not stated, the ongoing lack of something other than sleep was also a factor here. She asked if I wouldn't mind speaking to little Suzie to reassure her that it was all just make-believe. So, in my best Dad voice, I knelt down by Suzie and introduced myself. "Hi", I said, "I'm Michael! I work with your sister in the play. Your Mommy tells me that you came to see us." Not a word from little Suzie, who kept her head buried in the crook of her mother's knee. "Your Mommy says that you thought that Jacob Marley was really scary. I'm so glad! He's supposed to be scary so that he'll make Mr. Scrooge see that he's been a very bad man." Still not so much as a peep; however, I did notice that she was finally beginning to actually look at me. "You know, I have a daughter too; when she was really little, just like you, I used to take her here to the theatre with me all the time so she could see me put on my scary make-up and know that it was always really just Daddy, so that she wouldn't be afraid." Still nothing. "If you come and see the show again, maybe I can show you how I put the make-up and the costume on so you can see that it's just me and not a real ghost, OK?"
All through this, Suzie and Janie's mom looked hopeful; Suzie was looking right at me now and not trying to hide. Despite not saying a word, she certainly seemed reassured and her mother thanked me profusely for taking the time to try and undo the damage I had inadvertantly done. They all walked off and I continued on to my dressing room. It was the way Suzie stared at me, as we parted, that made me understand, finally, that nothing had really changed. No, I wasn't fooling her, not one bit. While I was rambling on, trying my best to be sweet, charming and (above all) non-threatening, little Suzie had an unmistakable look on her face. It wasn't fear, but neither was it relief or reassurance. It was, instead, the look of a child who was simply waiting. Waiting for my forehead to split open and the shrieking, howling, green-faced monster wrapped in chains -- the creature she knew in her heart of hearts was lurking inside of me, biding its time -- to burst forth from its smiling human guise and carry her off to Hell.
For all I know, Suzie is still sleeping with her parents.
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