Les Miserables - My experience

Les Miserables - My memory, my story 

This year I have had the privilege and honor of being cast in Les Miserables with Roberts Wesleyan College Community Theater. I have had such a blast with the immensely talented cast and crew, and to be completely candid, I was really worried about that from the start. This show in particular means way too much to me, and I'm going to take the next few [thousand] words to explain why. What you're about to read is the complete version of a monologue I've crafted over the years, and have used as an introduction in many of my training classes. I hope that you enjoy this version of the tale written with more detail, potentially more exaggeration, and less education.

My Dad grew up in Wantagh, Long Island, and his parents still lived there in the early 90s. We made one of our many visits to them one vacation and there was a special surprise for us. Beauty and the Beast had recently opened on Broadway, and we were all going to go! I was 11; my sister 6. At this point, no one was really sure if Disney could pull off a musical. "I mean, it's not even animated, and it's just the movie again. No one will want to go see this!"

In retrospect, this was a really stupid presumption. Of course Disney knows how to put on a show! Even if they didn't, they could afford to imagineer a way to do it. The show was a blast! They did everything they animated and then they did even more. Beauty and the Beast is one of my favorite shows to be in the chorus, if for nothing else "Gaston" is the most fun ensemble number I've ever done.

Those mugs make for awesomeness all over. Trust me.

We were so engrossed by the performance and the stage effects, that I didn't notice my Dad ducking out for the majority of the show. I'm not sure if it was the weather or if he picked up a bad meat-cart hot dog, but he was in rough shape. When we got back to the house, he locked himself upstairs saying "if you're gonna come up here, it had better be to put me out of my misery."

Now, the original plan for the day was for my sister and I to stay back at the house with the grandparents, and for Mom and Dad to have a night on the town. Dad had planned to take Mom out to see her all-time favorite show, Les Miserables. Dad hadn't seen it, and while it wasn't high on his list, he wanted to be sure Mom had a show to remember, so he had bought the tickets months in advance. Obviously, those plans changed.

Mom turned to me as her date for the evening, and I happily obliged. I have always been a bit of a momma's boy. I have never seen that as an insult. I got dressed up again, because that's what you do when you go to the theater in New York City. It's a law. They charge you extra on your state taxes if you don't. Look it up some time.

You shouldn't be surprised, at least not in NYS

We rode out to the Wantagh LIRR station, and caught the elevated train into Penn Station. It was not my first time on a train, but it was my first time on a train with a purpose. On the hour or so ride in, my Mom took the opportunity to start explaining the show to me. This is something I think should be done for anyone's first time experiencing Les Miserables. It can be done without any major spoilers, and the show (much like the book) is very long winded with many things happening at once. Oftentimes, there are several characters singing plot points directly at each other simultaneously. Combine that with the amount of material, time, emotions, characters, and spotty diction inherent to a showy opera and you have a recipe for 3 hours of nonsense if you don't have a basic grasp of the story structure.

And let me point out for those of you that hadn't heard - this is an opera. I understand it's been labelled by the vast majority (myself included) as a "musical", but that's simply because it's in English, and it was one of the longest and most popular Broadway standards. There aren't enough intentionally spoken lines to justify calling it a non-opera, except that "musicals" sell more tickets. So there's warning number 1 for you - It's 99% singing and the other 1% is also probably singing. There are some of the most beautiful and iconic songs to be put on a stage so it's totally worth it. I just know from experience that not everyone appreciates the "surprise".

Warning number 2 is the same warning my Mom gave me on the train: Everybody Dies. The title, Les Miserables, should give it away. It's not called "Les Happy Joys" or "Les Get Together and Hang Out with some Dip" for a reason. That reason is a lot of dead people. OK, not everybody dies, and no, I won't tell you who. Just be aware - everyone is a combination of miserable or dead at some point during the show. Again, not everyone appreciates the "surprise".

Even a happy surprise can go unappreciated

We arrive at Penn Station, and take a look at the wall-sized subway map. We ensure we are in agreement on the exact number of stops, colors and letters of the lines, directions and timing to our destination, and a plan in case we get separated somehow. Our grip on each other is enough to ensure that won’t happen, but it’s good to have a plan anyways. We are lucky to find a pair of beat up orange and yellow plastic bucket seats open in a car. I watch the lights, pillars, and station names go by, waiting for our stop.

We make our single transition to the connecting line over to the theater district, and we get out at the Times Square station. Have you ever been to Times Square? Have you ever been at night? If not, this is a requirement to be considered a proper resident of New York State. Without that experience, you legally aren’t allowed to gripe about people who assume you are “from the City”, or that “The City” doesn’t mean your town to anyone from out of state.(There’s a mediocre fine anytime it happens, but the court’s surcharge is how they get you anyways.)

Making these things isn't cheap!

This experience is one that may not be accurately captured in word or song. Coming out of the tunnel you are immediately confronted by the full force of everything considered to be a part of “The City” condensed into an area created specifically to overload your brain to a point where you have no choice but to submit to the towering images, flashing lights, echoing sounds and pure commercial energy generated in a constant feedback loop on itself. I was removed from my senses, unable to move my legs because I thought they were already in constant motion. Turns out they were, I was just getting bounced around between the rest of the city as they continued to exit the station through me. There is no time in Times Square, least of all for a waist high obstacle staring up towards the space that once held the sky. I don't blame 11 year-old me. I was overwhelmed as I tried to take all of it in.

The amount of manufactured spectacle is equally matched by the spectacle generated by the patrons of this area of “The City”. Past, present, and future fashion is constantly on display by those that need to be seen, while the passers-by are a constant blur of coats and conversations. My mother likes to remind me that I was a very observant and inquisitive child. I would ask her about any new experience or situation, including investigating the logic behind those tall men in short dresses requesting people’s company in the few areas with less than 10,000 watts of light around.

The best way to navigate "The City", as I’ve learned from this and other experiences, is to have a mission. Pick a spot, any spot, and make that your quest to reach. You’re always welcome to engage in any distractions as they come – and they will. But whenever you feel lost or tired, The mission will give you the focus you need to cut through the infinite noise and channel the energy surrounding you into executing a plan of action. Our mission was clear, and we pressed on.

Above: Mission objective

We traveled a few blocks, and around a corner to arrive at the famous Imperial Theatre. My expectations were entirely misplaced. I think I was expecting an entire city block dedicated to 1 stage; like a movie theater building, but exponentially larger to match the inflation of "The City". The Imperial looks smaller than my college apartment from the exterior. The entrance is wide enough for 4 people, give or take an arm. Once you get past the two sets of double-doors, you enter the foyer. One wall is reserved for the merch table, replete with programs, buttons, gray T-shirts with the sad French girl, Official Original Broadway Cast Recordings, and anything else they can brand. The other wall has the refreshments that you can’t take into the auditorium, and you can’t take out of the building. We pause to look at both, and decide it would be best to find our seats and take a breath.

Timid with excitement, I show my ticket to the usher. Mom had entrusted me with my ticket for the entire length of the foyer, and I was cautious to relinquish it to a stranger, even an old one in a shiny vest. She pulled out her flashlight, reviewed the tickets, and handed us our Playbill; a white booklet with a yellow and black title square, the same, sad French girl in white contrast on a black background. I was so enamored with the gift, I almost didn’t realize the usher had moved the entrance curtain and started walking towards our seats.
 
Somehow, they fit an entire theater in my apartment! We were early, so there weren’t too many people to worry about as I stared in awe at the size and detail of the space. We continued to the house left aisle, and we turn right to head towards the stage. The usher stops just in front of the edge of the pit and makes an open handed gesture to the row on our right. There we were, 4 rows from the stage, on the aisle. We thanked the usher and sat. Well, Mom did. I more bounced than anything.

They didn't have a sweet mini-fridge though

I took it upon myself to investigate the surroundings, since we had time before the opening of the show, and I didn't want someone to take my spot. I started by looking at the stage, and I noticed the edge of the giant circular cutout in the middle. Turns out (see what I did there?) that was the rotary, and the stage/scenery/actors would rotate in and out of view to demonstrate traveling between scenes. Awesome!

I then looked down into the pit. The pit at this show was hidden under the stage, but they had a small black wall that bowed out in front of the stage to give you the visual representation of the pit. I can still remember the alternating diagonal slits of the black metal grate over the pit. This was so you couldn't just throw your garbage away, and to keep the actors from landing on the drummer if they went too far downstage. I saw the bass player. I played cello and bass, so it was neat to see someone doing it all grown up. Then he saw me! And waved! So I waved back!

The lights dimmed. No one had come to join our row. No one had come to the rows in front of us. Dad must have really done something right to get this tickets. It was me, my mom, and the stage.

I remember every minute of that show.

I can't describe how deftly my mom would glaze over the...less than savory bits, but still find ways to help me keep up. The first act covers more than 20 years without batting an eye. Eventually it catches up to itself and becomes much easier to follow. The act builds towards the students starting up a revolution, leading to the rebellious "Do You Hear The People Sing?". A few sappy love songs later and we are closing out the first act with "One Day More".

At the end of a long week of work, some people sing Loverboy's "Everybody's Working for the Weekend", or The Cure's "Friday I'm in Love.". I sing "One Day More". All 9 parts. At once. Hopefully not out loud all the time. By the blackout, I was ready to pick up a musket and fight the revolution! Let's go, Mom! We can help win this thing!

11 year old me was ready to go back 200 years and fight because of that flag

At the start of the second act, there was the absolute coolest technical action I've ever seen. The way the barricade came together from out of nowhere was pure magic. I think there was a collective and audible "wow" from the entire audience.

And that's when the really depressing stuff happened. I remember hearing different people scattered around the auditorium when their character was hurt or dead (or both). I remember mine (again, not gonna spoil who). Should they decide to bring this to public broadcast a la "Sound of Music", the show could easily be "Les Miserables: Brought to you by Kleenex!"

The show ends with everyone back on stage, singing one last cry of hope for tomorrow to the tune of "Do You Hear The People Sing?". I stood before they cut off the final note. I stood through all of the bows. I stood taller and clapped harder for the leads. I stood until the end of the bow music, and for minutes after while everyone behind us turned to leave. I could not move at first. I needed to fill every square inch of me with what had just happened; to carry as much of it home as I could hold physically, mentally, and spiritually. When I had sponged all that I could from the atmosphere, I made a point to wave to the bassist again (he waved back!), and we worked our way out of the theater.

As we walked outside, I was completely energized! There was a random group of shadows playing some music and hanging around a street lamp at the edge of a nearby alley. I suggested we go join them, and started to sing along. My mother wisely pulled me aside with her hand over my mouth. "Are you crazy? Wearenotgoingdownadarkalleywithabunchofstrangersendofstorynowcomeon!" I was a clever boy. I got the point.

We rounded the corner and got back to Times Square. It was busier than when we had left it! My mind was blown. How can you people be out so late? Don't you have a bed time? Don't you know what time it is already?

Seriously people. Show's over already!

We got back on the subway, finding two more beat up bucket seats, and ride back to Penn station where we can transfer back to the LIRR. Eventually, the buzz and excitement wore off, and I crashed out, waking the next morning back in the little house in Wantagh.

Mom had bought me one of the over-sized, gray T-shirt with Cosette on the front and the French flag behind her. "You'll grow into it.", she hoped. I wore that shirt for the next decade (not consecutively, weirdo). I probably spent the rest of the trip, and all of the many hours on the drive home, telling the details repeatedly to my little sister who indulged me, or not. I would have told the car door. I probably did. Anything to keep as much of that ephemeral spirit I had sponged at the end of the second act from escaping.

I had been in the theater world since before I could hold my own head up, but to that point I had never really grasped why people would go. I always thought "well they know someone in the cast" or "they want a fancy night out" or "there's no good cartoons on at night." I always enjoyed being a part of a show from on or backstage, but it took me many years after that night to realize how much I truly love it.

That's why being a part of any show, but this one in particular, means so much to me. It's an opportunity to step out of this world, and bring people into a new, more wondrous one. Live theater has the rare advantage of putting an entire building in a time capsule, safe and sheltered from the everything outside the three walls and invisible 4th of the stage. At its apex, the theater brings together every single person on either side of the curtain; invested in one grand attempt to capture even a taste of that magic we've lost to the hardships of life. It's also why I hang back for a few more seconds after the scrim drops, the cannon fires, and the lights come back up. No matter how hard I try, I know that I will never be able to soak up enough. I just try to make sure I get enough to last for now.