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Those darling days…

September 25, 2020   ·   0 Comments

By Constance Scrafield

There are moments that can be repeated often but will still have a thrill for your heart, every time, and one of them, for those of us who love the theatre –is that step into the half light of the theatre, that different light, even when they’re full and you can see where you’re stepping and all the familiar faces to greet – albeit over the heads of others but they don’t mind; they still laugh at the joke you sent and the new faces, to welcome them and invite them to have a good time: that’s thrilling every time. 

The lights half dim; we settle in, sorting out our coats and squishing into our seats. A single brilliant beam shines down toward a space in front of the stage and David Nairn walks briskly into it. He recalls our duty to history’s people, thanks the “people and organizations without whom this production would not be possible;” he calls on Neil to take a bow for his contributions; then, he invites us all to party at the reception in the atrium after the show, Opening Night’s finale. 

“Enjoy the show!” he declares, vanishing into the dark.

Now, the anticipation of the play to come; will it make the audience roar its laughter or will there be tears and wrung hankies? Both, perhaps, ‘specially if Norm wrote it –with some sixty plays to his name – that mad pen of his, the way he writes, with very little forethought – just sitting down and letting the story and the very funny dialogue carry him along – he willingly admits it.

Maybe, it’ll be Rod back on the stage, all by himself but sometimes, that’s hard to believe, with all the characters he brings along, swapping an exchange between – or among!- them, exactly as if he were several people at once. Terrible old farmers and their women, dishing out philosophies the rest of us would never have thought but many of us think we recognize one or another of them. Some of these audience members come from those very farms and are sure that’s Uncle Jimmy up there on the stage.

Dan, the author of all these truths, reckons he gleans his entire dialogue from breakfast eavesdropping in the local coffee shops. He’s the chap who used to enjoy telling us that his parents were happily married for 70 years because they never lived together.

The curtains part on a scene that is the first dazzle because Beckie’s busy brain has done it again and the set already takes us some place else; together with her team that take her sometimes off the wall ideas and make them work, that set might move and change or the ins and outs of it will accommodate everything the actors and the play require.

This could be a younger playwright’s scribble, Kristen, with her interweaving humour and heartstrings, keeping us laughing and guessing to the end. A few years ago, she was new to us but we tested her and found her clever; welcomed her into our favour.

What about the actors?! They’ve been on every famous and less stage in the country, in other countries and they bring their dedication and their service to the play; they breath life into the words on the paper and soul into the characters that ask it of them.

Wow- what if it’s Leisa up there with her band of wizards, raising the roof, as they take us into the stories and the music of a well-loved hero in the music world. Leisa commands the stage with her beauty, her riveting energy and her dozens of costumes. We can never see enough of her.

Withal, we laugh and cry; we listen and ponder at the ideas we hadn’t thought of and the twists on old themes, the wisdom and the fun. We dance in our seats and dig into every second of the living, breathing action on the stage before us.

At the end, we stand with our applause, calling “bravo” and they assemble on that stage to bow and grin and bow again. 

We gather ourselves together to go downstairs, to see what goodies await us; what goodies and more laughs, as we meet the people whom we might otherwise never see and but always hug here and the cast come down for wine and our compliments and admiration.

The noise of conversation is deafening but we don’t care. We are all so happy to be there; we are all ready to attend again, as long as the theatre will keep inviting us, keep doing this so well, so beautifully. David makes his way through the room. 

At the very beginning of all this, he might have stood on a chair, to announce the coming season and regale us, tempt us with promises of the best theatre, “your theatre,” he calls it. 

By the end of this evening, he talks to so many, remembering all our names, even some tidbit about our lives, loving us and holding us loyal. 

When you’re back, we’ll be ready. 

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