Read Online Little Disquietude by C. E. Case - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C. E. Case
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something. Leah leaned forward.
"Really?"
"Yes. Isn't that awesome?"
The way his eyes lit up made her suspicious.
"What's the catch?"
"You'd be opening for someone."
"Not Gates McFadden."
"No."
"Who?"
"The Maguires. They're a Celtic industrial
band from Canada."
"No," Leah said.
"You'd get four songs."
"No." Her eggs were getting cold. She stabbed
at them.
"So, how's North Carolina?" he asked.
She smiled sweetly at him. "Wish I was
there."
* * *
The opening night party for Renegade
Tartuffe cooled down after the press left. Joe's Pub had been a
good choice; cast settled onto couches, talked quietly, drank cheap
champagne. Leah had been seen with everyone. When the pictures went
out in the post the next morning, she'd be there. Her parents would
complain that she hadn't called them.
Or maybe the editors would ignore her
altogether, filter her out, bemoan that she was taking space that
could be filled by Hugh Jackman or Jeremy Kushner.
Angel asked, "Renee Zellweger, couldn't she
get you a part in a movie?"
"Oh sure. Maybe I could be the caterer. Or
second assistant."
"What about your little friend, the one that
got discovered by Nicole Kidman when she was on stage?"
Leah sighed. "See, you said it yourself. You
have to be on stage, first."
"Maybe you shouldn't spend so much time in
North Carolina."
* * *
Enrique from the ensemble had a Blackberry
and shortly after one in the morning Enrique, the dark and lithe
dance captain, exclaimed that the New York Times had posted
its review.
"Ben or Charlie?" Angel asked.
"I believe he prefers Charles," Enrique
said.
"That's not what he said when my dick was in
his mouth," Angel said.
"Ew, ew. Can we please not slash the theatre
critics?" Leah asked. "It's like picturing Republicans naked."
"But theater critics are actually gay,"
Enrique pointed out, shrugging. He scrolled the text on his
handheld.
"I won't believe that until they use
'fabulous' in a review." Angel leaned forward. "Did he say you were
fabulous?"
"All right, shut up!" Enrique yelled. He
stood up on the couch. The room quieted. The director finished off
his drink. The producers settled in at the bar, and hid their
faces.
Enrique read, "We gave the French Jerry
Lewis--"
"Not a good start," Angel said.
Leah elbowed him.
"And in return, the French gave us this. Set
in a time before the bloody revolution--either of them, there's a
sense of nostalgia and innocence. In the same way Spring
Awakening borrows from an older century's text, Tartuffe draws us in because we want to see something different than the
next jukebox musical.
"There are no fake French accents. The
attempt to Americanize it, to offer a social commentary on being
swindled by the power figures we idolize, doesn't always work, but
it works enough. The commentary on the religious right cannot be
ignored, and the direction and acting are apt enough to win
shameless laughter from us, rather than uncomfortable titters.
"Were this a tragedy, the ending would be
quite different, and more familiar, and perhaps more satisfying.
This, however, is a comedy, and a reminder that stories don't
always end as we expect.
"Part of this surprise is the performance
of--" Enrique lifted his head and asked, "Should I go on?"
The crowd threw popcorn and pretzels at him,
and he laughed and went on. Everyone cheered as he finished, except
for Teresa Rosa, who fled to the bathroom. Presumably to puke.
Charles had called her inept.
Angel whispered to Leah that it was
drugs.
Leah had gone home with Theresa once and had
bad, drunken sex without much satisfaction. She had contemplated
trying for that again tonight, but not if Teresa had been
vomiting.
"How does she get parts?" Leah asked.
"You mean, when we don't? It's her
vulnerability. She should be the perfect Mariane, since she was
born as Ophelia. But that doesn't make her funny."
"It just makes her sought after," Leah
said.
"Bingo."
Leah sighed. The party was dispersing. Only
the
"Really?"
"Yes. Isn't that awesome?"
The way his eyes lit up made her suspicious.
"What's the catch?"
"You'd be opening for someone."
"Not Gates McFadden."
"No."
"Who?"
"The Maguires. They're a Celtic industrial
band from Canada."
"No," Leah said.
"You'd get four songs."
"No." Her eggs were getting cold. She stabbed
at them.
"So, how's North Carolina?" he asked.
She smiled sweetly at him. "Wish I was
there."
* * *
The opening night party for Renegade
Tartuffe cooled down after the press left. Joe's Pub had been a
good choice; cast settled onto couches, talked quietly, drank cheap
champagne. Leah had been seen with everyone. When the pictures went
out in the post the next morning, she'd be there. Her parents would
complain that she hadn't called them.
Or maybe the editors would ignore her
altogether, filter her out, bemoan that she was taking space that
could be filled by Hugh Jackman or Jeremy Kushner.
Angel asked, "Renee Zellweger, couldn't she
get you a part in a movie?"
"Oh sure. Maybe I could be the caterer. Or
second assistant."
"What about your little friend, the one that
got discovered by Nicole Kidman when she was on stage?"
Leah sighed. "See, you said it yourself. You
have to be on stage, first."
"Maybe you shouldn't spend so much time in
North Carolina."
* * *
Enrique from the ensemble had a Blackberry
and shortly after one in the morning Enrique, the dark and lithe
dance captain, exclaimed that the New York Times had posted
its review.
"Ben or Charlie?" Angel asked.
"I believe he prefers Charles," Enrique
said.
"That's not what he said when my dick was in
his mouth," Angel said.
"Ew, ew. Can we please not slash the theatre
critics?" Leah asked. "It's like picturing Republicans naked."
"But theater critics are actually gay,"
Enrique pointed out, shrugging. He scrolled the text on his
handheld.
"I won't believe that until they use
'fabulous' in a review." Angel leaned forward. "Did he say you were
fabulous?"
"All right, shut up!" Enrique yelled. He
stood up on the couch. The room quieted. The director finished off
his drink. The producers settled in at the bar, and hid their
faces.
Enrique read, "We gave the French Jerry
Lewis--"
"Not a good start," Angel said.
Leah elbowed him.
"And in return, the French gave us this. Set
in a time before the bloody revolution--either of them, there's a
sense of nostalgia and innocence. In the same way Spring
Awakening borrows from an older century's text, Tartuffe draws us in because we want to see something different than the
next jukebox musical.
"There are no fake French accents. The
attempt to Americanize it, to offer a social commentary on being
swindled by the power figures we idolize, doesn't always work, but
it works enough. The commentary on the religious right cannot be
ignored, and the direction and acting are apt enough to win
shameless laughter from us, rather than uncomfortable titters.
"Were this a tragedy, the ending would be
quite different, and more familiar, and perhaps more satisfying.
This, however, is a comedy, and a reminder that stories don't
always end as we expect.
"Part of this surprise is the performance
of--" Enrique lifted his head and asked, "Should I go on?"
The crowd threw popcorn and pretzels at him,
and he laughed and went on. Everyone cheered as he finished, except
for Teresa Rosa, who fled to the bathroom. Presumably to puke.
Charles had called her inept.
Angel whispered to Leah that it was
drugs.
Leah had gone home with Theresa once and had
bad, drunken sex without much satisfaction. She had contemplated
trying for that again tonight, but not if Teresa had been
vomiting.
"How does she get parts?" Leah asked.
"You mean, when we don't? It's her
vulnerability. She should be the perfect Mariane, since she was
born as Ophelia. But that doesn't make her funny."
"It just makes her sought after," Leah
said.
"Bingo."
Leah sighed. The party was dispersing. Only
the
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