Front of House: Observations from a Decade on the Aisle (15 page)

The longer I spent around the Winter Garden, the more cast members I met. They tended to be out and about in the auditorium a lot; their physiotherapists and massage therapists set up shop in the back of the orchestra before the show. As we prepared our Playbills we’d often hear the actors groaning as the masseuse worked on the aches and pains in their backs and legs. Given that the performers spent about sixteen hours a week dancing, jumping and crawling around on their knees on a raked stage, it’s no wonder that the massage therapists were always completely booked up.

Billy, who was brash and bright, played Coricopat. Not that this name meant a lot to most people. That’s not a slam on him or the character by any means; the fact was that most audience members couldn’t tell one cat from the next. The characters that were introduced by name during the show usually had very distinct features and costume elements that helped them stand out. Grizabella had a coat, dress and heels; the Rum Tum Tugger had MTV rock hair and a studded belt; Mistoffelees was the only black cat; Victoria was the only totally white one. The patrons recognized these characters and gave them loud cheers at the end of the show. The rest of the cats, even though they were brilliant, were harder to pick out of the crowd. There wasn’t anything in the program or the show itself that explained who Cassandra, Tumblebrutus or Sillabub were; the average person would draw a blank to identify them. Cat identification skills were a good barometer to differentiate the superfans from the casual theatergoers, in fact. If an audience member actually knew their Pouncivals from their Jellylorums, it indicated that they were really into the show.

Billy’s Coricopat character did have one slight advantage above some of the other chorus cats; he was a twin. His costume and makeup were identical to that of a female cat named Tantomille; the two of them spent the vast majority of the show hanging out together. The twins had a special bit during “The Moments of Happiness” at the top of the second act and most of their choreography had them dancing in sync.

I hung out backstage with Billy one day when I wasn’t working and watched him do his makeup. He shared his dressing room with many of the other chorus actors and swings, and it was a huge communal place with shag carpeting, Christmas lights and board games stashed on high shelves. Each actor had his own illuminated mirror and personal section at one of the long tables; many displayed family photos and artwork in their small spaces. With only a few people in the room it was comfortable, but it must have been as claustrophobic as a packed elevator when it was fully occupied.

Billy’s makeup job took him about twenty minutes. He explained to me that when cast members joined the show the makeup artist came in and gave them tutorials, but after that they were on their own. Some of the actors kept Polaroids or diagrams of their makeup taped to their mirrors to guide them. Billy’s makeup design was complicated but he seemed to apply it effortlessly; he picked brushes and colorful tubes out of his cosmetics kit without even looking at them. He transformed from a human friend to a feline without even breaking his conversation with me.

One of the cats in the cast gave me his appendicitis. I’m dead serious. Yes, I know it’s not contagious. I’m still convinced it was passed along. Just humor me. This dancer, who shall remain nameless for privacy, had had his appendix out while I was in South Africa doing post-graduate studies. When I returned to New York on my summer break I worked at the Winter Garden, so I saw him all the time. Two weeks after I returned to Cape Town my own appendix went, and I ended up spending three days in the hospital. I later paid it forward; shortly after I returned from South Africa I worked at
Judgment at Nuremberg
at the Longacre. Two weeks after
that,
the star of
Nuremberg,
Maximilian Schell, was relieved of his appendix. I don’t know who was smacked by the Traveling Theatrical Appendicitis after Mr. Schell, but I’m sure someone was.

My favorite cast member was Keith, who played three roles: Plato, the Rumpus Cat and Macavity. Plato was a slacker of a cat who appeared in the chorus throughout the show. The Rumpus Cat appeared only once, at the very end of the “Pekes and Pollicles” number, but he got to catapult through the star trap. Macavity similarly had a miniscule amount of stage time, but unlike the Rumpus Cat, he was very important to the loose plotline of the show. During Act I he was an unseen villain who intermittently made a lot of noise to terrorize the other cats in the Jellicle junkyard. When he finally emerged in the middle of Act II, with all his ginger hair standing on end, he attempted to kidnap and assault a female cat, Demeter, successfully carried off Old Deuteronomy, and had a brawl with the two largest toms, Munkustrap and Alonzo.

Yes, I know, if you’ve never seen the show, this is possibly too much information for you, but there’s a reason I’m bringing it up. Keith’s actual personality was the polar opposite of his character’s; he was sweet, laid-back, generous and kind. We conversed online sometimes, even after I went to South Africa, and whether he was coaching me on gymnastics skills — I was trying to learn to do an aerial cartwheel — or asking me about Cape Town, he was always great to talk to. I brought Keith a red African mask when I returned to New York on my school break; I’d seen it in a market and it had reminded me immediately of Macavity.

At my last night at
Cats
before my flight to South Africa, Keith came through the stage door with a production window card. Signatures from the cast were scattered in gold and silver Sharpie across the black poster, and at the top, in Keith’s unmistakable handwriting, were the words, “Good luck, Denise!”

I took that show poster to South Africa with me and hung it in my dorm room, alongside photos of my friends and family. Whenever I felt homesick, lost or unloved, it was a huge, shiny reminder of just how much some people cared about me.

One night before the show I was walking through the orchestra when I spotted a small piece of crystal on the floor. I picked it up and turned it over and over, marveling at the way the light played off the planes of the stone. And then I gasped, because I realized that I might have just found a Mistoffelees bead.

Mr. Mistoffelees was my favorite character in
Cats
for myriad reasons. I’d crushed on at least two of the actors who played the role simply because I loved their dancing. And what dancing it was: Mistoffelees, the magical cat, had the best number in the entire show. It featured a hot, sassy solo; all pirouettes and grand jetés and jazz hands, and it culminated in turns a la seconde. The audience usually erupted into enthusiastic applause after the “conjuring turns,” and by the end of the solo they were roaring. Mistoffelees tended to receive one of the largest cheers at curtain call, and the accolades were well deserved.

Mistoffelees appeared as a black and white cat for the entire show, but for his solo number his regular costume was switched out for one that was all glammy Vegas showgirl. It featured a light-up jacket covered in thousands of Austrian crystal beads. From what I heard, the jacket was heavy as hell due to the battery packs that lit it up; Mistoffelees always removed the coat before he did any strenuous choreography. The rest of the costume was bedazzled, too. Some of the crystals were sewn onto the ends of delicate strings of black tubular beads, which flared out, caught the light and sparkled as Mistoffelees danced. For his grand entrance in this costume, Mistoffelees spun down to the stage on a rope as he shimmered and twinkled.

Marlene Danielle, the actress who stayed with
Cats
for its entire eighteen-year run, mentioned the Mistoffelees beads in an article by Howard Kissel in the
Daily News.
She collected them, and her comment about them piqued my attention: “Can you imagine how much energy it takes to let these fly?” It made a lot of sense to me. How much energy
did
it take to dance so vigorously that your costume actually fell to pieces? The Mistoffelees beads weren’t just about beauty; they were about the raw power of dance and the love and commitment each performer brought to the role.

Before I worked at
Cats
I’d dreamed of getting my own Mistoffelees bead one day. Just one. And now I had. I closed my hand around the bead and ran up to one of the actresses who were in the auditorium. I knew what it was, but I needed to confirm it. I approached her without a greeting and stretched my hand out.

“Excuse me,” I asked breathlessly. “Is this a Mistoffelees bead?” She raised her eyebrows at me and peered into my hand. “Yes, it looks like it.” I thanked her effusively and scurried away.

I kept a closer eye on Mistoffelees from then on. I usually made a point of watching his solo, but now I focused on the light around his costume. Every now and then I saw crystals pop off the outfit and disappear; they resembled tiny flashes of lightning.

Billy got wind of my fascination with the beads. One night he presented me with a crystal that had rolled to his section of the stage and promised he’d look for more for me. It wasn’t an easy task. Several actors, in addition to Marlene, collected the beads, and when one fell there was usually a scramble to get to it.

I doubted that the cast could collect every single bead that popped off Mistoffelees’ costume, and surmised that some of them had to be strewn about the set. I didn’t feel comfortable going onstage between shows, but I certainly could look
around
the stage in the seating area. During the downtime between matinee and evening performances, I crawled around the seats in the front of the orchestra, looking for beads that might have bounced into the crevices and cracks. There were so many places for beads to hide on the edges of the set, after all. I found crystals in the ridges of the tires, on the rims of the bottles; nestled in the folds between the ramp and the carpet. Every now and then I discovered another treasure: tiny pieces of ripped fabric from the Gumbie beetles’ iridescent wings; sequins from the Siamese cat costumes from the “Growltiger’s Last Stand” scene; the slim black beads that attached to the Mistoffelees crystals. I started bringing a small pillbox tin to work with me to store the beads I’d found.

I tried to scout for beads as often as I could. Everyone knew what I was doing; nobody cared one way or the other. The beads were trash once they hit the floor; if they weren’t reclaimed they were going to a landfill somewhere.

“What are you
doing?”
I looked up. Julius, who played Mistoffelees, had come onstage and was peering down at me with a puzzled expression. I was in the middle of my post-matinee bead hunt, and I was on my hands and knees in the orchestra section.

“I’m looking for Mistoffelees beads,” I answered. I realized too late that I had just informed Julius that I was essentially looking for pieces of his costume, but it wasn’t creepy like that.

”Ah,” he said, and joined me. “Most of them are scattered around here. Come on up.” Once a performer had invited me, I felt comfortable going onstage. Julius and I scoured the set, crawling around by the television set and the old car.

”Here, let’s look in the tire!” We hopped up on the large tire, upon which Grizabella ascended to the Heaviside Layer at the end of the show, to continue the search. We found some beads stuck in the seams, but neither of us were able to jimmy them free.

“Hang on,” said Julius. He hopped down from the tire, scanned the floor for a moment, and came back with a handful of long black hairpins. The actors in
Cats
used scores of pins to secure their wigs on their heads; apparently they ended up getting scattered all over the place. Julius and I worked to delicately snag the beads on the hairpins and lift them out of the tire. It was like playing a theatrical version of Operation, sans buzzers; and it was something I’d never have dared to do on my own for fear of getting in trouble.

At one point I realized how utterly, wonderfully absurd it was to be stretched out on an oversized tire on a Broadway stage, exerting such exacting effort for small crystal beads that were probably covered in dust. And then I went back to helping Julius with the excavations.

Several people crossed the stage during this procedure, including, to my recollection, the house manager. Nobody seemed a bit surprised to see an actor and an usher searching for Mistoffelees beads. At the end of our hunt, I had a lovely handful of them.

Eventually I strung most of the crystal Mistoffelees beads together. Some of the loose ones still reside in the old pillbox tin, though. Every now and then I pick them up and hold them in my palm, and I think I can still feel the energy that helped them break loose.