The Religion of the Theatre

The women reciters in Rasmussen’s The Recited Qur’an have an undeniable degree of power. They can become leaders and politicians on the strength of their recitations alone – through their literal voice. It must be noted, however, that many of them reject traditional femininity (or at least the Western concept of femininity) in their recitations – “it is men who indulge in the freedom to display virtuosic showmanship and creative emotionality. During the moment of performance women opt for modest confidence over dramatic showmanship, which is the territory of their male counterparts” – where men are allowed to be emotional, women tend to be more withdrawn. They are given the chance to intellectualize their recitations, to display their knowledge.

I can’t say that I understand this perfectly, but I do know that the moments in my life when I have felt the most power have been the times when I’ve embodied a more authoritative character on stage. Typically a man. 

My older sister introduced me to the theatre when I was five years old. She asked me if I wanted to be in our town’s production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. They needed four kids to play a dwindling flock of sheep. In one song, in which the Sons of Jacob pick off their sheep one by one, I was picked to be the last sheep. I got the most stage time. I got to sit on stage that entire time, feigning shock each time one of my fellow sheep were plucked off, before I, too, was carried off in the next song. 

As I write, my exit line still echoes in my head. The eleven brothers, all my sister’s age or older, would sing in their rumbly baritones that they were “down to their ve-ry last sheep” and the woman playing the narrator would hoist me up and scamper off stage right, where I would be left with one of my sister’s friends, who kept an eye on me until my sister was done onstage. That moment, tiny as it was, was all it took for me to become utterly devoted to the theatre. It was my conversion experience.

Theatre is, in a sense, a kind of religion. It requires intense devotion, faith in others, and there is no end to the ritualistic practices and superstitions known to the theatre community. I still shiver at the name “Macbeth” and sometimes forget that it isn’t usual practice to hope that someone breaks their bones (sure, people usually recognize that one, but they’ll still look at you weird). And, if you follow my extended metaphor and accept that theatre is religion, then monologues and soliloquies are our sermons, and eleven o’clock numbers are the most divine of hymns – and those who get to perform them must be truly blessed by the theatre gods.

As an actor, whether or not you are a singer, as well, your voice is your greatest asset. You are taught both how to harness it and how to care for it; to speak from your diaphragm, to give yourself rest days, to refuse dairy products the day before a performance. You are given lectures on proper diction and practice so many tongue-twisters that you are nearly in a trance at the end of every vocal warm-up.

Though many might think your body is the most crucial aspect of a believable portrayal, I would argue that it is, in fact, the voice that makes a performance truly impactful. After all, I can scarcely remember the eleven men from Joseph, but I can still summon their harmonies. If your emotion does not come through in your tone, it doesn’t matter if you can cry on command, or that you have perfect control of your eyebrows, or that every thought in your head is transmitted to your eyes. Most people in the audience won’t see that. Nearly everyone will hear you. 

In my senior year of high school, I was in The Sound of Music. I was cast as Herr Zeller, which required me not only to be authoritative, but also to be villainous. Herr Zeller is, after all, a Nazi. My appearance did not (and does not) match the character. I was shorter than some of the Von Trapp children, and I was made to wear a leather jacket that, while big enough to mask any feminine features, made me look like someone who had been given a piece of clothing that they hadn’t quite grown into. I was not exactly the most intimidating figure, no matter how hard I tried. A confident gait and soldier-stiff posture will only get you so far. I was dependent on my voice.

How successful was I? I can’t really say (you're rarely the best judge of your own performance), but after one show I was given the dearest compliment anyone could’ve given me. An older man saw me as I headed backstage to change back into street clothes. He stopped me to say:  “You did so well, everyone in that room hated you.”