The Life Cycle

It always begins with a name.
Every high school musical begins its life cycle with the naming of a show. Even before its director holds auditions, the show is already cast in the mind of every prospective actor, down to the bit parts. Students conjure theories as to why the show was chosen; everything from student favoritism to office warfare is thrown in the spotlight. Students begin to vie for parts, contending that only they can play the part they covet well. Egos run high, and amicability runs low. Sabotage plots and revenge schemes are worked and reworked as the show’s birth comes near.
All this pent-up anxiety and frustration is let loose at auditions. The students, both new blood and old hats, step forward on stage and, fingers trembling, voices cracking, they squeak or belt out their audition songs. In the audience, the cutthroat nature of an actor reveals itself, as those awaiting their chance pan the performances of friends and peers, showing no mercy in their condemnation. Still after auditions are over, and the director and producer are left to assign roles, animosity courses through the crowds, only to be amplified at the sight of a cast list.
The list signals the break-away point for many. Those who are not happy with the outcome of their audition can be found fuming, muttering, and conspicuously avoiding the music hall, where the list is posted, shortly after reading the cast list. Some glare; some yell; some cry; some quit; and an admirable few swallow their hurt pride and join stage crew instead; but all fall away from the acting crowd for the duration of the show’s rehearsals. The lucky band who have been casted, however, cry openly, jumping up and down, overjoyed at their acceptance into the show’s cast. And yet, though they deserve their admission to the cast, they have a long way to go before they are ready to hit the stage.
The first weeks of rehearsal reveals a jaunty hodge-podge of talent. All those on stage are amazing singers, actors and dancers, but they are not a family yet. Directors and choreographers bounce maverick ideas off the students and each other. They stumble, unhurried, through intense maneuvers, and attempt to find meaning in their characters’ relationships. In a word, they are growing into their roles, and learning to work as one.
But halfway through the rehearsal schedule, panic sets in. The actors grow anxious, with much to do in very little time. Scenes fall apart, as the minds of actors become incontinent, rapidly forgetting all they have learned in the preceding weeks. With a whole act to block movements and dances for, and another act long since relegated to the far reaches of their minds, the actors and director become irritable and antsy, yelling and fighting and huffing almost constantly.
And it isn’t even hell week yet.
By the time Hell Week starts, the hell has already begun. The seven hours a day of rehearsal after school are clearly taking their toll. Voices are lost; children are crying; adults are pulling their hair out; actors and crew members engage in that bitter feud that only exists in the week before a show. Set pieces break every five minutes from the wear and tear placed on them by both the actors’ movements and quick scene changes. Deep scratches can be found in the stage, in the limbs of several members of the company, and in the relationships they have cultivated with one another. The chaos is so overwhelming, it seems nothing can redeem this motley band of quarreling hormone-vessels. Then all of a sudden, the turmoil dissipates.
An audience has a way of quieting all the anger and resentment the students have towards one another. When people come to see the show, the drama behind the drama is trivial, not worth the angst previously invested in it. Euphoria takes over. Everything falls into place, and the only tears on the faces of actors and crew members are those of joy, until the Sunday show.
Sunday runs much like any other show. Cast and crew perform their rituals: setting the stage, giving gifts to directors and senior cast members, listening to senior speeches and forming the well-loved energy circle. The show once again goes off without a hitch, and curtain call elicits a standing ovation from the audience. But after the final curtain falls, the waterworks kick in, and the whole cast sobs at the thought of leaving the auditorium, where they have poured their sweat and blood into every performance, and the family they have found in each other (which will last much longer than any show). Post-show depression takes hold, but there is no reason to fear—auditions for the next show will be held the following Tuesday, and the cycle will start again.