Appearing on stage as part of the cast of Fame The Musical seemed like a great adventure, until Rosemary Mac Cabefound herself under the lights with a severe case of stage fright, dancing in a fat suit and heels
I WONDER, as I emerge from Grand Canal Theatre on Friday, if I am in the position to advise people undergoing radical surgery not to watch the Medical Channel before the operation. I conclude that yes, I am. Don't watch the Medical Channel before surgery. Don't go to see Fame The Musical24 hours before you are due to have a part in Fame The Musical.
As the cast belts their way through the tunes and bound enthusiastically across the stage on Friday, I imagine my own stumblings, walking in front of people and high-kicking my way through the show.
When I arrive on Saturday, with three hours until showtime, I expect my fears to be allayed. Instead, I am informed that things have changed since my only walk-through, four weeks earlier, and my careful rehearsals count for nothing.
My first costume, for my role as a teacher, is a grey dress and a pair of back-breakingly high shoes. So far, so Friday night.
Next? There is nothing that prepares you for the moment a man gives you a fat suit.
“It’s just a bit of fun!” chirps Johnny Palmer, head of wardrobe, before collapsing into fits of laughter. “Try it on!” I attempt to shimmy into this sumo-like suit but in truth, there is no shimmying – I huff and puff, then admire my ample assets before putting on my dinner lady jacket and shoes.
“Where did you get these?” I ask, indignant at the sight of these clog-like contraptions. I bend over to put foot in shoe and: SNAP! My jacket can’t take the pressure and has given up the ghost (cue more laughter).
Once the costumes are perfected it's time to run through Hard Workwith David Hayes, musical director.
It’s all “darling” and “honey” from this crew. Everyone except Hayes, who guides me through the tune four times before I’m ready. I’m given a microphone and a little flattery – “thank God you can sing” – from Hayes, and it’s over to director Bryan Flynn to run through my cues.
He cuts to the chase. “Can you salsa?” This may be the most terrifying question I have ever been asked. I attempt a joke. “No, but I can do the merengue!” No dice – which, in hindsight, is lucky, as I can’t do the merengue, either.
We’re talking about the finale, during which I am to dance my way up between the four teachers, “then salsa in a figure of eight around them”.
The salsa is the most complicated thing I will do and I steel myself for some serious rehearsing, but it seems as if we’re done. “You’ll be fine!” I get the distinct impression no one wants to tempt fate by making me salsa twice in one night. Back to Palmer, then, to put on my game face.
"Just a little bronzer!" he says. I sigh despondently. I had spotted some false lashes in the corner and hoped I might be their worthy recipient, but apparently teachers in Fame's School of the Performing Arts have more important things on their minds than eyelash-batting.
They say time flies when you’re having fun. What they neglect to mention is that time also flies when you’re awaiting the call for your first stage performance.
Chris Jeffer, one of the male ensemble, approaches, wearing the tiniest pair of pants this writer has ever seen. “Are you nervous?” he asks. “I am now,” I reply, and he pirouettes into the distance.
I’m in some kind of dance-induced trance when Michael Sands, who plays acting teacher Mr Myers, grabs me by the hand and pulls me up the stairs to my first scene.
Teacher stands on balcony, observes students. Teacher walks down spiral staircase (briefcase in left hand, I decide), chats to students. Teacher exits stage left. (Teacher, naturally, steals show.)
What actually happens is that I step onto the balcony, where the chances of anyone noticing me are minute, and endure what I suspect it feels like to experience heart failure. I’ve always been cynical about stage fright, so to find my heart beating faster than ever before and my face going a violent shade of magenta (thank God for piles of bronzer) is a sobering experience.
MY MOMENT IN THE SPOTLIGHT lasts around a minute – although the walk down the spiral staircase feels as if it takes 20. Briefcase in hand, I attempt to alight with grace and dignity. Instead, there’s a bit of clomping, after which I “chat” to my students and exit stage left.
I take a few deep breaths before getting into the fat suit. Palmer is still laughing as we tug it on under my dress and, hey presto: dinner lady extraordinaire.
“You go on with Victor and come off during the first verse of the solo,” says Lucie Ryan Donnelly, who usually dons the dinner lady jacket and is now giving me directions. I nod and, again, sit in the wings to await my next moment of glory.
But, hang on. Who’s Victor? “Victor’s the cart.” Of course. I have no idea what solo she’s talking about, but there are people charged with pulling Victor offstage, so I figure I’ll stick with him.
This is my longest scene – save the finale salsa shame – and I intend to enjoy my moment of glory. “Can I help you?” I ask as students crowd around the cart to collect their delicious meals of plastic fries and polystyrene burgers. My composure lasts about two minutes until I get flustered again and start smiling like a maniac. I can’t control myself so I take a tray and wander out to clear some tables. I’m not quite sure what’s going on around me, as I have spied an empty crisp packet I’m going to clear up. I’m dedicated to the job, if nothing else.
I have barely been reunited with Victor two seconds before he is wrenched offstage – and I with him. So it’s out of the fat suit and back into the heels.
For my last scene, I’m on the balcony with Paul Monaghan, who plays music teacher Mr Scheinkopf. We stand, we point. We nod sagely at one another.
I think, for a wild moment, that I’d make quite a good teacher. I feel quite protective of my crowd of students, below me in the school corridor. I wonder if they will . . . Suddenly, I feel a hand on my elbow and I’m offstage again.
I’m starting to resent these fleeting moments on stage. I mean, I wouldn’t mind a line, or maybe a song – nothing fancy, but Hayes did say I could sing. After all, it went rather well, I think. I didn’t do anything wrong, and I didn’t even fall down the stairs.
These thoughts run through my head as I wait for the finale, my salsa extravaganza. Left, right, left-right-left – I’m sure I’ve heard that somewhere. Salsa is, I think, just like walking, but with some skirt-whooshing and, you know, Latin spirit. I can totally salsa.
Afterwards, my friend commends me on my performance. “I loved you in the fat suit!” she says. “Your head looked tiny!” I should wear a fat suit more often. “And look – they may not remember your name, but the audience will definitely remember your mad pony trot at the end.”
Fame: It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
Fame The Musical runs in the Grand Canal Theatre until September 12, followed by a nationwide tour. See famethemusical.ie.
