LONDON _ The actors came out with fabric covering their faces, each one apart from another. They found their socially distant marks and drove away the threatening rain clouds over their heads. A tense silence fell. And then the orchestra, so physically separate that the situation required the pitching of a special tent scores of feet away, began to play perhaps the most famous three notes in the almighty canon of rock opera, as birthed in the Year of Our Lord, 1970.
Da. Da. Da.
Trembling hands removed each face covering.
Da Da Da.
The actors turned their naked faces toward the heavens and took in such a palpable collective breath that it felt like all the masked audience, all of pandemic-torn London, the entire live-entertainment industry, all were sharing the same feeling of intense relief, the sudden conviction that it has not all gone sour for all time, as so many of us have been thinking, but that everything's all right, yes, everything's all right.
Or it will be soon. Artists have shown us the way.
And with that, on Thursday night in Regent's Park, "Jesus Christ Superstar" presided over the resurrection of the musical theater.
And, for me, a drought and famine that began on March 11 came to an unspeakably moving end.
This is personal and quite likely over the top, I willingly admit, but my moist eyes hardly were alone.
One young performer would say later that night that, until that moment, he had no earthly idea why he had become an actor. Suddenly, he said, just as those notes hit the air, and he had stared out at the little clutches of people huddled within themselves, watching, hoping, staking their claim amid the seats that could not yet be filled, he had realized that what he does is essential.
Amen.
This was the final dress rehearsal, the first (invited) audience at the Open Air Theatre in Regent's Park in the summer of 2020; we were, in fact, the first audience at any London musical since the lockdown. (What I am describing here has yet to happen in New York City or Chicago, mostly for reasons beyond the control of the theaters.)
Even the ushers, all wearing face shields, were staring, open-mouthed, at the stage.
The show was a reprise production from 2016, staged, weirdly but aptly enough, on the set of "Evita." As directed by Tim Sheader, this "Superstar" had originated here and subsequently moved in 2018 to the much grander setting of the Lyric Opera of Chicago, where it had been a big joyous hit and set for an American tour and, most likely, Broadway. None of that had actually happened. For the obvious reasons.
This time around, the show had been cast in days and rehearsed so quickly that the performers faced an audience without ever running the show once. It had been impossible, Sheader said at the start of the performance, to have enough actors in the same room to do that. No actor ever came close to another throughout rehearsal; the stage manager had kept a giant measuring stick to ensure that the British government's social-distancing guidelines had been maintained. Sheader had directed from behind a plexiglass frame. Everyone had been obliged to keep to themselves, on and off the stage. Rumor had it that Andrew Lloyd Webber, the public, pro-vaccination face of the theater's renaissance in London, was waving royalties. And that the public-health authorities were buying tickets to check all rules were being followed.
"You are the first audience," Sheader said at the start of the night. "We are back from furlough with a bang."
Tickets, which are all sold out now, have been restricted to less than 400 people in a 1,200-seat outdoor venue (the Open Air also has a lawn, which can accommodate a few more). Neither of the front two rows are being sold, ensuring enough space between actors and audience members. Audiences are required to wear masks for the entire performance, a very welcome reversal of the classist situation at most restaurants in the world's great pandemic-challenged cities, where the servers wear the masks and the diners have no such obligation. It feels better when the customers are being asked to take it upon themselves to keep the workers safe.
The resultant restaging had the unexpected impact of individualizing the ensemble. Instead of seeing them as one, as is traditional, you experienced what they were doing as, well, individuals. This is unspeakably emotional, since isolation is what we all now know.
Thursday was a final rehearsal but none of the small snafus had any relevance, really, except to deepen the humanity of the night. This was about a determination to bring back one of London's most crucial assets, to prove that this could be done safely, to offer succor and balm and leadership. And, indeed, this experience felt far safer than any number of other activities officially sanctioned on either side of the Atlantic _ dining indoors, drinking indoors, going to the supermarket, working construction, sitting on a crowded beach.
It is, of course, no accident that theater has been using spiritually inquisitive material in its attempted return (a small "Godspell" is currently underway in the Berkshires). This is a moment for such introspection and it serves as a reminder of just how good we all soon will feel when we can commune again without a screen.
All in all, this "Jesus Christ Superstar" (which, thanks to my late dad, just happens to be the first big West End musical I ever saw, in 1979) was at once familiar and extraordinary, a powerful reminder of the human ability to push on and transcend peril. To experience it was to realize that, as others find the courage to join this mission responsibly, everything artistic now will be experienced differently.
Maybe differently isn't quite the right word.
Everything like this now will be more valued. Trust me on that. You'll see soon.
