On their path to graduation, all Villanova Theatre second-year students complete an Orals project - the equivalent of a Master's thesis - in a chosen area that they have studied over the past two years. Options range from academic to artistic and have taken on many forms over the years. Sarah, currently playing Sarah (you can't make this up) in Villanova Theatre's upcoming Michael & Edie, is exploring the challenge of playing a character with a expansive mental and emotional life in a particularly confined space. Below, Sarah discusses the joys and pain of the Michael & Edie rehearsal process.
SARAH: As another rehearsal
flies by one blustery Tuesday night, our director James Ijames has a sudden outburst:
“Man, everyone in
this play is just having the WORST time!”
We all break out
laughing, primarily because of the fervor with which he says it, but also
because of the truth of this statement. These characters are embroiled in unrequited
love, simmering in grief, pursued by fear. In short: they struggle.
Take my character,
Sarah, for an example. She lives in a bathtub. I don’t mean that she sometimes
lingers a few minutes in the shower, postponing the moment when she has to step
out into the cold air. I mean that she has literally taken up residence in the
family bathtub, ensconced in unwashed blankets and sporting perpetually
unwashed hair. Why, you may ask? That is exactly what I have been figuring out
through the process of rehearsing for Michael & Edie.
Sarah is not feeling
well. It is not a physical illness per se – her stomach is not upset, and she
doesn’t have the sniffles. Her malaise is more of the emotional and
psychological variety, which confuses and upsets her. Portraying the symptoms
of depression has been a huge challenge, and, I think, an important one. The
world of the play is like a magical little snow-globe where the characters chase
their dreams, but Sarah feels as though she is on the outside of that snow-globe
gazing in, her breath making clouds on the glass.
Playing a person who
is dealing with physical and emotional isolation has awakened me to the reality
that many people are facing those exact challenges every day. Over the few
weeks that we have been working on this production, I have been so thankful for
the dramaturgical assistance of Sarah McAfee, who has helped me to immerse
myself in the circumstances of mental illness, and, at the same time, to
understand that it is Sarah’s obstacle, not her identity. She is so much more
than that: she is sarcastic, she is intelligent. She hates lemon meringue pie
and loves arts and crafts. She vibrates with need and with hunger and with a
certain amount of chaos.
Playwright Rachel
Bonds’ wonderful script has been a delight to engage with. Her dialogue is as
delicate and specific as the crystals of a snowflake. As every word falls from
my mouth, I feel closer to Sarah and her desire to penetrate the glass that
separates her from the world. When dealing with a piece that toys with whimsy
and magic at every turn, it is jarring to hear the truthful naturalism with
which the characters speak. I enjoy being able to tune in to the world of the
play through the deliciously modern language, which reads like a beautiful poem
peppered with “ums” and “wells” and “ohs.”
Ultimately, my
favorite part about this truly enriching rehearsal process has been the
intimacy of the show, which has allowed for me as a performer to really examine
my relationship with each of my fellow actors. It is the kind of play that
demands this examination of a fellow human being. It demands that we feel each
other out. Notice each other. Sense each other’s “textures and temperatures.”
It asks that we not just make eye contact with each other, but notice each
fleck of icy blue hovering within the smoky indigo iris of each eye like a star
careening through an endless cosmos. It wants us to drown in that cosmos in the
hopes of finding understanding there.
It is a whole universe, floating inside a
bathtub.
I love the smell of books. Even more the smell of old books. And, in particular, the books that I have from my grandmother’s house. In addition to the vaguely vanilla and marzipan overtones lurks a piney, smoky remnant from where the books lived in the built-in bookshelves over the fireplace. They remind me of home. 
In centering the journeys of Michael and Edie between the shelves of a used bookstore, Rachel Bonds evokes the creaky, dusty familiarity that the old tomes represent. The location itself becomes a malleable character, a shelf to be rearranged and highlight the best and most interesting volumes. The bookstore becomes a haven, a blotch of sunlight for these characters to ride out the tempest beyond the door.