STAGING A SHOW OF CALM : Personal Camouflage Amid the Impersonal Tick, Tick of Terror

The musical’s first act was well under way, the cast scampering up and down a multitiered set. Suddenly, a muted hubbub of assorted noises came from somewhere backstage, followed by an announcer’s voice, very calmly informing us that there would be a pause in the show.

That was it. No explanations. No details. Cast members remained in place a few minutes, looking quizzical, then climbed down from the set and left the stage. The house lights came on.

What would you do? Most people just sat there, some silent, some talking with neighbors. But at least 50 of us got to our feet and headed for the aisles to find out what was going on. In my case, since I was leading a tour group, 25 theatergoing tourists would soon be asking me what happened. It was also only three days after the Rome and Vienna airport bombings, and I was apparently not the only one who was a little edgy.

Memory didn’t help. Just two years ago, I’d arrived here a few days after Harrods department store was bombed. Usually crowded shopping streets were fairly deserted, and there were a great many policemen on patrol. All the side doors at the National Theatre had been closed off, and everyone had to enter through the front door where guards set up tables to examine purses and bags.

Back to the present.

The problem turned out to be a glitch in the show’s revolving set, and the action resumed in 20 minutes or so. But my sense of unease didn’t dim with the house lights. Instead, I began thinking about the psychological aftereffects of unexpected violence. Both the randomness and horror of terrorism have affected more than travel plans. What used to be considered paranoia is today often considered prudence.

Earlier this month at Heathrow Airport here, soldiers wearing camouflage uniforms and carrying submachine guns were mingling with holiday travelers waiting to check in. As I said goodby to tour group members, I tried to appear as if soldiers wearing camouflage and carrying submachine guns were nothing out of the ordinary. If I acted calmly, I presumed, so would they. It appeared to work; nobody seemed frightened and the moment passed.

One antidote to anxiety, after all, is assurance that everything is just fine, and I’ve noticed a parallel increase these days in behavior designed to inspire confidence. On the one hand, travelers are looking more closely at one another and at one another’s hand luggage. (A continual refrain on Heathrow’s loudspeaker at mid-month was the announcement that any unattended package or suitcase would be removed immediately.) On the other, tone of voice has become extremely important, whether your microphone is backstage at a West End theater, in an airport lounge or in the cockpit of a 747.

Parents and teachers, of course, have long proven the value of appearing calm in a crisis situation, and the growing number of natural and distinctly unnatural disasters these days results in the need for wider use of such acting techniques. And before getting back to Los Angeles, I unfortunately had one last chance to hear a voice in authority attempt to establish tranquility.

The voice, alas, belonged to the pilot on my nonstop London-to-Los Angeles flight.

There we were, presumably just a few hours from home, when the pilot switched on his microphone. Please be alert, he said, because he had an important announcement. Our flight would make an unscheduled stop in Chicago. Just an oil leak, he said casually. This sort of thing happens occasionally, he continued. No big deal.

Well, at least we aren’t being hijacked, I thought. “At least we’re not being hijacked,” the man behind me quipped.

The pilot addressed us again as we circled Chicago’s O’Hare airport. Now folks, he said, we don’t want you to be nervous about the fire engines and ambulances that accompany us in. It’s customary in a situation like this, he said in that same confident, calm voice.

He landed the plane a few minutes later--to considerable applause--and canned music came on so loudly that many of us remarked that we preferred hearing about the oil leak. A flight attendant said he’d soon tell us if the problem could be fixed quickly or if we’d need to change planes, suggesting we sort of stand by until he had some news. Teen-agers meanwhile raced up and down the aisles, discussing the rock star who may or may not have been on board--opinion was equally divided as to whether the mystery man was a rock star or the friend of a rock star--while everyone else went back to sleeping, reading or killing small insects.

We were back in the air--on the same plane--about an hour later. We were, however, on that plane four hours longer than planned. There was no food left for the Chicago-to-Los-Angeles part of our trip, a weary stewardess explained. No drinks left either.

But I didn’t mind. By now I was ready for any twist of fate. I just settled back in my seat, adjusted my parachute straps, re-fastened my helmet and took another swig of Chardonnay from my canteen.