Making a scene in public: What could be more freeing?
In my quest to write my very own Hollywood ending, I decided to start with a typical L.A. opening -- acting class.
Now, I’ve always been more of a script-and-blocking kind of gal. Flying by the seat of my pants tends to land me as the butt of some joke. So it was to be improvisation for me.
Off to the Groundlings School I went. There I was in the class, making eye contact with my scene partner, acting and reacting, using nonexistent items and spewing appropriately random phrases.
The exercises and lessons liberated me from the constant internal vetting and silenced the inner critic keeping me from saying the clever and astute things I think.
Then I had an epiphany.
All the world’s a stage, right? If you think about it, dating is merely an audition. And, really, it’s all improvisation until you get to know each other. There’s no script, and you might have had nothing to do with the casting.
Although I’m comfortable onstage, under the spotlight of a date situation, I have tended to feel a bit tongue-tied and clumsy with men who intrigue me. The disasters are documented -- and legendary -- among my friends.
For example, enter the shy guy with whom I went to a jazz bar. His pauses felt long enough for the entire population of a convalescent hospital to cross Sunset at rush hour. To fill the silence, I desperately resorted to reading alcohol labels -- aloud.
“Stoli ... Cuervo ... Bacardi ... Tanqueray ... Beefeater. Hey, look, they have Tia Maria.” I thought, “Man, please say something. Somebody stop me!”
Yes, that dating nightmare and others still haunt me, but
I believe improv has set me
free. So I now return to the
club scene, empowered and
confident I can handle anything. At Joya in Beverly Hills, two friends Paul and Laura were audience to my nascent skills in action. Here’s the setup:
My character: sassy vamp in her late 20s -- not really a stretch.
Michael: A droll, smooth-as-silk 33-year-old from Denver.
The premise: Boy meets girl -- and go.
The scene opens: It’s about 1:30 a.m., and the club is closing. Security attendants shoo people out under the glare of the invasive lights cutting the haze.
People four abreast push and stumble out an inch at a time, some using the traffic jam ahead of them to prop themselves up.
Michael and his friends talk to Laura. We had seen them earlier in the evening when we hit the dance floor.
“Hey, that guy is interested in you. But he thinks you’re with Paul,” she whispers to me, then giggles.
“He says you have a ‘glorious booty.’ ”
Normally, I’d just roll my eyes, shoot him a look and keep on moving. But he isn’t obnoxious and comports himself well. And I am in a playful mood.
I turn to Michael, and, with a raised eyebrow, I say with a slight challenge in my voice, “So I hear you are interested in something I have.”
He pauses a moment, considering the cheek of my comment. As we inch out of the club, we continue eye contact, and we “add information,” affirming each other’s contribution to the exchange (both improv imperatives). I’m actually bantering with ease.
We pass by the bar, and I don’t even glance at the labels for help.
In the parking lot, as we start the goodnight waltz, he says, “How come you’re single?”
I say nothing, still maintaining comfortable eye contact. “You probably have a boyfriend or husband.”
And after a beat, I reply with a sly smile, “Yeah, well, he’s here with his girlfriend tonight anyway.”
With a series of gentle kisses on my hand, Michael heads for the car.
And, scene.
Whew, I made it successfully through the warmup.
But I think I’ll still have to work through some preshow jitters to handle an actual date.
Michelle Maltais can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.
