This week I twice saw Hadestown, the musical, at a local high school. The director (26 years? 27? on the job) is talented, experienced and came back in a big way after a long stretch of burnout. She loves the show they made, in large part because the students were ferociously passionate about the theatre they were creating. For context, this was a high school show during which there was NO BACKSTAGE DRAMA. Unheard of! Miraculous, even. The director was inspired and energized by the student performers’ commitment, and told me that the process was an absolute joy.
Now, the epilogue to the play comes after the bows, a song during which the cast toasts to the story that was just told.
“My praise is not for them
But the one who blooms in the bitter snow
I raise my cup to him.”
They continue: “I raise my cup and drink it up, I raise it high and dry - to Orpheus and all of us, Goodnight, brothers, goodnight.” The entire cast (and in this production, the tech crew) are onstage with cups, and as they sing they toast the audience. There was a hint at the very beginning of the show, during the recorded announcements, that the audience would be welcome to raise their cups as well - but that happened nearly two hours before the end, and most people weren’t really listening anyway. Wednesday night I lifted my water bottle in a return salute during the ending song and maybe one or two others did as well - everybody moved on and didn’t think much of it.
Except for the lead’s mother.
I came back Saturday night, closing night, and at the intermission several women stood up and started passing out black solo cups to each member of the audience. “It’s for the end,” they said, “a surprise for the cast.” We went through the drama (onstage) and tragedy of the second act and got to the curtain call. Initial bows, and then Persephone began “I Raise My Cup.” It’s a haunting song, lovely and melancholy and a little bit hopeful. Each time a lyric line referenced “raise my cup” at least a few members of the audience lifted a bottle or black solo cup, and you could see cast members looking a bit quizzical. And then the final verse, “I raise my cup to him” and the majority of the audience lifted their cups in response. And those students, who had poured their hearts and souls into the performance of an odd, tragic, musically difficult story experience*, broke down in tears. They somehow managed to finish the song, even while sobbing. I’m tearing up again just trying to describe it.
There is something we all know about live theatre, even if only subconsciously: the audience is out there, taking in the performance, and in the best of times responding in a way that resonates with the efforts and passion and objectives of the actors. My friend, the director, recorded this particular curtain call while sobbing herself; I just wish someone onstage had been able to record the audience from the cast’s perspective while they felt the power and emotion of the theatre experience everyone had just had actively reflected back to them… with black solo cups. Orpheus’ mother knew that theatricality could respond to theatre and amplify a performance that wasn’t performative at all, providing props and perfect timing. We, audience and actors, all took our cues and made an indelible connection, completing the ideal theatre exchange.
The show is over, but that moment (one of many) will live on. That’s the beauty of live theatre.
