I took my kids (ages 4 and 6) to the ballet for the first time
this past weekend. As part of my parenting strategy, I began building the
event up starting mid-morning on Sunday and continued with unrelenting
pro-ballet fervor right up until the curtain gently rose at 2:00
p.m. Fervor and over-promising are two of my strongest parenting
techniques, often required for efficient bath time execution, as well as, the
struggle into ‘fancy’ clothes. Eventually, they will resent me for this
and realize I am just a ticket providing peddler of lies and misguided culture,
but for now it’s showtime!
It dawned on me during our preparation that secretly, I truly
dislike the ballet. There was a time in my twenties when I relished all
that was cultural (including ballet) and fancied myself some sort of
avant-garde, wine-drinking, yuppy-phile . In my more mature state (don’t
laugh), I have actually regressed and now prefer a nice combination of trashy
and sophisticated; like a fine Crozes Hermitage paired with a title bout UFC
fight. This sophisti-trash approach creates a strange sense of peace and
happiness (like having the largest 4x4 in the trailer-park). The point is
that I’ve tried to like ballet and just don’t, so I’ve placed it on my list of
things to avoid in life (i.e. Argyle). I digress.
In any event, we manage to make it to the theatre in pretty
good order - nobody has cried and everyone is excited to see Beauty and the
Beast as we know it (i.e., singing cartoon candlesticks).
Beauty and the Beast: Notes from Act I.
Once seated, I open the program and notice the following,
“Running time: approx. 2hrs 20 min”. As the curtain goes up my 4yr old
locks eyes with me…it’s understood between us men that this isn’t going to be
easy. Like two paratroopers making a nighttime drop deep into enemy
territory the silence between us tells it all. As the orchestra strikes a chord we hear the deafening hum of
the outside engines, the light turns green, the door opens, we feel the
wind…and know it’s unlikely we will both make it back from this.
Lots of leaping ensues. I notice princess ‘Belle’ isn’t
as cute as the cartoon Belle I remember but the pirouette is pretty solid so I
let it go. Where’s the talking candlestick?
I notice a small blue screen on the back of each seat. The
screen provides story notes during the show for those that may be visiting from
well, the moon, and are not otherwise familiar with the story. In some
sort of Rainman-ish repetitive frenzy my 4 yr. old keeps pressing the button below
the blue screen – I am now getting all messages in French. I don’t speak
French.
One row in front of us I see a child eating pretzels out of
her small Hello Kitty purse. My 6yr old inquires as to why this little
girl is allowed to eat pretzels when I had specifically told them that nobody
was allowed to eat in the theatre. I look to see if there is a red
phone on the wall to report this nefarious activity and hope that when they
come to take pretzel-eating satan-spawn away they bring the batons for good
measure. Pretzel inquiries continue deep into Act I.
I notice the French word for Beast is ‘Beast’. Cool.
4yr old is sweating, tired and now scared… the Beast is
terrifying, albeit a man in tights. I promise 4yr old bountiful treats at
intermission. Where is the damn talking candlestick?
Under the premise of being ‘wronged’ by the pretzel eating
troll in front of us, my 6yr old is now actively negotiating intermission
bootie on behalf of herself and brother. I am hoping to ink a collective
bargaining deal before intermission.
Intermission I.
In order to secure our rightful place in line for intermission
goodies, we streak up the stairs in a very un-theatre like manner.
It quickly occurs to me that this is not exactly Ringling Bros.
Circus…this is the ballet in all of its bourgeois glory. For those of you
that have read my circus post you may remember my historic disdain for the
expensive, flashing, seizure inducing orbs and light sticks they sell at the
circus. That said, as I survey the lack of ‘treats’ at the ballet and
reflect again on my ‘over-promising’… I now realize I would pay a circus freak
about $100 a piece for some glowing, flashy circus goodness.
I manage to divert a total meltdown with a cookie and two
Shirley Temples (with extra cherries). I divert my own meltdown with a
glass of cab which is quickly consumed within the allotted intermission time -
this induces a brief college flashback followed by hot ears. We are all
happy.
Notes from Act II.
As Act II starts it occurs to me that unless the Beast
flattens someone with a large mallet and, in turn, the victim re-inflates
himself by blowing into their thumb, I am going to lose my son quickly.
After intermission he’s like a soldier returning from leave…sure he’s had some
sugar and gotten to stretch his legs but he’s in no mood for
bullshit.
The Beast is getting scarier, I don’t know what Belle sees in
him and the French subtitles are not providing any insight. 4yr old
reminds me that he is not suppose to watch scary stuff and references the
Thriller video he once saw under my watch. I assure him Michael Jackson
is not in the show.
Pretzel girl in front of us is now eating Skittles.
Quietly, I wonder what the French word for ‘shoot me’ is.
Skittle inquiries continue until intermission part deux and I
recall without the aid of the blue screens what ‘Les Miserable’ means in
English.
Intermission II.
‘Yes’, another intermission… and all treat bargaining power is
long lost. In a desperate attempt to divert attention from the reality of
Act III, I build up the excitement of the orchestra pit and we make a
visit. 6yr old tells me she wants to play the bassoon someday and I make
mental note that bassoon playing daughters often require a significantly bigger
dowry.
4yr old remains speechless throughout intermission II.
Notes from Act III.
I have now learned that a protracted ballet will create a vast
array of emotions in the average 4yr old. My son has now seemingly
experienced every emotional state I can name: excitement, exhaustion,
inquisition, fear, hunger, sadness, remorse, curiosity, love, hate, despotism,
socialism, borderline personality disorder, and gas (not an emotional state but
notable nonetheless). Two more minutes into Act III he is asleep.
In the iridescent lighting of the blue screens, my daughter
and I share a high-five in celebration of my son’s slumber. My
daughter then leans over and whispers in my ear how much she likes the
ballet. As I savor her whisper two simultaneous events occur: #1) I swear
I hear skittle-pretzel-eating girl throw-up one row in front of us; and #2) the
Beast turns into a prince sparking a glorious dance.
As I sit there with my son’s sweaty head pressed against me I
decide to give the ballet another chance.
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