BASTA: Stridono lasso

Only Gus, a regular at tryouts before BASTA went bankrupt the first time, had an inkling of what was to come.

Supernumerary callbacks for the Big Apple Singing Theater Association’s spring production of Bison Don’t Cry were held later that night at the Mariachi Playhouse. Evan Ingersoll and his new comrade Gus Rippon were among the two dozen or so auditioners who’d made it to the second round.

Only Gus, a regular at tryouts before BASTA went bankrupt the first time, had an inkling of what was to come.

At around 9:30, the two found themselves standing onstage before a quartet of BASTA luminaries involved in the production: director/impresario Joey Piccata, assistant director Candi Boutin, conductor R.R. Spandez, and choreographer Vanessa Spoleto.

Picatta, who at the age of 42 had settled into a haircut the approximate size and style of a bonsai shrub and had recently started welcoming capes to his daily wardrobe, fancied himself a theatrical “visionary.”

He aspired to develop a progressive theory of acting that would not simply rival Adler’s and Meisner’s, but help actors (as he put it on his website) “explore the dimensions and psychodynamics of mutual trust and betrayal.”

He was particularly interested, in other words, in seeing what toying with the self-confidence of a player could achieve for his or her operatic performance. By artfully inviting a player to “hit bottom” (and even permit his or her own, spectacular embarrassment), all of the theater’s artifice and pretense could be dismantled.

This wasn’t just about vulnerability, he’d boast to his well-heeled, well-chosen, and extremely cultivated friends over dinner in his SoHo apartment. No, this was about revelation; this was about turning modernity on its cynical, overly affected head. This was—and here he’d gesticulate so grandly the stemware would tremble—about saving society.

And as he’d take pains to explain to the nervous auditioners now standing before him at the Mariachi, this was the methodology he was hoping to bring to Bison Don’t Cry in May.

“We’ll start as early on as possible on this type of training,” he sneered, strolling past Evan and Gus. “I’m well aware that many of you may be here because you love opera. But tell me: who among you truly loves trust play? Let’s see some hands.”

In truth, the fact that no hands went up was not necessarily a sign that callback participants were uninterested in Mr. Picatta’s technique. Evan, for one, had been through enough CB and DB therapy during his parents’ divorce to understand and even appreciate the therapeutic and salutary potential of psychology games.

But he was nervous on that stage, worried that the proceedings might involve some skills he didn’t have—or worse, outright shame him. For all of his surface insouciance, Evan feared the worst: that his audience would see fit to point and laugh.

“Some of you may feel embarrassed by all of this,” the director continued, “at least initially. However, let me assure you of one thing. Embarrassment is the life source! For in humiliation lies the kernel of our artistry…”

More pacing. Behind the whoosh of Piccata’s cape, Evan caught a couple athletic-looking men checking their watches.

“…And you’ll find that I expect the same raw vulnerability from my non-speaking supers that I do from my leading vedettes. Which leads me, gents, to a riddle I’d like for all of you to ponder. My good friends Zack Wedgie and Ro Clay have now outdone themselves with a top-notch, history-making romantic opera about two gay buffalo herders.

And it’s on my shoulders—as it’ll soon be on some of yours—to see that this is the best production BASTA’s ever cooked up. So tell me, how do we extract an authentic performance from our silent stage extras?”

Evan saw Gus timidly raise his hand. Joey Piccata looked over and grinned.

“Yes, you with the… wait, I believe we’ve met before, have we not?”

“We have,” Gus answered. “I always audition here, but no dice. But oh, Mr. Piccata, I’d definitely, definitely love to be in this—”

“But oh, I’m sure you would, Mr… what is it. 37?”

“Gus, my name’s G—”

“Yesss… Mr. Gus,” Piccata snorted. “So, Mr. Gus, can you tell me how we’re to maximize authenticity for this production, this crown jewel of BASTA’s spring season?”

“We do everything with intention?” Gus wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but remembered he’d read it somewhere.

“Sorry, I couldn’t quite hear. What was that?”

“With… in… tention?”

“Intention?” A loud guffaw. “Why, yes, yes. We always do everything with intention, Mr. Gus. Very good. But I’m talking about authenticity here; I’m talking about credibility. Fidelity! How do we render our performances faithful to our respective truths? No, wait, don’t answer that. Let me tell you.”

He marched to the front of the lineup. “Trust falls. Uncle. Leap frog. Marco Polo. My patented brand of tickle torture. And finally… we do lasso.”

Evan thought he’d misheard. Gus gulped. “‘Tickle torture’?” he whispered.

Evan surveyed the others standing with them at callbacks, a platoon of solemn faces under threat. To his right, about three men down, was one of the hottest dudes he’d ever seen, at least in person.

“Now, arrange yourselves in pairs, and for the rest of the evening, my colleagues and I will be observing how ready you are to make trust your primary instrument.”

The next hour was crammed with Piccata’s promised drills. As those in the audience murmured among themselves, Evan and Gus took turns falling backward into each other’s arms, goosing and tickling each other (not sexy), crouching down to leap stupidly over the shoulders of their partner (this last part proved a bit tricky for Evan, as Gus was apparently the clumsier of the two), and playing some sadistic form of “Mercy” Evan found oddly titillating—maybe the point?

Just before the last exercise of the evening, Piccata made his first cut. Evan and Gus (46 and 47) remained onstage, alongside roughly fifteen or sixteen other hopefuls.

“Alright guys. So who here has ever thrown a lasso before?”

Evan thought back to his time at Camp Wanatochme, where he’d spent many insufferable summer nights casting ropes over bales of hay, and nearly raised his hand. Then he realized how much better it’d look if he appeared a novice, like the savant who’d “never held a gun” before scoring three bullseyes. He kept his head down.

“Okay, so seeing what city boys we all are, I guess we’ll have to practice a bit. Now pair off, and I’d like each of you to grab one of these lariats. Will someone go fetch Philippe for me?”

Choreographer Vanessa Spoleto shot out of her seat in the front row and ran up the right aisle to the lobby. In a flash, she was back with a short, beaming man from Flanders.

“Philippe! Gentlemen, this man is here to teach us a few tricks—right Philippe? We’ll lasso, and then we’ll all practice calf roping each other. Are you ready?”

Never in his life had Evan felt so awkward as he did throwing lassos with the Flemish rodeo clown. Philippe was a very handsy trainer, turned out, and insisted on delivering his “lessons” from behind his students, arms encircling them, as he taught them to tie a honda knot and toss the nylon lariat at various objects onstage.

“Een momentje alsjeblieft…” he garbled. “Jaaaaaaaaa! Eet eez très très très goooooöëeeeeeeeed!”

Evan squirmed.

“Looks like you’re all really getting into the swing of it!” exclaimed Joey Piccata, thrilled. “How terrific. Now, let’s rope each other a bit, shall we?”

This seemed a bit dangerous to Evan. But, of course, it also seemed a bit… incorrect?

“Shit, man,” said Gus, looking askance at his partner. “You really gonna hog tie a brotha?”

Evan assured Gus he’d probably miss him, anyway.

Over a chorus of “Ow!”s and “Oh sorry!”s, Picatta looked over his potential supernumeraries, conferred with his colleagues, and made his final selection.

“Okay, this has just been terrific, all of you. And you’ve made my job very difficult, I must say… But not impossible. I’m about to announce those who’ve made the cut by number and corresponding name. The rest of you are free to try again next year. If you’ll be joining us for Bison Don’t Cry, please remember to leave us your measurements before you take off tonight—sorry, we forgot to ask for them on the registration sheet. Rehearsals start next month, March 5.”

“Oh, and also remember,” he continued, “if you have any questions, please direct them to Candi, my assistant. I don’t do phone calls.”

With a ceremonial sweep of the hand, the director of BASTA’s first gay bison herder opera roll-called his 10 supers. Evan Ingersoll and Gus Rippon were both cast. So were numbers 4, 14, 21, 28, 49, 50, 53, and 26, the handsome guy with the dark features Evan had spotted earlier.

His name, it seemed, was Nixon. Nixon Ben Mahmoud.

Illustration by Ben A. Cohen

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