The last scene in Can-can, Cole Porter’s quintessential musical of France’s golden age, was an explosion of song and dance that rattled the rafters of the, then, Honolulu Community Theatre in the early 60’s. I stood transfixed after every performance. Paul Tremaine, the technical director, loved the last scene, and we would come from the scenery shop near Fort Ruger to watch that last scene. I was transfixed! I thought at the time that it was a miracle to be able to do that on stage.
I thought that the feelings of the actors and dancers were the same as my feelings of joy, hope, excitement . . an escape from the anxiety of the teenage years, the uncertainly of the future, and the questioning of my own ability to do the remarkable things that my parents and grandparents had done.
Five Years later, I hid in theatrical scenery, ready to leap on-stage during HCT’s production of Where’s Charley, the lead dancer making a majestic entrance. I counted the measures of music to be sure that I would present myself at the right moment. Forty-three measures. However, this time I wasn’t sure if I had lost count somewhere in the thirties. I wasn’t one of those dancers who left things to chance . . like listening to the melody to determine the right time. I had to count! There was the anxiety of knowing that I might have lost count and what that might mean to the production number and the show! Zut Alors!
And, there was the anxiety of the tryout for the next show at the University of Hawaii the next day . . and a song I had to sing at a tryout at the Honolulu International Center. Not to mention the fact that my parents were on vacation, and I was responsible for looking after the house, even though I was living in a room in Auntie Julie and Uncle Han’s house during the run of the production. I think I even had a dentist appointment somewhere in there.
At that idyllic moment, amid the theatrical magic of Can-Can, I didn’t realize that it was only the audience that had a momentary escape from the pressure of living every day.