THE SPOON RIVER PROJECT

Greenwood Cemetery, Brooklyn

You may or may not be familiar with “The Spoon River Anthology” by Edgar Lee Masters. It’s a collection of short free-form poems, each of them an epitaph for a deceased resident of Spoon River, Illinois. What makes them remarkable is the epitaphs are delivered by the spirits of the dead themselves. Usually no more a page or two, it’s as if each phantom resident was granted a minute or two to pass along their life lesson; their dreams, their loves, their losses, their regrets. These “ghost stories” overlap and intertwine, and what emerges is a rather scandalous picture of life in Spoon River. It is both heaven and hell; its idyllic beauty and peaceful aura are also home to the claustrophobic and often cruel nature of life in a very small town. Every story of lifelong love and joyous piety is countered with an equally powerful tale of murder, rape, and idle gossip turned deadly.

In short, it’s an actor’s wet dream.

Though not a play, I was introduced it by my instructor at the William Esper Studio. It’s a goldmine of wonderful material for emotionally charged material for monologue work and character study.

Over time it’s been adapted into many stage versions, both musical and non, the latest of which was being performed in the historic Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn.

At midnight.

I was sold.

So, I weaseled Mister Brad into tromping off into the outer boroughs in the dead of night. I knew this wasn’t going to be a “horror” piece. Yeah, they’re all ghost stories, but not THOSE kind of ghost stories. We were fortunate to be joined by Sandra (our very 1st ScreamQueen of the Week!) and her hubby Matthew.

Also included in the ticket price was a tour of the newly opened catacombs, so we boarded the trolley (this cemetery is HUGE!), flashlights in hand and the spirit of adventure in our hearts.

Exploring the catacombs was quite exciting, particularly the tomb with one of the marble slabs broken away! The 10-minute stroll among the moonlight headstones was peaceful and introspective, complimented by the spot-on perfect weather that we were blessed with that night.

The show was perfectly respectable. I knew that by it’s very nature, it wasn’t going to be chock full of thrills. I figured it was going to be a serene and occasionally heartbreaking experience, which it absolutely was. Watching the actors emerging one-by-one through the rustling trees and over the grave-covered hills, carrying dim lanterns and singing traditional folksy hyms accompanied by live fiddle and organ music was genuinely breathtaking; eerie, yet warm and welcoming as well. The acting was perfectly fine; though the women overall were rather superior to most of the male actors. It was a lovely evening with good friends in an oddly magical spot under a perfect summer sky. My only beef was that for a midnight show (that started 30 minutes late), it was a bit overlong with too much music. The homey hymns were charming, but when it’s getting on 1:30 in the morning, they started to morph into lullabies.

Look out….now I’m going to get bitchy.

Unfortunately, the predominant memory I took away from all of this is of the actor who ruined our evening by crassly yelling at us in what can only be described as a “diva fit”.

As I said earlier, we had to be transported to and from the “stage” by a trolley. Just one trolley. This wasn’t a problem coming in since the tour of the catacombs had broken up the speed in which the audience was arriving. However, everyone trying to leave at once overloaded the trolley system, so it had to make several return trips…a 10-minute wait each time.

Brad smoothly ditched the rest of us, snagging the three millimeters of standing room on the second trolley, leaving Matthew, Sandra and I to fend for ourselves. Now keep in mind, it getting on towards 2am by this point . we, along with everyone else, were happily conversing on the side of the trail waiting for the tram to come back…until I heard a commotion coming from the staging area. One of the actors, Tom Mahon was waving his arms yelling at someone to “shut the hell up!” .

I start looking around to see who he was yelling at when I realized with horror it was us! If it had ended there, I might not be as miffed, but alas it did not. Tom Mahon continued ranting that they were “trying to do something down here, and we can’t do unless you stop being so damned rude and let us work. Now, for god’s sake, SHUT UP!!”

Since we were now all shamed into inexplicable silence waiting the now interminable 10 minutes for the trolley to come back, I had lots of awkward silence time to try to figure out what had just happened. Now, the best I could muster, they seemed to be trying to get portions of the show on videotape.

However, Mister Tom Mahon, you might have considered this before you made an ass of yourself.

I appreciate that it was 2am, and you and the crew were trying to get something accomplished so you, Tom Mahon could go home. Perhaps we were being too loud. However, no announcement had been made letting us know there was still work being done on set. Had we known that, I’m sure everyone would have been happy to comply. All I know is that I was standing in a large group of people, also eager to get home and standing in a cemetery in the middle of the night, yet happily discussing the show we had just seen and enjoyed.

However, afterwards no was talking about the play anymore. They were talking about you, Tom Mahon and how awful you made us feel.

Almost a week later, that is the memory that sticks with me about that entire evening. Not a single moment of the show. Everyone’s hard work and commitment to the project was instantly eclipsed by your shockingly immature behavior, Tom Mahon. I suppose it was fortunate that the show was now closed, because I do plan on sending a copy of this to the producer and director of the show, because you Tom Mahon single-handedly ruined the entire experience, not only for my group, but for all of us that night left standing mutely on the hill; confused, mortified and very, very angry.

By the way, that’s his picture at the top there. TOM MAHON Just so you all know what he, Tom Mahon, looks like.

By the way, Tom Mahon. you should know that Sandra said that you’re a huge douche-canoe.

I don’t exactly know what that means, Tom Mahon, but as my grandmama used to say:

“If the douche-canoe fits…paddle it.“