STAGE FRIGHT

Apparently, Alfred Hitchcock used to discuss his screenwriters' deepest fears over dinner as the first "courting" stage of constructing the concept for a potential movie project. Although he made a film called Stage Fright in 1950, I don’t believe the British director ever fully broached the subject of audience participation at the circus or theatre—a genuine fear of mine, and one I narrowly managed to avoid yesterday at a Christmas event I attended.

In what was one of the most fortuitous and timely "Curb Your Enthusiasm"-style heads-ups of my life, a record store owner friend of mine had already been to see the show and warned me that if I didn’t want to end up in a Christmas nativity scene, it might be best to sit in the centre of a row and avoid eye contact with the show’s central performer. Being 6'4" and about as easy to disguise as an elephant at the circus or a circus elephant, I did my best to make myself small while watching unwitting audience members ('victims') get plucked from the side aisles and dragged up onto the stage.

The two chairs beside me, initially vacant, were filled at the last minute by an unsuspecting couple who cackled away, blissfully unaware that audience participation was going to be a major part of the show. I felt as though I was watching a sort of audience participation version of Jaws, where I could see the shark long before anyone else realised their legs were about to be bitten off. It was strangely tense and added an unexpected layer of anxiety to the performance, leaving me less inclined to laugh and more inclined to watch on in silent horror.

I’m not entirely sure what it is about audience participation that unnerves me. I’ve performed in theatre productions in the past and have spoken at public events, but I think it may be the uncertainty—the randomness and lack of control over what I might be roped into.

Thankfully, there seemed to be a fairly nonplussed set of volunteers to carry out their nativity duties, including a shy Japanese woman as Mary, a robust "Joseph," and a balding man with a grizzly beard as Baby Jesus—an equally appropriate and inappropriate physical combination. Adding to the spectacle was an exceptionally enthusiastic man with glasses and a Unai Emery Christmas jumper, sporting a cardboard box decorated in green, playing the Green Man and repeatedly and confidently proclaiming his joyful mantra: “I am the Green Man.” I was in awe of his natural joy in assuming the role—clearly a man more mentally well-adjusted than I.

By this time, it seemed nearly half the audience had made their way onto the stage, and I began to wonder if this was, in fact, a deliberate psychological experiment designed to observe whether the remaining audience members would feel increasingly exposed as their numbers dwindled. Would we end up becoming the players for those on stage? My mind was wargaming all sorts of scenarios.

Whatever the plan, I’m grateful I managed to avoid stumbling around on stage. I’m even more grateful for the heads-up from my mate prior to the show starting, which has now inspired me with an idea for a Hitchcock-inspired short film. In it, the protagonist would be chosen to participate in a circus event, which would then spiral into a surreal, Fellini-esque nightmare bacchanalia with a dash of Jodorowsky and David Lynch. The film would culminate with the protagonist being returned to their seat—battered, bruised, and thoroughly traumatised.

This will be, for theatre and event-goers, what Jaws was to swimmers.