Mr. Cellophane... Tear Down That Fourth Wall!

There is a delicate tug-of-war that is waged between an audience and the performers on stage. Not literally, although don't be surprised if in the next year some pioneering young producer pitches "Tug!" to one of the trendier spaces in Union Square. The audience and the performers agree to be tied together by a magical monofilament line forged of high-tensile suspension of disbelief. Every once in a great while, when the moons of Jupiter align just so, something happens on stage or in the audience that snaps this line and reminds everyone, ticket-buyer and Equity-member alike, that we are all just in the same big room, only some of us are yawning and fanning ourselves with Playbills and some of us are sweating under the hot lights and pulling out nose hairs to simulate real tears.

The simplest example of this phenomenon, and probably the most common, is the audience disruption. It is the least thrilling because anyone who has been to a cinemaplex in the last decade has encountered the quotidian annoyance of the errant cell phone ring or the "special needs outburst." Good name for a band, by the way, all you high school kids out there. Next is the technical difficulty, be it the little electronic boat that refuses to hit the iceberg, the crashing light-board which plunges the stage into darkness, or the actor dressed all in white with sudden "abdominal crisis" who suddenly clutches the seat of his pants and leaps off stage as if paying homage to Twyla Tharp. It is always followed by the booming voice over the PA, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing slight technical difficulties..." and for one beatific microsecond, everyone on stage and in the seats, the faithful and the atheistic alike, thinks they have heard the voice of God.

I would argue, however, that there is an even more powerful and insidious force that can blast the fourth wall to imaginary dust. And it is the stage giggle. If it occurs naturally it can elicit a mutual state of euphoria that strengthens the intangible bond between audience and performer and sends everyone home wiping away tears of bliss and disbelief. If abused, however, it can make the actor hang his head in shame and turn an audience into a mob seething with apathy. It makes apathy seethe, it's that strong.

First we should establish that, as a general rule, the people on stage should never be having more fun than the people watching from the house. There are cases past and present when this imbalance actually seems built into the show. If you've ever been in close proximity to an actor who has leapt into the aisle and is now only inches away, willing you with desperate eyes and a frozen smile to clap along, you know what I'm talking about. I must apologize on behalf of all actors and beg your compassion. We've all had to do it and, if you can imagine it, we like it even less than you do. These instances aside, let us explore the true nature of evil... the fake break.

Simply put, the fake break is when an actor pretends to break character and laugh, thereby trying to dupe the audience into believing that they are experiencing something special. It is cynical and manipulative and the only thing I can equate it to is eating McDonald's. You enjoy it while it's happening, but twenty minutes later that searing pain in your stomach lets you know that you've been had. Sometimes the perpetrator of the fake break is a genuine master of illusion. It is hard to blame an audience for shrieking with delight when this master is so "overcome" that he must turn upstage mid-line, exposing shoulders that shake and shimmy with uncontrollable glee. How can the audience know that this display is calculated and choreographed and that the master performs it night after night? The answer is simple. Look not to the master, but to the person third from the left. For there is a palpable, contagious energy on stage when something genuinely unexpected happens. The looks on every single person's face range from "I can't believe my very eyes" to "What? What did I just miss?" When the master performs the fake break, however, the faces say "Am I smiling wide enough" and "I think when this originally happened I was shaking my head like this." And that person third from the left is simply staring off into space trying to remember what they need to pick up at the store on the way home. That face is your tip-off.

This is not to say that I don't spend an inordinate amount of time and energy trying to break my fellow actors. I do. But I would argue that it's all in how you do it. The line between what is appropriate and what is inappropriate is razor thin. Gauging whether you've crossed that line is like judging whether or not something is pornography... you know it when you've done it.

If you are absolutely intent on causing a bit of stage mischief, the best tactics are the ones that are imperceptible to all but the saboteur and the intended victim. I'm sorry to say that this rules out the fly-by hand on the buttock, the small stuffed animal poking out of the costume, and of course plain old whispering when you're not supposed to. While these can be effective, I find them to be vulgar and anyone with a sense of honor should discard them. That leaves us with the art of subtlety. Ah, yes. It is far more satisfying to tease out that secret smile from your partner with nothing more than a lift of the eye brow or a slightly longer pause or an unexpected glance. My secret weapon is called "the creepy finger." Let your imaginations run wild on that one. Consider this anecdotal aside: one half of a famous comedy duo confided that after years of doing the same routine year after year, his partner could make him break by changing one digit in a phone number. That's power.

It is a giddy thrill ride, skirting the line between telling the intended story and having a little fun on the side. But there are times when the rolling snowball becomes an out of control avalanche. I have first hand confirmation of three Broadway actors unable to get through an all-important 11th hour scene of ratatat exposition due to unstoppable, snort-inducing laughter. Though they tried valiantly to plow on, inevitably it was up to one of them to break character and announce to the audience that they were going to go back and try it again from the top of the scene.

I personally lived the nightmare scenario of standing alone downstage in a pin spot, attempting to sing a solo in what should have been a pure, unwavering baritone. All of my past discretions caught up to me in one glorious ball of karma. I had been on the verge of giggling all night, and as I stepped forward in silence to begin I heard one small snort from someone behind me. The flood gates opened. What followed seemed to last an eternity as I snorted and warbled through the solo, blinking away tears, shaking my head and waving my hands as if to exorcize a demon. The laughter from behind me mingled with the laughter washing up at me over the orchestra pit and I felt the moment slip completely out of my control. I could do nothing hope to be put out of my misery. I'm not proud of it, but it was real. And everyone in that theater, on stage and off, was having the same shared experience... "Look at that idiot who just can't keep it together." Happy to oblige.