by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR

When attempting to undertake a new endeavour I often marvel at the sheer extent of my total obliviousness to protocol. This cavernous ignorance extends to such commonplace social activities as attending theatre, which I’ve taken up in my old age. So in order to ensure fewer people endure the social discomfort I underwent, I thought I’d scribble out an idiot’s guide to attending theatre in Montreal.

As a newbie watching the curtain rise, you might suddenly realize that everybody’s evening could be ruined by your slightest utterance. It would be social suicide to make noise, but you’ll suffer the demonic urge not unlike that which makes you want to jump out of a tall building or jump in front of the metro. Tame the temptation to stand up and blurt out Tourette’s-style non-sequiturs. I’m constantly amazed that entire theatres-full of people can contain their disruptive impulses.

Drama de-stimulates the reticular formation. Theatres are dark and quiet and the chairs are comfy (except for the ass-numbing seats at Théâtre Prospero). This can be a problem if you’re known to snore. Dozing off is particularly bad if an actor is staring right at you, as happened to me a few weeks ago at the production of Au bout du fil at the Quat’Sous. In this play, a bunch of adults talked like children while holding sticks with strings. They were pretending to be children fishing. I was pretending to not be drifting off into dreamland. A woman onstage locked eyes with me during her lengthy soliloquy. I tried hard to keep peepers peeled during this eye-contact-intensive moment. But sadly the weighty eyelids won. When I reopened my eyes she was still talking but looking elsewhere.

If you sit in the front row, prepare for the possibility of stage spittle. Not to name names, but a few weeks ago at the Espace Go, the actors of Oreste, dressed as ’80s punks in Ancient Greece, could have put out small fires with their spraying ways.

Another piece of advice is to know in advance if there’s an intermission. I was halfway out of the Centaur during Mambo Italiano before sheepishly slinking back into my seat to hear the second half of Steve Galluccio’s coming-out story (I notice the program describes Galluccio as a “staple in Montreal’s theatre community.” I guess it’s good to be “a staple” nowadays).

Another piece of advice: avoid Molière. And steer clear of the Théâtre Denise-Pelletier. Unless you’re right up front, the only play you’ll be hearing is the chatter of hundreds of high school students bused in to watch the performances.

Be suspicious of unscripted works. One of these offending productions was a much-government-funded thingy called Unrehearsed Beauty last fall, where five slackers gabbed off the cuff for a while before trying to get a discussion going with the audience. A few audience dullards offered rambling, worried speeches about the environment. As people started sneaking out, the actors ended it but not before venerable granddaddy of local drama Maurice Podbrey stood up and blasted the performers. “I didn’t come here to listen to audience members talk about motorcars,” he said in a pained South African drawl. “I came to see a play.”

About half of all plays stink, unfortunately. Other productions achieve overarching beauty, such as The Glass Menagerie and Salt-Water Moon at the Saidye Bronfman, the Black Theatre Workshop’s Common Man’s Guide to Loving Women, Six personnages en quête d’auteur at the Quat’Sous and just about anything at the Nouveau Monde.

Student plays are generally worth attending. Not so the Centaur’s fare, which lives up to its rep as the house of dreck, serving plays such as Freeze and Art, all of which make the Partridge Family look daring in comparison.

The final drama attendee’s axiom is, there’s never any consensus. Some will love what others hate. A friend even described as a masterpiece that play where grownups dressed as kids and fished. “Yes, yes, hmm-mm,” I replied, knowing that I missed a good part of it. :

Comments? kgravy@openface.ca