CHAPTER 24 – The Actor

The Cold Reading on the 24th took place in the Playhouse, with Min-Jun on the lights.

Unlike day one, the shortlisted students were ushered into the theatre and then handed their copies of the finalised script—the aforementioned “Syrian War Antigone”.

The setting of the scene was presented by the props and background that the theatre students had been making for the last two months—a press conference where Creon, the Defence Secretary, is interrupted by a righteous Antigone riding high on the populist backing for Polyneices’ whistle-blowing about war crimes.

Thankfully, only two props had made it into the Cold Read: a chair where Antigone sat before her confrontation, and a lectern for the Creon actor.

The entire script given to the students consisted of two A4 stapled sheets. They had 15 minutes to memorise or improvise the lines, as the dialogue was now entirely in modern English.

Without the need of her own urging, her [Emotional Intelligence], [Script Analysis] and [Memorisation] snuck in as a total package, allowing her to dig deep into the postmodern sister desperate to force her adopted “Uncle’s” hand.

“#8 and #12,” the voice of the instructor known as Mrs Tyker boomed across the theatre. “Will you please grace the stage first? Have you memorised your lines, or understood them enough to perform?”

Eppie checked her phone.
15 minutes exactly. Was this a test?

“Yes, Ma’am,” she bowed, then stepped onto the stage with her partner, a boy called Daniel Fan who had been her acting partner once or twice already. The boy gave her a “good luck,” then took his place behind the lectern.

After a moment, they both went neutral.

At Min-jun’s behest, a set of lights converged on Creon, then Fan began to speak, his booming voice echoing across the intimate theatre. “You DARE to accuse me? Antigone? Have you lost your mind? We are at War! Your brother is no ‘hero’. He was a soldier, and instead of obeying his orders, he compromised our military assets. He compromised the lives of his fellow soldiers to make a political statement! If he were here today, I would shoot him myself! And you march up here, with these demagogues, demanding that we extract him? Bring him home?”

In Eppie’s mind, she already knew what character she must play. Unlike the traditional Antigone, she had to be a little naive, a little more desperate, and a whole lot more righteous. In the modern era of the 24-hour news cycle and the sound bite, she would be heard not just in this room, but across America and the globe.

“Assets? Is that what my brother was to you? Is that what your nephew is to you? Sir?” her voice, sharp and churlish, snapped across the room like a belt. “You held my brother as a baby, Secretary Creon. You held me. You urged him to enter the military. You gave him his first Purple Heart. He wore the beret for you. You nominated him for his Captaincy. Now he’s an asset?”

In the modern world, public opinion ruled, and that was the crux of Eppie’s new character—someone who firmly believed that she could do no wrong because, from start to finish, a good subset of the American public staunchly backed her cause.

The two exchanged barbs, while invisible cameras filmed their interaction. Creon attempted to use the law, the protocol, and the military’s secrecy. Antigone didn’t care about all that. She just wanted her brother home.

“Damn your draconian laws!” she shrieked, her face red, her eyes swollen with tears. “Is that all you care about, Uncle Creon? Was that why our father died saving you? For the law? Polyneices did what he had to because it was your order. It was the LAW. Now four Syrian families are dead, and he’s down there all alone, surrounded by terrorists, and you tell me now that the same LAW has branded him a traitor?”

Her whole body was shaking. She was leaning forward. The voice from her chest reverberated across the theatre without a mic. Fan, the actor for Creon, was forgetting his lines and unable to retort.

“Another word,” Creon’s voice was a raspy mess. “And you’ll be facing federal charges.”

The warning fell on deaf ears for Antigone. Instead of anger, her whole body radiated disappointment via [Physicality]. It was a weary, profound sense of loss that the uncle she had known since childhood was gone, and in its place was a politician.

“Does a man’s security clearance override the dignity of the dead? The crimes committed against humanity?” Eppie fully utilised her [Vocality] to shout-whisper, creating both anguish and exhaustion. “Your laws say it’s treason. Doesn’t your law also protect whistleblowers? By what law do you bury my living brother in Syria? Is this how the DOD repays its service members? What are the other soldiers who are still there fighting to think of their illegal orders?”

The lights dimmed.
The scene was over.

Eppie panted, as did her partner.
One was overwhelmed, and the other was from utilising every skill she had on the roster.

“Well done,” Cooper’s voice rang out. “Exit stage right, we’ll post the results on the 26th, or issue Final Callbacks if we’re undecided.”

While Eppie went about her own business, the teaching staff conducted the rest of the auditions, then sat with their lunch and tea to discuss the students’ performances.

“Eppie.”
“Yep.”

“I concur.”

Cooper sighed. “It was a bad idea to use random draws again. We should have made Eppie go last.”

“Yes,” Tyker nursed her tea. “Our little girl isn’t so little on stage. She has a certain… gravitas? She doesn’t talk like a teenager. She sounds like someone who is used to confronting people with both power and wealth. But she’s only fifteen. You said she was a State Ward. Where would she even get this kind of experience?”

“Her physical acting is superb as well,” Costello said as he drank his tea. “She moved like a modern teenager, but she was also Antigone. It’s a little rough and unpolished, and the student acting breaks out now and then, but it’s already beyond Sophomore standards.”

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“She’s too dominant,” Cooper said after a moment. “Maybe with the Chorus Ensemble there, she can be toned down. Whoever plays Creon is going to suffer. Next year, I believe, we’ll need to do more ensemble work with the Seniors.”

“Agreed,” Tyker tapped her board. “For now, we give her this, and she carries the show. Is that wise? Can the other students follow?”

“Madison was a mess,” Cooper sighed. “After watching Eppie, that is. She’s our understudy, but I wouldn’t even count on that.”

“There are no second chances,” Costello shook his head. “She can’t handle the pressure, she can’t handle the show. It doesn’t matter if her level works better with the rest of the students.”

“Alright then,” Tyker circled Eppie’s name. “Let’s find our Creon and Ismene.”

LAPA.

The basement bunker.

In the evening, after the post-audition dates, the main building was largely abandoned, with students spending their time in the Old Music building, Whitman Hall, and The Playhouse.

However, the lack of use did not mean that the entrance was locked, as many of LAPA’s students stowed their textbooks in their lockers and may need to retrieve them as they studied on campus and prepared for their rehearsals.

Eppie’s new locker, now located in the newly constructed underground, was also locked and secured—until now.

From between the interspersed lights and the pattern of light and shadow, emerged the trembling figure of Simone Goode, now up to no good. Like a woman pushing against an invisible wall, she stalked her way to the newer section, her eyes scanning for the tell-tale sign of CCTV cameras.