Chapter Five: The Roanoke Players

Trumpets blare. Drums beat. Cymbals clash. Or, they will. 

Imagine it. 

Now, imagine the curtain being drawn back. They’ve had some difficulty with the pulleys, but the STAGE MANAGER assures them these will be resolved in time for tech week. That’s next week! But a week is a year in the lifetime of a production. 

Imagine the scene being slowly revealed: the actors milling silently through the set as the overture plays, giving the audience a sampling of the themes to come: “Man of La Mancha,” “Dulcinea,” “The Quest.”

They will be dressed as prisoners. The stage will be set to suggest a dungeon. The audience will be transported—to sixteenth century Seville. To the time, to the place of the Spanish Inquisition. Where MIGUEL DE CERVANTES will be brought to await trial. 

Did you know the Inquisition lasted three hundred years?!

None of the Roanoke Players knew this. A dark chapter in the distant past, one of history’s many regressive eras, that’s all those two words meant to any of them before the DIRECTOR did her research and gathered the troupe in her living room, the evening after their first table read, for a little power point to contextualize the musical. 

Of course, you don’t need to know about the Grand Inquisitor and his local tribunals; about the accusations of heresy, blasphemy, sodomy and witchcraft; about the one hundred fifty thousand prosecutions; about the torture, forced conversions, excommunications and executions, to understand that we are caught within systems larger than ourselves that seek, so they might maintain their power, to stamp out joy, camaraderie and original thought. To keep the people too downtrodden to dream. 

You don’t need to know—to appreciate how little appreciation the world tends to have for its visionaries—that, in midst of the Inquisition’s reign, Miguel de Cervantes lived a life of poverty and obscurity; that he wrote forty-some unsuccessful plays before he published the first volume of Don Quixote at the age of fifty-eight; that it took him another ten years to publish Part Two and he died the year after that.

Some three hundred fifty years later, Dale Wasserman’s first attempt to pay tribute to Cervantes’ life and work, a non-musical teleplay, left him, in his own words, “profoundly dissatisfied.” He next tried to script a Broadway play, which was optioned but never, to his eventual relief, produced, and only years later, at the suggestion of a director he’d never met, did he set about transforming his original work into the now-beloved musical that the Roanoke Players have chosen to produce for this, their golden anniversary season. 

You don’t need to know this history to know that the life of anything—a man, a dream, a work of art—can never unspool in a straight line. But when you do, when you are made aware of this context, you are likely to appreciate all the more the themes, the message of the production. 

Extra layers add extra depth. And, above all, Man of La Mancha is a musical comprised of layers. The prison is only its first reality. Entering into that scene now, three actors playing the parts of the CAPTAIN OF THE INQUISITION, MIGUEL DE CERVANTES and his MANSERVANT advance, flanked by two SOLDIERS. 

Imagine them descending a set of narrow stairs that have been lowered from above, from the free world into the dungeon. It’s important that the audience experience this entrance as a descent. That they feel how the actors are going underground. As if into the belly of the whale. As if into the center of the earth. Choose your metaphor for the subconscious, that wild landscape of the mind where reality’s strictures lose their power and what once seemed impossible might no longer be. 

The SOLDIERS will be carrying between them a straw trunk, “sizable but shabby,” as the stage directions note. They pantomime dropping it to the ground, and then they and the CAPTAIN retreat, after which the stairs to freedom are withdrawn—or, they will be; for now, use your imagination—and the PRISONERS, who had been keeping their distance, close in. 

“‘Like animals who scent pray!’” From her seat in the fourth row, the DIRECTOR calls out their stage direction. “More like animals!” 

The PRISONERS exaggerate their prowl before pouncing upon CERVANTES and his MANSERVANT in a choreographed scuffle, pinning them to the floor and rifling through their pockets and the trunk, a raucous introduction to the play’s second layer: while CERVANTES awaits his trial with the Inquisition, his fellow inmates intend to put him to a trial of their own, promising to fine him all his possessions if they find him guilty. 

Not great news for anyone, but for CERVANTES this is an existential threat, for, among his possessions, he carries the unpublished manuscript of Don Quixote. And so, to save it, he sets about an unusual defense: a staging of the very story that’s at stake. 

The actor playing the part of CERVANTES—soon to be DON QUIXOTE—pantomimes the application of makeup while his MANSERVANT—soon to be SANCHO PANZA—throws open the invisible trunk and withdraws from it an imaginary assortment of costumes, which he distributes amongst the PRISONERS, who are thus transformed into actors. 

“So, it’s a play-within-a-play-type-deal,” says the daughter of the actor playing the part of ALDONZA. She’s seated at the back of the house beside the COSTUME DESIGNER, who watches on with his portfolio and notebook at the ready.

“A musical within a play,” he corrects. “But, yes.” 

“Trippy,” says the girl.  

Who is she? Who is this stranger whose mother volunteered her to assist him with his final fittings and alterations? It’s help he didn’t wish for, taking great pride, as he does, in his own meticulous work. He accepted purely out of curiosity. Well, curiosity and a soft spot for her mother. 

“One of the great pleasures of designing for La Mancha,” he says, “as well as one of its challenges, is that, because of our confinement to the prison, because every actor is an inmate, every costume must believably come from within that cell, or from out of Cervantes’ trunk, which means we are empowered to evoke the characters without the pressure to portray them.” 

“The freedom of constraint.”

“Precisely. Besides which, it’s economical.” 

“What’s your budget?” asks the daughter of the actor playing ALDONZA. 

On stage now, in the musical within the play, DON QUIXOTE and SANCHO PANZA are sallying forth on their quest, encountering the famous windmill QUIXOTE takes for a giant, approaching the inn he takes for a castle, greeting the INNKEEPER he takes for a castellano, offering assistance to the crude MULETEERS he takes for gentle knights and—at last, above all—catching sight of the whore he takes for a fair and virginal lady.

As much as Man of La Mancha announces itself as the story of, well, a man, it is arguably this woman who stands at its center, at its heart. Amid all the scuffles and outright brawls in which the men of the musical engage, it is the battle for her self-perception that is most gripping, most consequential. 

In twin musical numbers, the audience is introduced to the two visions of ALDONZA that will vie for supremacy right up until the final scene. In QUIXOTE’s eyes, which see all the world as the grounds for a great and glorious quest and all persons as the most fantastic versions of themselves, she is grace incarnate, right down to the new, melodious name with which he christens her:

Dulcinea…Dulcinea…

I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea,

And they name is like a pryer an angel whispers…

Dulcinea…Dulcinea!

Her theme, as sung by him, is as sweet as the idea of her. But her own sense of self is far less romantic. Crudely, bitterly, she sings: 

Do not talk to me of love,

I’m not a fool with starry eyes,

Just put your money in my hand,

And you will get what money buys!

“Fuck that’s bleak,” says the actor’s daughter. “She’s good, though. She’s, like, got it.” 

“Oh, yes. She’s great.” 

The COSTUME DESIGNER has been designing for the Players for sixteen seasons now, so he knows the range of talent the troupe has seen—the high of Rust Wilder as Our Town’s Stage Manage, the low of Reggie Platt as Death of a Salesman’s Willy Loman. Kimberly Lane is no Rust Wilder, whose talent was so undeniable that producers had him on a plane to Los Angeles the day after the show closed and now he pays his Brentwood mortgage with residuals. No one would suggest that Kim is destined for the silver screen. But here, on Roanoke Island, she sure does shine like a star. 

Even now, out of costume, on the unadorned stage, as she sings—

Oh, I have seen too many beds,

But I have known too little rest

 —as her voice almost cracks, a perfectly controlled suggestion of emotion, everyone can feel exactly how world-weary ALDONZA really is. 

One pair of arms is like another

It’s all the same, it’s all the same!

“Right the fuck on!” says her daughter as she exits, brusquely, stage left. 

Stepping into the spotlight for a tone shift, CERVANTES declares, “Imagine now the family our brave knight left behind! Imagine their shock as the news of the master’s madness reaches them!” 

Imagine! The great refrain of the production. 

It is a clever device of the play that, in describing these scene changes to the PRISONERS, he likewise describes them to the audience, allowing for some fairly cutthroat exposition. Now, for instance, it has come time to introduce the musical’s interstitial plot. While the actors scurry to and fro behind him, rearranging imaginary props, he offers a tidy précis of the situation. 

Between the reality of the prison where CERVANTES awaits trial and the fantasy of DON QUIXOTE there exists the more mundane life of a country squire, ALONSO QUIJANA, he who has fled his tired life to pretend at knighthood. The predicament of QUIJANA’s family—what to do with their rogue relative—might reasonably invite sympathy, but Wasserman’s musical makes certain its audience knows their concern isn’t really for his wellbeing, but rather for how his behavior will affect their lives.  

If Man of La Mancha has a flaw, the DIRECTOR thinks it is how categorically the musical dismisses the notion that QUIJANA’s family might be sincere in their belief that he’d be better off without his chivalric fantasies. Such an earnest disagreement would surely add to the moral complexity of the show. But, like any knight, a work of art must choose its battles; it can never advance if it stops to fight them all. And perhaps, after all, this would be one complexity too many.  

As it is, the actor playing the part of QUIJANA’s niece ANTONIA advances center stage to perform the facetiously titled “I’m Only Thinking Of Him.” But, before she is one verse in, the Players are startled by the sound of the double doors at the back of the theater crashing in. They have been in such a state of flow, and there are so many layers to the reality of this play, that it almost seems as if this action is simply one more, a late addition to the script, the play within the play within the play…

From the back of the theater, two uniformed POLICE OFFICERS advance quickly down the aisle to the stage, taking in the scene as they go. State troopers, their uniforms are crisp, their silver badges bright, their campaign hats as severe as their searchlight expressions—a modern incarnation of the Inquisition guards. The DIRECTOR stands from her seat and moves down the row to meet them.

DIRECTOR: Is there some trouble, officers? Can I help you?

FIRST OFFICER: I hope so. 

SECOND OFFICER: What have we got here? The local theatrics? 

DIRECTOR: You could call us that. You see before you Manteo’s own Roanoke Players. (On stage, the actors bow and curtsey.) Here rehearsing for our production of Man of La Mancha. 

FIRST OFFICER: Never heard of it. 

DIRECTOR: No, it’s not as well known as it once was. We hope to be at the forefront of a revival. 

SECOND OFFICER: Why should it be revived?

DIRECTOR: Because, we all dream impossible dreams, and there should be more art that affirms their power. 

SECOND OFFICER: The power of impossible dreams? That’s your cause?

DIRECTOR: It certainly is. Imp—

FIRST OFFICER: Wait a minute! (Breaking into a goofy smile at utter odds with his uniform, which instantly makes him look ten years younger) “The Impossible Dream?” Like, the song? I know that! That’s a classic! That’s from your show? (Breaking into song, surprisingly tuneful though occasionally pitchy) To dream the impossible dream! To fight the unbeatable foe! To bear with unbearable sorrow! To run— To run somewhere. Is that it? Doesn’t Elvis sing that? 

DIRECTOR: Indeed he does! Though his version pointedly omits the line about loving pure and chaste from afar. 

(The FIRST OFFICER guffaws. The SECOND OFFICER clears her throat.)

SECOND OFFICER: I think we’ve strayed. 

FIRST OFFICER: Right. Got a little off track. Got some business to attend to, haven’t we. Small matter of a missing person.

DIRECTOR: A missing person? Someone dangerous? Are we in danger? 

SECOND OFFICER: Oh, no. Nothing like that. There’s a vehicle in your lot. Blue Porsche, license plate DESSI. 

DIRECTOR: Is there? I can’t imagine anyone here—

(While they’ve been talking, the cast and crew have moved closer, as around a campfire, all listening in, and at mention of the Porsche two of them react simultaneously.

HAZARD: Isn’t that— KIM: That’s my daug—

DESIRÉE: (Standing from her seat at the back of the house.) That’s my car. 

(Everyone turns to DESIRÉE. KIM lowers herself down from the lip of the stage. She and the OFFICERS walk back to DESIRÉE as the COSTUME DESIGNER stands to let her pass. The whole company watches as the four confer too quietly to be heard, then turn and walk together toward the doors through which the OFFICERS entered. They exit.)

But, the show, as they say, must go on. After a moment of stupefaction, a moment of milling, murmuring speculation, the DIRECTOR calls her cast to regroup. Two weeks to show time! No time to delay. No time to lose the thread that has guided them so surely to this point. They will take “I’m Only Thinking Of Him” from the top and proceed, with the DIRECTOR reading the part of ALDONZA. Just another layer, another folding of realities. 

“Come, enter into my imagination and see!” the actor playing the part of CERVANTES/QUIJANA/QUIXOTE rallies them. 

This is their favorite line, which they have taken to shouting at one another whenever their paths cross out in the real world. The “real” world! Ha! In the weeks they have been rehearsing, that external reality—what any bystander would identify as their lives—has come to seem about as colorless and drab as the Inquisition’s prison cell. It is here, three nights a week, that, entering into the imagination of Miguel de Cervantes, filtered through the imagination of Dale Wasserman, they discover selves within themselves that feel more essential than any identities they have heretofore claimed or been christened. 

Take any one of them—take the actor playing the part of CERVANTES/QUIJANA/QUIXOTE—you could call him Hazard. You could call him a veteran. You could call him a son, a brother, a friend. You could call him an alcoholic, presently recovered. You could call him forty-five. You could call him the owner of a houseboat. You could call him a docent at Wright Memorial. You could call him sincere. You could call him unreliable. Each name might justly claim a measure of reality. But each also holds a measure of confinement. 

What a freedom it is to shed all these layers and discover the actor within! A liberation akin to ALDONZA’s, when she at last takes QUIXOTE’s vision of her to heart. 

And, is it not always thus in the theater? Most of them have experience enough to know that it is not. That such liberation isn’t a given, but a gift. Only the actor playing the part of ANTONIA, the youngest among them, takes for granted this ease, their synergy.

What’s its cause? Some perfect combination of personalities, perhaps. Or the atmosphere of trust the DIRECTOR has nurtured. But the musical itself must also be to blame. For, there is something about Man of La Mancha that turns every fool into a knight errant and every prisoner into a player.

“Come, enter into my imagination and see!” QUIXOTE bows low and rehearsal resumes. 

Some time later, as the actor playing the part of ALDONZA retakes the stage, her daughter slips back into her seat. 

“All good?” the COSTUME DESIGNER asks with raised eyebrows. 

“Oh, sure,” she replies with a nonchalance that makes her only all the more mysterious. “Just a misunderstanding. What’d I miss?” 

One eye on the stage, jotting notes as he talks, the DESIGNER summarizes the action. She has returned at a moment of good cheer and good feeling in the production. QUIJANA’s family’s first attempt at dispelling his delusion has failed. QUIXOTE has requisitioned a BARBER’s shaving bowl to replace the helmet he lost in his battle with the windmill. Along with SANCHO and ALDONZA, he has beaten back the MULETEER’s advances, and in honor of this feat the INNKEEPER has bestowed upon him, in rousing song, the title of The Knight of the Woeful Countenance. 

QUIXOTE’s vision of the world would seem to have prevailed. ALDONZA has been so won over by his chivalry that she now volunteers to minister to the MULETEERS’ wounds so that he, having been injured in the battle, might rest. 

As the DIRECTOR yields the stage to the returning actor, she sets a hand on her arm and speaks a quiet word. “We can table this ’til Thursday. We can just skip ahead. That wouldn’t be a problem.” 

But the actor playing the part of ALDONZA shakes her head. “We’ve got to work on the choreo.” 

What follows is only a small paragraph of stage directions, translated into action. ALDONZA, carrying in her arms a stack of cloth for bandages, enters the inn where the defeated MULETEERS are lounging, announcing her intention to care for them as “nobility demands.” However, as she moves to do so, their ringleader grabs her by the wrist, and a sort of a dance begins, each step carefully chosen to suggest chaos. With delicacy, the actors move to imply violence. “Methodical, ritualistic brutality.” 

“Holy fuck!” says the daughter of the actor playing the part of ALDONZA. “Are they really—? Is that actually—?” 

The COSTUME DESIGNER nods. “It’s been called the ‘rape ballet.’” 

Sometimes, instead, it is referred to as “The Abduction.” The words the stage directions use for what the MULETEERS do are “ravage” and “humiliate.” In the final production, ALDONZA’s costume will be ripped away, in part, to suggest her nakedness. For now, this gesture at undress must be imagined. 

“Fuck!” Her daughter says it again. “That’s shocking. I’m shocked. Why didn’t you, like, just cut it? Or move the worst parts offstage?” 

“Because,” the DESIGNER says simply, “it’s essential to see what’s at stake.”  

The Roanoke Players debated it, a discussion the DIRECTOR invited early on. But they were unanimous in agreeing: the assault can’t be sanitized, can’t be minimized. Really, it’s the most important scene of the musical. As the actor playing the part of ALDONZA put it, ending the debate, “If you don’t have the fucking leaden truth of life’s cruelty tethering you to the Earth, with all that impossible dreaming, you just float off into the ether.”