Lake Wobegon Meets Ballet West

Oh, what won't happen in a small town.



These whirling snowflakes, captured at our community performance of The Nutcracker, have been blurred to protect their identities. I'm certain that three local business owners and the director of the Chamber of Commerce would like to remain somewhat anonymous, especially since one's baggy briefs are clearly (and surely intentionally) visible under his white tights and gauze tutu. The bright pink greasepaint discs on his cheeks and crown of iridescent spangles perfectly topped off the best night of ballet I've seen since the San Diego Youth Symphony was in the pit for The Nutcracker at Copley Symphony Hall. And the kicker was that through his whole ludicrous but extremely enjoyable performance, Bill never cracked a smile. He had the same look on his face he has when he comes to City Hall to pay his (late) waterbill. Mundane and stoic, completely deadpan. He was entirely expressionless as he leapt and bounded and pirouetted across the Machine Shop's heated concrete floor. It was priceless.

Also involved in this liquor-soaked production were his Honor the Mayor, president of the State Bar Association, never suspected of malversation (dictionary.com’s Word of the Day, I swear, and fifty points for me for slipping it in, and rhyming, to boot!), the Superintendent of Grounds and Stuff of the highly recommended municipal Purple Sage Golf Course, two or three City Council members and their equally pillar-worthy spouses, local business owners and local board members, local "personalities" and local biddies and local bums. It was fantastic. It was never meant to be serious, but what makes it way funnier than if they tried to make it funny is that they do the opposite and try to do it right. They coreograph, they costume, but then, of course, they drink. And I’m no critic of alcohol. Some of the best things I’ve ever had happen with the best people I’ve ever known had to do with liquor. It lets the real person out, as far as I’m concerned. I love my friends extra when they’re amplified, honest, and too far gone to realize that not everything I say is funny. I just wish they’d stay near me until they’re hungover and boring enough to drive home. And I mean that in the kindest way.

Anyhow it was the kind of thing that can only happen in a small town. This wouldn’t be near as hilarious if nobody in the audience was acquainted with anyone on the stage. The charm is seeing your friends and coworkers in costumes and cadence you’d never dream of by day. The scruffy Nutcracker Prince himself was wearing what was obviously (to a Wyomingite) a cross-country ski suit, skintight black spandex from neck to ankles, under a royal blue felt tunic and red felt sash, and I have a suspicion that the black handlebar mustache was, believe it or not, authentic. Clara’s rambunctious boy-brother, who breaks the prized Nutcracker doll, was played by a slight adult man in slightly-too-tight lederhosen. The evening’s mysterious Drosselmeier was a perfect stately sorcerer/uncle with silk cape (was that dried vampire blood on the collar?) and dignified walking-stick with what looked to be about a two-hundred-carat plastic jewel on top. He kept cracking jokes about balls when Clara was adoringly fondling the Christmas tree ornaments. Everyone in it was wonderful, and each was a model of community spirit in their willingness to fling dignity offstage and be a complete goof for a good cause, because of course it was a fundraiser. After tomorrow night’s performance I’m certain it will be called a great success.

I occasionally complain that nine out of ten months I suffer. In some ways I actually do. I'm chafed by small-town gossip and freezing winter temperatures and the amputation of the endless opportunity and rich culture I reveled in when I lived in San Diego. But there's unspeakable charm in small-town life, too. I guess it just takes the holidays to remind me.