Thalia

Claire, who is seven, is in a reading enrichment group at school. The kids have been getting an introduction to the concepts of literary analysis by doing a close study of the old story of Jack and the Beanstalk (the text used in the class is strikingly similar to that used in the Rabbit Ears Radio version, read by Michael Palin, that we have long known and loved). Some months ago, the class was casting about for a group project based on the story, and it was decided that they should stage a play.

Claire was cast as the Ogre's golden Harp: this role would require her to shout "Master! Master!" in an alarmed fashion, and to sing a lullaby. (There were also non-speaking roles for the Bag of Gold, the Hen, and Milky-White the Cow.) We worked together on her "costume," her drawing a harp-shape on a big piece of cardboard, me cutting it out with a Stanley knife and spray-painting it gold, her attaching faux jewels and stringing the frame with twine. She debated over what song to sing, and eventually settled on a vocalese version of the closing theme to Spirited Away. (An exquisite ear, this girl: makes me proud.) She practiced and preened and agonized. For months.

And today, at last, was showtime: a "reader's theatre" (i.e., on a single rehearsal and scripts-in-hand) for a select audience of second-graders and parents.

I'm not going to go all Thaddeus Bristol here: I will just say that I wanted very, very much to laugh—to the point where I experienced physical discomfort—and restrained myself out of a parent's weary, desperate love.

Where to begin? Perhaps with the bits of gender-flipped casting (necessitated by the makeup of the cast), beginning with Jack's widowed parent—a change which the kid playing Jack had not fully internalized, which led to such line readings as "Mother, Mother—I mean, Father, Father!" Or that Milky-White was played by an African-American boy who, this day, was dressed in a top-to-toe black tracksuit. Or the generally chaotic state of the entrances, exits, and scene changes.

The high point of the production, as with many blockbusters, was the big special-effects sequence—the sudden growth of the beanstalk, accomplished by a stagehand tugging on one end of a cord looped over a high-hung pulley, the other end being attached to the short edge of four yards of rolled-up butcher's paper, painted green.

But even this spectacle was overshadowed by the story's climax, when the beanstalk is chopped down. "Jack" swung his prop axe mightily, but the paper sheet refused to fall; and suddenly the stage was aswarm with seven-year-olds batting and swiping at the "beanstalk," shouting encouragement and advice to one another—the Harp, the Cow, the Hen, even the Ogre's Wife joining in the destruction, everyone out of character, everyone in the moment. It's a wonder the play didn't go off the rails entirely, but somehow it fumbled its way toward its denouement.

Claire carried herself with aplomb, and pronounced herself satisfied with her own performance. Her striking of ostentatious poses during the post-show photo session boded ill for a diagnosis of rampant ego, but with the news that her newfound celebrity status was not enough to secure her an early release from school, her head deflated to its normal size.

For the foreseeable future, though, she'll be confining her thespian endeavors to the endless drama that is her home life: within these walls, God knows, she's a regular Meryl Goddam Streep.