.Vaudevilliput: Story in 10 acts (& Intermission)

"Okay, then." The MC was announcing "Act Three: Bonniettae and Clyde"

The third act doesn't have any real rules. You want to change from whatever was in Two, and not to steal thunder from the fourth act, which is going to build pressure for the fifth, making sure the audience comes back from intermission. Ventriloquist acts don't usually have the excitement for Four or Five, so in all but a few, rare cases, they go in Three or Two.

A bar chair at center stage held a fairly typical ventriloquist dummy: wooden face and a mouth that moved when a lever in his chest was depressed, wearing a brown suit and tie, clear if slightly oriental features.

He was propped up against the back of the chair, hanging limp. As we watched, his pocket started to move. A woman wiggled her way free from his jacket, stepped to the edge of the chair and waved.

"Hi, ladies and gentles, welcome to our show all you are! Bonniettae I am; Clyde this is." I noticed her Fuscan accent right away. We were supposed to. I wondered why Laellaphull hadn't used one. Fuscan, Yiddish and Brooklyn accents were traditionally laugh guarantees. I made a note to discuss it with the first performers.

"Clyde a bit bigger than normally used is," she explained, "Not much a fully Lilliputian act would amusing be, four feet more or away. But attempting we funny make."

"So, Clyde," she asked the dummy, "why cordouroy clothes won't you wear?" Then she stepped over beside the dummy's chest. She reached just behind the shoulder and worked a lever. She worked it by yanking down as hard as she could, to make a jaw about as big as she was slam open. When it shut, it lifted her up off of the cushion.

(WHACK) "IT"

(WHACK) "GOES"

(WHACK-WHACK) "A-GAINST"

(WHACK) "THE"

I was amazed at the voice. She was projecting it well, bigger, deeper and with an American accent. Using different voices was one thing, using completely different sytaxes, well, believe you that amazing is.

She paused part way through the reply, holding a hand up to the audience: "Pant...pant...pant... Just a minute waits...Pant..."

(WHACK) "GRAIN!"

The rest of the routine, the dialogue, could have been written by a sixth grader. The joke was the running back and forth. She'd assume a pose, deliver a straight line, then run herself ragged on the lever. But it wasn't really that hard, I saw. After the first joke, she never paused during the 'whacks' again. She got the point across, convincing the audience that this was teeny tiny back-breaking labor, but after that the jokes were fast enough to keep them laughing, rather than pitying.

Her art was in the little touches. At the end of every joke, even half a theatre back, you could just SEE that she was seriously reconsidering the next joke. But she'd roll up her sleeves and stalk over to her mark, and do the next one. I could already hear the audience laughing, maybe with a touch of guilty pleasure, at every shoulder shrug, as she blew the hair out of her face, as she took off the sparkly jacket, the false stop.

"So, Clyde, perhaps back to Lilliput with me you want travel?" But she didn't move for a second. Leaning against the chair back, she stared at that lever with a face that just screamed hatred. But her posture screamed 'The show must go on.' So she seemed to ad-lib a time stretch. "Hey, Clyde. Hearing me you are? Perhaps back to Lilliput with me you want travel?" Then she stomped over to force the response.

(WHACK) "MY"

(WHACK) "UN"

(WHACK) "CLE"

(WHACK) "WENT"

(WHACK) "TO"

(WHACKITY-WHACK-WHACK)"LILLIPUT"

(WHACK) "AND"

(WHACK) "NOW"

(WHACK) "HE'S"

(WHACK) "FAMOUS"

Hanging from the lever, you saw her turn towards her speaking spot, and visbily reject the effort. Any vaudeville fan would know the obvious straight line: "Really? Famous what he is for?" And no jury would feel sleighted by her not delivering it. She just leaned into the lever again.

(WHACK) "HE'S"

(WHACK) "THE"

(WHACK) "HMS"

(WHACK) "FURY"

As the memorial man-of-war was named, a flag shot up from behind the dummy and unfurled, explosive charges went off, tiny fireworks lit up the stage, the orchestra played the Lilliput anthem. When we looked down again, Clyde and Bonniettae were saluting. The curtains closed.

The segue piece was a large globe at stage right. The music changed to 'It's a Small World,' and a host of Lilliputian children appeared, singing it. They climbed a staircase at the side of the globe, marching around on top of it. More and more children climbed, moved around on the ball, until there was just no more room. The line of children stretched down the stairs, all marching in place. The singing and marching ground to a halt. A little moppet with ribbons in her curly hair raised her hands and shouted to us: "It's TOO SMALL a world!"

The spotlight went out.

"Jeenedi," I said, turning to the liason, "tell me we don't have two dozen children trying to keep their footing on a sphere?"

"It only looks like one," she replied. "There are a dozen level, flat, straight tiers that they're actually on. Perfectly safe. Did I mention that they're flat?�

"No, you didn't. Is there any way we can make them flatter?"

We shared a smile. For now I nodded, but I made a note to see the globe close up before The Night. Not that I didn't believe or trust her, but those kids were my responsibility. I'd have walked over to look right then, but giants looming over children tend to make more problems than they solve.