I DON’T LIKE YOU

lisa stathoplos in Sieveking's Praying Mantis, Mad Horse Theatre, Portland, Me

I DON’T LIKE YOU

“Hi, Lisa! Love this show, don’t you? Hey, I saw you on stage last month; you were good. And I’ve never liked your work!

Open Season, is it? I resist my thoughts. The comment is so random and shocking, I have an urge to burst out laughing. Words straight out of this actress’s mouth during Intermission at a theatre company I co-founded 35 years ago still going strong. I’m an audience member minding my business. We’re queuing in line for the one Ladies Room stall and I guess she felt the need to share. I just need to pee.

I should have my wings clipped, I guess. I’ve been fortunate in forty years of performing; critics from Portland to Boston to International Film Festivals have written about me glowingly. I’m aware of how audiences respond. Less fortunate actors may glow a little green.

This comment was both startling and refreshing.  Terrifically remarkable that someone would need, out of the utter blue — I was behind her in line! — to take me down a notch. Little did she know, I’m actually quite insecure. But, I did get an early schooling in not taking any critic personally.

I’ve been lucky. Lucky to get work, lucky to do good work, lucky to be appreciated. But, there are three standout moments of random criticism, each memorable in how it shocked me, hurt me, or made me laugh — eventually.

Years before this incident, I was young, working in a professional company, doing Pielmeier’s Agnes Of God.  I played Agnes, the disturbed nun with apparent stigmata.

One night, post-final curtain, my signature dash out of the theatre got thwarted.

“Lisa, hey!”

I don’t know the woman speaking to me. She’s my age — an actress? reporter?  — she seems quite eager to chat. She reaches for my arm while I try to flee, head down, through the lobby.

Oh, hello, hi.

Again, I don’t know her.

“Hey. Hi. It’s Cat. Cat (whateverherlastname.)  I just saw your show. Huh. Yeah. Yeah, huh, wow.”

I’m loving this already.

“You know, all I could think is how much you look like Pee Wee Herman!”

Am I supposed to respond? She’s still holding my wrist in her…..paw?

“I’ve always thought you look like him, but, the wimple made it so much more obvious!”

She fairly purrs with satisfaction at getting this last out.

Can she detect my blank stare? I feel myself reddening; I mean, what does one say? I just poured my heart out, nearly tore my guts out, on stage for two hours and the critics are raving but she’s stuck in another playhouse? And, what’s with “Cat”? Seriously? “Cat?” Meeooooow. The little minx is lusciously feline with her pouty puss. She seems exactly like someone who would call herself “Cat.” Claws retracted but getting swipes in anyhow. Pretty kitty, lithe, sexy, and full to the brim of herself. Purrrr…….

Cool. That’s um….yeah.  Whaddidyou say your name was, “Cat?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m Cat; I’m an actress.”

I must be psychic. I stifle a hiss.

Smiling wanly, I slip out of the theatre, relish the rescue of delicious darkness.

The topper is from long ago. I was twenty two and launching what I didn’t know then would be a long career in the theatre. I’d spent two years stagnating with “Abject Fear Of Auditioning” post earning my BA in Theatre Arts. But, a handful of talented New York actors at Acadia Rep — one, a brilliant Obie winner who would become my mentor —  had kept a keen eye on me at Orono’s Maine Masque. They snatched me up to work with them. Lucky me.

In my first show as a professional, I was cast as the servant, Varya, in Anastasia by Marcel Maurette. I had six lines:  “Yes, Your Excellency” and “Her Imperial Highness Anastasia Nicolaevna” were two. My favorite though: “She has gone.” In his plump review, the infamous critic of the Bangor Daily News, Robert Newell (not held in high regard by Theatre Majors at Orono or by The New Yorker — his flowery prose was once the subject of an hilarious cartoon!) penned: “Lisa Stathoplos should never appear on stage again.” He cited no discerning reason for this. Had he skipped his evening snack? To remind, I was a maid who walked in several times with tea in a samovar, then walked off. Seeing this scathing review in print was horrifying. “Stinging” doesn’t cut it; I was decimated, crushed, bereft, blind-sided. Then, this seasoned cast — who would become my company members in a newly minted Portland theatre — reminded me of  his pompous self-importance.

After long years of many humbling positive reviews, I so wish I had that first professional review today.

“You look just like Pee Wee Herman.”, “I never liked your work.”, “Lisa Stathoplos should never appear on stage again.” Just a few of the five things one might choose not to say today. Unless, of course, one does, because there’s someone who just gets your goat, gets under your skin, gets in your head, and who you sorely feel needs a shakedown.

It’s okay if you don’t like my work. I don’t like the name “Cat”, I don’t trust reviews, and, Pee Wee Herman? He's kind of cute.

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