Aren't you entertained?

The annual performance of the town’s drama club has been going on for the better part of an hour, and so far – although it was emphasized on the brightly colored posters that it would be a comedic act – someone had yet to laugh. The high school auditorium was packed, the wardrobe bursting with heavy coats and wet umbrellas, and the stage was dimly lit with a spotlight that squeaked whenever it followed the actors’ movements. One could argue that the main reason for such an overwhelming attendance in the audience might be the rain pattering down on the pavement outside, prompting people to buy last-minute tickets for ten bucks and usher inside. Or perhaps it’s the promise of a champagne flute in the hands of those who haven’t made any evening plans, accompanied by the comforting feeling of being among cultured peers discussing the play at an unnecessary length, as if it were some kind of high-end Broadway production. It could also be the simple wish of being ‘taken care of’ – leaning back into a cushioned chair with no expectations whatsoever, except for the expectation of being highly entertained. Whatever reason it is, the drama club has never received such attention in all their years of existence (almost three hundred guests! Who would have thought?), and they were very keen on granting the audience’s unspoken wishes. This could be their break-through, after all. This could catapult their humble efforts straight to Hollywood, if they even dared to dream this big. But every actor and actress, every director and screenwriter, every creative individual trying to make it beyond just paying the bills has that small voice inside their head: what if? What if, tonight, someone notices me? Someone who’s been looking for new talents, for promising blank canvases in need of sullying, could see them perform on this rainy evening and think to themselves, ‘that person is a star’. And that someone could know someone else, someone who’s important and knows how to pull strings, and one thing might lead to another and there you have it, it’s a contract for a tv show picked up by Netflix. Life could change in the blink of an eye, if you believed in the magic of it all.

Indeed, in a lucky twist of fate, someone just like that is in attendance, quietly sitting in one of the back rows by himself: Ricky Dane. He’s a man in his late forties, with a face that could be anybody’s face: unrecognizable, generic even. Ash-brown hair bordering on gray, a stubborn stubble on his chin. He isn’t born for the screen, but he’s born to find out who is. As a devoted agent of the Paramount Talent Group, he has made it his life’s mission to discover fresh meat. However, the agency’s quarterly figures loom large and the commission-clock is ticking, which is how he ended up in this cheap seat. He doesn’t consider himself to be desperate, but he’s certainly anxious. He’s on the hunt, whether he likes it or not. But show business isn’t for everyone and sacrifices must be made, even by some of the Greats – that’s how he puts his mind at ease, anyway. Unlike many of the guests, he’s still wearing his coat. Tiny drops of water are dripping down from the drenched fabric onto the vinyl floor in a steady rhythm, almost echoing in this deafening silence. Drip, drip, drip.

A young woman on stage is hopping away, her long dress swishing from left to right, as she performs a small dance number. Her co-star and the character’s supposed sibling, a man of similar age, stands on the side and watches her with a smile so animated that his face might rip apart at any moment. The make-up artist has painted them rosy circles on their cheeks and comically thick eyebrows, which move up and down along with their facial expressions. She’s singing, high and out of tune, and he joins in, consistently one beat behind.

Ricky should have known that this would turn out to be a disaster by the title alone: Hansel & Gretel on the search for breadcrumbs – a hilarious re-imagining! It’s quite dark in its original text – as most German fairytales are – but it was agreed upon by the club’s executive board that it needed some good ole’ American brightening. Plus, if they turned the witch’s hut into a charming bakery slash candy store, it could fit the season – it is almost Christmas, after all! Someone a few rows in front has a small coughing fit, and the old lady to Ricky’s right is dozing off – there’s a faint but persistent smell of urine radiating off her, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. What a waste of time and money. None of the actors have shown any natural talent so far, and none of them are good-looking enough to compensate for their lack thereof. He could probably manage to slip out unnoticed and perhaps he could even demand his money back at the reception desk – there was a pretty blonde operating the cash register earlier, maybe she could be persuaded if he gave her his business card? Always milking the cash cow, as one might say. Ricky grips the armrests of his chair, about to get up, as a collective gasp fills the auditorium.

His eyes land on Gretel – the dancing girl in the dress – whose enthusiastic movements have caused her to stumble, arms flailing at her sides. She looks like a clown at a kid’s birthday party, surprisingly graceful with her helplessness and widened eyes, and as her stiletto heel gets caught up in the hem of her dress she falls, backwards and inevitably, into the candy hut with a big thump. The spotlight struggles to follow her movements, its squeak whining like a broken hinge. The room is holding its breath. Hansel appears to be frozen. For the first time in the evening, a growing anticipation fills the air – what is going to happen next? Is she hurt? Is she going to cry? Or, even more dramatically, is she perhaps d—

The music is still chirping away as Gretel slowly lifts her arm to the back of her head, her face contorted in pain. She touches a spot, winces, then looks down at her hand in slow motion. Even in the back of the auditorium, Ricky can see the blood trickling down her fingers and spilling onto the wood, forming a small puddle in the same shade of red as her dress. A loose screw rolls across the stage. Somewhere, a chair creaked. And then – laughter. All around him. First surprised and unsure, as if seeking for permission, then a louder chuckle with heaving chests and puffed-up faces. Like falling dominos, it ripples through the crowd in an unstoppable wave, sparing no one except for the stars of the show. The two of them stare at the audience, then at each other, and the wheels are visibly turning in their heads as realization settles in – they landed a joke. They made everybody laugh.

There’s a wordless communication happening between them at this point. Hansel looks stunned, immediately drunk on all the attention, but Gretel is still unable to get up. The young man rushes over to her and starts pulling at her arms, trying to heave her up, to no avail. She’s breathless and embarrassed, her limbs sprayed out at an awkward angle in a pool of her own demise. He says something to her, probably urging her to get it together and to keep going, and she mouths something back with a frantic look on her face, like a fish gasping for air. It all plays out like a skit from a silent movie. Dinner for One, but make it macabre. A stagehand ushers in from the right, giving Hansel a hand, and together they manage to lift her up, just in time for her to violently throw up all over him. The stagehand, in turn, looks down at himself with a disgusted expression and seizes the moment to land a fist directly in her face, causing her to recoil and fall once again, slipping on all that body fluid on the floor. It’s expected and yet so flawless in its execution that it causes another explosion of laughter from the audience. Even the old lady next to Ricky, who has long woken from her nap, excitedly claps her hands together. She hasn’t had this much fun since her last win in Sunday night bingo, she yells at him over the noise.

Gretel is now entirely unconscious and will probably remain that way for quite a while. Hansel and the stagehand have abandoned all reason and decide to engage in an epic fist fight, landing blows left and right, grunting and spitting at each other. Other crew members are running on stage – some trying to pry them apart, some joining in – but the men are young and hot-headed and simply manic with no intention on stopping. Out of nowhere, something shiny reflects in the light – a knife! The stagehand has produced it from one of his jeans pockets and he’s aiming it at Hansel, very professionally and certainly not for the first time in his life, stabbing him right in his abdomen. Again, and again, and again. It’s chaos out of a picture book – entirely impossible to tell where breath ends and laughter begins. The air itself convulses, the walls vibrating with terror. Blood is spilling everywhere, in tiny droplets like a water fountain in the city park, even spraying the people in the front row. The shock is as sharp as the pain must be, and after the stagehand stops his attack, Hansel clutches his belly where the knife is still stuck, while a satisfied grin spreads on the blade wielder’s face. What a commitment to the act. What an astounding plot twist. What a fantastic display of brutality and audience engagement. Everyone is elated, out of their seats. They’ve never seen anything quite like this in their entire lives.

Spit is drooling out of Hansel’s mouth, slowly turning crimson. He wobbles on his feet, his chadded body only held up by a mass of people around him. One of them snaps out of it: “Someone call an ambulance!” The shrill command bellows through the auditorium, but all its guests are trapped inside a trance of genuine joy. Cell phones are whipped out, but only to capture the horror in all its glory. People are pushing each other to get the perfect picture. For the memories, naturally. To show off to their friends and families, or, even better, to post on social media. Flashes go off in bright shades of white as Hansel sinks to the floor, no color left in his face, joining his sister in one last hurrah. Gretel twitches ever so slightly, her eyes staring emptily at the ceiling, before the frenzy disappears behind a hastily drawn curtain.

Ricky Dane hasn’t sat back down since all of this unfolded. He’s still standing, mouth open in awe. Only as the applause erupts like a volcano does he begin stirring again – he looks around, as if to confirm that it actually happened, and what he sees makes him shake his head in disbelief. The standing ovation is out of this world. People are clapping, cheering, screaming. They are licking their lips, ruffling through their hair, looking at each other as if to say, “am I dreaming, or did you just experience this too?” Someone starts chanting “encore!”, and the rest joins in, their fists balled and thrown in the air.

Ricky pulls out his notebook. He carries it with him everywhere and it’s frayed at the edges, the pages slightly drenched from the rain that seeped through his coat. He fishes out a pen from his breast pocket, thumbs through to a fresh page and takes some notes: Raw, unfiltered, simply perfect. Must contact the stagehand immediately. He’s got something no one else has.

The laughter slowly fades out of his earshot as he makes his way backstage. He can feel the exciting thrill all over his body, a tickling sensation that spreads from his head all the way to his toes. The familiar feeling that fills him, a beast that can never get enough, always hungry, hungry, hungry for more.

Now, that’s entertainment.