The day of my final rehearsal arrived. I put on my costume and stepped onto the stage. The cast, none of whom were in costume, sweetly applauded for me. I was starting to feel like I was a part of the group, like I truly belonged there. The rehearsal went well, too well in fact; I did everything perfectly. I didn’t feel that nervous. I worked like a musical robot, hitting every mark like a sniper. At the end of the show, I was dancing the finale in a high tower far upstage with the rest of the ensemble. When the number ended, the whole cast turned upstage and applauded for me again. I looked down at that cast, my new family, and was completely overwhelmed with gratitude and joy. Having never been put into a Broadway show before, I thought I was supposed to say something, so I said, “Thank you all so much for your support and patience today. I am really honored to be joining this cast and I can’t wait to be on stage with you in front of an audience. Thank you.”
Apparently speeches from new cast members were neither required nor expected. I remember seeing several smiling faces, but then I also saw some looks that said, “Who the hell is this kid?” I didn’t care. This was my moment. I was going to take it.
I went home to my apartment after that rehearsal, exhausted but energized. I was days away from making my Broadway debut. It was almost too good to be true. I was particularly careful crossing the streets on my way home for fear of being hit by a car. I had watched too many Movies of the Week as a kid to not think there might be some kind of cosmic retribution for getting what I wanted. I made it home safely and sat down in my little apartment. I was vibrating with excitement from the day’s activity. I wanted to talk to someone, I wanted to share it. But with who? I realized the only person I wanted to call was Todd. I had leaned on him for four years. I had cried with him and celebrated with him. I needed him. But he had made it clear what his feelings were about me and Hairspray. He couldn’t be happy for me. We hadn’t spoken since New Year’s Day and the silence was painful, but I knew it was necessary. I was going to have to hold myself up this time.
And then my big day finally came. That’s another thing I hadn’t anticipated about going into a long-running Broadway show—that my big opening night would be just another Tuesday for everyone else. A Tuesday in January no less, the Monday of months. But I was determined to make it special for myself. I arrived at the theater and found flowers from Zuzanna, my mom, and the rest of my family. They knew how important this was to me, and even if they couldn’t be there in person, they certainly made their support known. I was very touched.
The cast was sweet and congratulatory, too. There are many beautiful traditions in the theater, and even if you aren’t feeling your best or most excited on a Tuesday night, you still rally around someone when it’s their first night and shower them with “Break a leg!” and supportive hugs. Even though I didn’t know any of these people very well, they were making me feel at home.
Hairspray begins with a fantastic opening number called “Good Morning, Baltimore.” Tracy Turnblad is alone on stage and the ensemble, now including me, is dancing in silhouette behind her. Then the scrim that is hiding the cast flies up, revealing all the denizens of Baltimore dancing in joyful unison. I was standing behind the scrim waiting for the moment of the big reveal. The moment when the lights of Broadway would hit my face and I could officially say, “I have made my debut and my dream has come true.” I took a second to take in my surroundings. The sound of the orchestra, the feeling of the costume, the gratitude and joy I felt in my heart. I closed my eyes and thought, Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I didn’t know who I was thanking exactly. Everyone, I guess. The moment had come for the scrim to fly up and for me to step into that light as we all sang the chorus, “Good morning, Baltimore!” I opened my eyes and started to sing, “Gooooooood,” and everything was black. I could hear the music, but it was totally black.
I’ve died, I thought. I’ve died or I am having a stroke brought on by too much joy and gratitude. This is my moment of reckoning. This is how I go down.
“Broadway Hopeful Dies On Stage the Second He Makes His Debut.”
The actress on stage next to me, Becky Gulsvig, put her hand on my back.
“The automation is down. Don’t worry. This happens sometimes. We just have to restart the show.”
What?! Restart the show? This is my Broadway debut! There aren’t supposed to be mechanical glitches! Everything is supposed to be perfect! The stage manager made an announcement to the audience, “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the inconvenience. Due to technical difficulties, there will be a brief pause. Actors, please exit the stage.”
There was a loud collective groan from the audience followed by excited chatter. We all shuffled backstage. The cast huddled around me, laughing and hugging and assuring me that this didn’t happen often. Jonathan Dokuchitz put his arm around me and said, “Happy opening night, kiddo.” All of my first-night jitters, all the adrenaline, was sucked out of me. I felt an immediate crash. I felt slightly doomed and immediately panicked. What if I can’t get it back? What if I can’t rally? What if I broke Broadway? I wanted Zuzanna there. I wanted Todd there. I wanted my mom and my dad and my grandma and my whole family there. I wanted to share this moment, the beauty and the absurdity, with people I loved. Why didn’t I ask anyone to come tonight? Why did I have to try to do this by myself? I needed support. I needed love. I should have asked for it.
The stage manager told us that the problem was fixed and that we would start exactly where we had stopped. Becky Gulsvig took me by the hand and walked me out on stage. She held my hand until the music started again. I will always be grateful to her for that kindness. At least I have a memorable story, I thought to myself. This time the scrim flew up as planned and we all sang, “Good morning, Baltimore!” The audience burst into applause. It was the magic of live theater. These people had enjoyed a special treat; they got to see something go wrong. I would quickly learn that audiences love that—they love to see the cracks almost more than seeing the polished product. Their applause signified that we had all made it through together, that now we were back on track. I knew it wasn’t true, but I also took some of that applause to mean, “Welcome to Broadway, Andy Rannells.”
I wish I could say that my first performance was perfect. That I remembered everything and I nailed my debut. I did not. That false start really threw me off my game. My nerves got the best of me and I was a mess. In the second number, “The Nicest Kids in Town,” I nearly killed Richard Blake, the actor playing Link Larkin. (I swear this was not a Showgirls moment. It was a real accident.) At one point in the number, all the men jump in between the women and over the open orchestra pit, landing on the lip of the stage (the technical term is the “passerelle”). It was maybe a six-foot jump from takeoff to landing. It’s a thrilling moment when it happens correctly. On this night, however, the brightness of the lights and the loudness of the orchestra sent me into a tizzy and I temporarily lost all spatial awareness. I jumped in front of Richard, cutting off his path and nearly knocking him into the orchestra pit. I was so scared that I almost fell off the front of the stage and into the audience. I quickly got back on track shouting several “I’m sorry”s to Richard in the process.
Then came the Nicest Kids roll call. Every character steps forward and says his or her name. I boldly jumped into the spotlight and shouted, “Fender!” And the craziest thing happened; there were shouts from the audience. Like a cheer. For me. But from who? Who would have done that? My already tentative performance focus was compromised once again. I nearly forgot where I was supposed to stand next. Becky Gulsvig once again came to my rescue with a nod to my mark. (Thank you, Becky.)
The show went by quickly. There were no more attempts at murdering poor Richard and no more technical delays. My show wasn’t flawless, but it was a start. I was just going to keep doing it night after night, and I knew that it could only get better from here. I was standing in my final spot in the hig
h tower at the back of the stage. Again, I was taking in the cast, the set, all the color and light and joy. Don’t forget this moment, I thought.
The crowd was on their feet and the lights from the stage bled into the audience, illuminating their faces. I looked out into the audience. I might not have anyone in the crowd who knows how hard I had to work to get here, I thought, but I feel their support tonight. I feel their love even if they couldn’t be here.
But I was wrong. There in the orchestra were my childhood friend Randi, my friend Jill, and most surprisingly, Zuzanna. They were all there cheering and waving. I waved back, too surprised to cry. They had seen it. They had shared this crazy, exciting night with me after all. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have friends like that. From that tower I could see all the way to the back of the theater. Standing behind the last row of seats, I also saw the outline of a tall man whose shape looked familiar to me. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was Todd. I was thrilled and then angry and then sad, and then I quickly put it out of my mind. I wasn’t going to let him take this moment from me.
I walked out of the stage door and there were my friends. I still couldn’t believe it. “How are you here?” I asked Zuzanna.
“I took the train in from Boston this afternoon. I have to go back first thing in the morning, but I couldn’t miss your Broadway debut!”
This time, tears came. I hugged my friends and was grateful they had known what I needed more than I did.
“Did you see Todd?” Randi asked.
“I did,” I said. “Is he still here?”
“No,” Jill said sort of sadly. “We saw him leave.”
I think Zuzanna sensed my mood shift. She generously and wisely changed the subject. “Let’s get a drink to celebrate!”
My Broadway debut was a little rough in some ways but beautiful in others. I knew this was the start of a new life. But this time, unlike the new beginnings in my past, I felt like I had my feet firmly planted underneath me. I had friends, real friends in this city who loved and supported me, and I loved and supported them. I’d had romantic relationships that, even if they didn’t last, all taught me something valuable, from gems of emotional wisdom like “vulnerability doesn’t mean weakness” to more practical lessons like “always write ‘Deposit Only’ on the back of your checks when endorsing them on the off chance you lose them before you make the deposit.” I had maintained and even deepened my relationship with my family, especially with my mom, and I didn’t allow the distance to make me feel alienated from them. It took work, and would continue to take work, but I could still have a place in their lives.
I knew that Manhattan was not a grid below 14th Street. I knew the pizza place on 45th and Ninth wasn’t the best pizza in the neighborhood, but it was the nicest and stayed open the latest. I knew to never tell the cabdriver if you were going to Queens or Brooklyn before getting into the cab. I knew that if you needed a bathroom in Union Square, you should use the one in ABC Carpet & Home. It’s nicer than the one at Barnes & Noble.
And while I’d had professional triumphs that weren’t widely celebrated by the masses, they were crucial to my development as an actor. I could lose myself in a role and yet bring my own personal touch to it. I might not have a formal education in acting, but I had figured out how to do the work to get me to where I needed to go. And I knew Pokémon were NOT people. They were weird, annoying creatures that could only say their own names.
I had amassed a lot of knowledge in my years in New York so far, and while there was more to be learned, my life wasn’t just starting, it was continuing. I was not at the beginning. I was well on my way.
But here is something I quickly discovered about ambition and achieving your dreams: Once you taste it, you want more. It had always been my dream to be on Broadway. I had told myself that I just wanted to be in a show. I didn’t care what my role was, I just wanted to experience being on a Broadway stage. But when I got the chance to live this dream, it didn’t take long for me to dream a bigger dream. (Thank you, Maya Angelou by way of Oprah Winfrey.)
Don’t get me wrong, I was extremely grateful for my chance to play Fender, but I couldn’t help but imagine what it might feel like to be Link. And who knows what would be possible after Link? Were more shows possible? Other roles? Other opportunities? This pattern of dream swapping would both drive me insane and be key to my success in the future. But that was all to come later.
As I walked back to my apartment after my first night on Broadway, I remembered my first night living in the city. A cab drove past me, and I thought maybe there was a scared kid inside, a kid who was new to the city, who was overwhelmed. Maybe he or she saw me walking home with confidence and pep and assumed that I had always lived here, that I’d always fit in. I hope that kid saw me and thought, I want to be that guy. I want to belong here. I had done what I had come to do. I was excited for whatever was next, whatever that might be. I felt proud of what I had accomplished. I was happy. I was actually happy. I had become one of the people on the street who knew where he was going.
Acknowledgments
As you have learned, my first professional theater job was a production of On Golden Pond at the Firehouse Dinner Theater in Omaha, Nebraska. I was fourteen years old. A remarkable woman named Louise Filbert was playing Ethel (the Katharine Hepburn role), and she taught me a valuable lesson. On opening night of that production she said to me, “Just like there is an opening night, there will be a closing night, so try to enjoy every second in between.” I have always tried to remember that. While I’m not always great at actually doing that, I have never had an opening night since then where I didn’t think of Louise’s words.
In reflecting about those early days in New York, I was pleased to see that most of the names that kept coming up were people I am still extremely close to to this day. My best friend, Zuzanna Szadkowski, is still my best friend. I am still incredibly close with Jill Madeo, Sean Dooley, Gavin Creel, and Jenn Gambatese. All of the exes I mention in this book, I am still on good terms with. (If I didn’t mention you, we are not.) There are names that are not mentioned in this book that played a pivotal role in making it all happen: Rachel Glickman, Nikki M. James, Patti Murin, Cameron Adams, Christie Smith, Blair Kohan, Matthew Inman, and Bill Clegg. Without Bill Clegg I wouldn’t have had this opportunity. He believed in me and he fully tricked me into writing this book. And I will always be grateful to him for that.
Most important, my family is still my family. Rebecca Britt, Julie Rannells, Dan Rannells, and Natalie Whitney. Siblings are a weird thing, sharing little pieces of yourself—your sense of humor, your face—with the people you land in this world with. In my case, I feel like I won the sibling lottery. They are not only some of the coolest and funniest people I know, I also legitimately like them as humans. As adults, we all have very different lives, but we are bonded together in our love for one another, our dark sense of humor, and our love of beef and pork products. A special thanks to my sister Natalie, for reading these pages and telling me when I had gone too far or not far enough.
Finally, there’s my mother, Charlotte. By far the most loving human being I have ever encountered and ever will. She has claimed that she has had nothing to do with any professional success that I may have achieved. She says that I was born with ambition and she’s unsure of its origin, and that she simply stayed out of my way and things just happened as they did. In writing these stories, in remembering the past, I can say with one hundred percent certainty, she is wrong.
She gave me confidence when I lacked it, humility when I needed it, and love when I didn’t deserve it. She pushed me in quiet ways, and sometimes loud ones, to be who I wanted and needed to be. She bought me a Malibu Barbie when I asked for one as a five-year-old, and encouraged me to take acting classes at nine when I was struggling to figure out what my place was. She came to every show and she never told me I was good when I wasn’t.
She was honest and caring and strong, and she showed me how to be a good person, and that you can always be polite without being a pushover. Thank you for giving birth to me, Charlotte, and thank you for taking your job as a parent so seriously and so lovingly. And, Charlotte, after reading these pages, if you read anything that you have questions about or anything that is unclear, especially any sex stuff, just ask Natalie to explain it. (You’re welcome, Natalie.)
About the Author
ANDREW RANNELLS is an actor, singer, and performer best known for originating the role of Elder Price in The Book of Mormon and playing Elijah Krantz in HBO’s Girls. A Tony and Drama Desk nominee and Grammy winner, he has also played Hedwig in Hedwig and the Angry Inch, King George III in Hamilton, Whizzer in Falsettos, and, most recently, Larry in The Boys in the Band. On the small screen, he has also appeared in Black Monday, The Romanoffs, The New Normal, and The Knick. Rannells’s film credits include A Simple Favor, Why Him?, The Intern, and Bachelorette. His writing has been published in the New York Times “Modern Love” column. This is his first book.
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Too Much Is Not Enough Page 21