Free Scrappy Little Nobody by Anna Kendrick Page B

NASA.
    Claire had a rich voice and she acted the hell out of her songs, but she wasn’t a confident musician—and not for nothing, Sondheim music is a damn battlefield. Our version of the show began with the curtain rising on a frozen tableau of the full cast. Claire’s character sat before a wooden tray that was covered in playing cards and a brass handbell. I was seated on the floor by her feet, looking up at her. During the overture, Claire was meant to ring her bell to set all the characters in motion and begin the show. The cue had been a crapshoot during rehearsals, but in our finalpreview performance she missed it by enough that our conductor stopped the music entirely and went back to the start.
    At the note session before opening night, our choreographer tentatively inquired if I could reach Claire’s bell from where I was sitting in the opening tableau. I even more tentatively said yes. That settled that. We left the note session feeling a little awkward but relieved. I went up to the dressing room I shared with one of the NYCO members and started to get ready. Over the loudspeaker I heard the announcement, “Anna Kendrick to Claire Bloom’s dressing room, Anna Kendrick to Claire Bloom’s dressing room.” That phrase still haunts my dreams.
    I went down the four flights of stairs to her dressing room. She was set up in a solo room just off the stage and I inched to her door. She had her back turned when I slithered in, but she looked up and saw me in her mirror. She did not turn around.
    “I told them I’m ringing the bell. I’m ringing the bell or I’m leaving the show.”
    If I hadn’t been terrified, I would have found this kind of fabulous.
    “When it’s time, you are going to cue me. Just give me a nod, and then I will ring the bell.”
    “Okay,” I squeaked.
    I don’t remember how I extricated myself or if she had me stay awhile and practice cueing her. But the image of her in that dressing-room mirror and her mannered phrasing are permanently burned into my brain. When I told my parents the story, my dad was shocked. “They just sent you to her dressing room? You’re a minor ; why the hell would they have you settle adispute with an adult actress on your own?” It was a fair point, in retrospect.
    I was happy to take all the criticism for even an ounce of praise, and if she ever reads this I hope my reverence for her is clear. But just in case it’s not: Claire, I worship you. If I saw you tomorrow and you hit me in the face, it would be the highlight of my year.
    She was the greatest living Shakespearean actress and I was a seventeen-year-old in a bad wig. I’m not just mitigating this because she happens to still scare the crap out of me, but because people being tough with you doesn’t mean they’re villains. Paul Gemignani kicked my ass on High Society , A Little Night Music , and Into the Woods , and that dude loves me. Right, Paul?
    Does this wig make me look out of my depth? Or is that just my face?

moving to la
    I was told as a child that if I wanted to be in entertainment, I shouldn’t have a backup plan. That is terrible advice. If things hadn’t worked out for me, I’d be an Uber driver or the world’s most prudish porn star. (Which doesn’t mean I would be an unsuccessful porn star; there’s a fetish for everything, ladies!) However, I’m glad I followed that terrible advice.
    Don’t get me wrong, I wish I had more skills, but if I’d had a safety net, I would have used it. Sometimes the terror was so overwhelming that if I’d been offered an apprenticeship scrubbing the floor of a button factory (what do normal jobs look like?), I would have thought, Fine, I can’t take this anymore — sign me up, give me the health benefits, give me a time card and a mean boss and some goddamn security. I needed the fear. I needed to be forced to rely on myself, and the dream, and sometimes unemployment checks. (Thank you, US government! Please don’t repossess my house when