by Lea Michele
Audra also taught me how to keep my mind centered on the job I needed to do onstage as Tateh’s daughter, rather than the audience’s reactions to my actions. One night near the beginning of the run, I was peeking out at the audience from behind the curtain. Audra tapped me on the shoulder and said, “If you can see them, they can see you—don’t worry about the people out there, just focus on your role, focus on the show.” And that’s not all. Each evening before I would go onstage, Audra would put her hands around my waist and see how much I could expand my diaphragm. She taught me how to breathe; she taught me the importance of saving my voice, of drinking tea and water, of refusing cigarettes. She always told me that my entire career would be contained between the bottom of my chin and the top of my diaphragm, that God had given me the gift of a voice, and it was my responsibility to take care of it.
TEAMWORK
In Ragtime, I played Peter Friedman’s daughter, and so we were pretty much inseparable throughout the show. This was new for me, since I’d never worked so intensely with another actor. I couldn’t be off at any time during that show without directly affecting him. Accountability is literally front and center when you’re a stage actor: The audience—who have all paid dearly for their tickets—can tell when the show isn’t working. I needed to be prepared every day. I owed it to Peter and to all the people who came to see us perform. I took a night off once and my understudy went on in my stead. After, Peter asked me not to take any more breaks. Sure, that sounds extreme, but it underlines how dependent our performances were on each other. And quite frankly, I was relieved and thankful that I was missed; I was young and territorial about my roles.
ACCOUNTABILITY IS LITERALLY FRONT AND CENTER WHEN YOU’RE A STAGE ACTOR: THE AUDIENCE—WHO HAVE ALL PAID DEARLY FOR THEIR TICKETS—CAN TELL WHEN THE SHOW ISN’T WORKING. I NEEDED TO BE PREPARED EVERY DAY.
In fact, when I got Ragtime, they pulled my mother aside and asked her about the possibility of rotating the role between me and another girl, and even though I was only ten, and arguably too young to be negotiating my own contract, I jumped right in and told them that I was ready to perform every night—and that if they wanted me, I was doing it by myself. So when Peter told me that he didn’t want me to miss any more performances, it was really another way of saying, “Job well done.”
PERSEVERANCE
After our year in Canada was up, we brought the show to Broadway, which felt like an entirely different place than when I had been on Broadway in Les Misérables. Since it was a brand-new show, we were reviewed by the critics, we performed on talk shows, and we eventually performed at the Tony Awards, which are the be-all and end-all of Broadway life.
During Ragtime, I learned another very important life lesson, which is that passion can, and should, trump what people say. At the time I wasn’t aware of Ben Brantley (the chief theater critic for the New York Times), I just knew that I loved and believed in the show, and no review—good or bad—was going to change my opinion of my job. (The reviews of Ragtime were mixed.) My dedication and devotion to Ragtime far exceeded anything that anyone could ever say about it. Sure, I was blissfully young at the time, and much of what was happening was over my head (there were lots of politics involving the investors in the show that I was not tuned in to), but learning to let criticism and outside opinions—both good and bad—glance off me is a lesson I still lean on today. Of course feedback is important and should always be considered, but constructive criticism is very different from straight-up opinion. I listened to the director, I listened to my castmates, and most important, I listened to my heart—and then I kept on trying my best.
Backstage at Ragtime, dressed up as the little girl.
With the incredible Marin Mazzie and my other young costar in Ragtime.
Backstage at Ragtime.
I went to the Tony Awards with Peter Friedman that year as his guest; he was nominated for best actor in a musical. I wanted him to win so badly—more than anything in the world—but he lost. I was much more upset than he was when his name wasn’t called, and he turned to me and said, “Lea, it’s okay.” It wasn’t the end of the world for him, and it didn’t change the fact that he was proud of his work. Audra won a Tony that year, but everyone else—Brian, Peter, Marin—lost. Even though they lost, they still went on every night and did an amazing show; even when there was no prize left, they still acted their hearts out.
I was in Ragtime for two years. The original cast left the show in one night, a passing of the torch, which is standard practice on Broadway. Working with those actors was an incredible experience; watching them every night was my master class, my Juilliard.
FIDDLER ON THE ROOF (2004)
LESSONS LEARNED: FOCUS AND PATIENCE
FOCUS
When I left Ragtime, I was just finishing the eighth grade. Perfect timing, because I couldn’t have been more excited to start high school. I spent the first three years focused on having a relatively normal schedule and life. As we’ve discussed, I needed a chance to take my own pulse and develop interests outside of acting—if only to reaffirm that it was what I really wanted to do. Senior year, life on the stage called again, and I went back to Broadway. I took a part in Fiddler on the Roof in 2004 and balanced that final year between school and work.
Fiddler was a totally different experience for me for many reasons: For one, it was a smaller part, and for another, I was no longer a child. My mom didn’t take me to work anymore. In fact, I got my own apartment in the city and started to feel that my life was really up to me—that I had to do it on my own. While I had a principal role in Fiddler as Daughter #4, it wasn’t a huge part, and I had to share a dressing room with about twelve other women, who ranged in age from nineteen to sixty. Most people start out in an ensemble or chorus, but I had been lucky enough to only land featured roles up to that point, where I had my own private space to get ready and focus my mind. This wasn’t to be on Fiddler, and I had to quickly adjust to less-than-ideal circumstances. Sharing a room was an education in every sense of the word, and while I can’t say it was fun or that I enjoyed it, I’m glad I experienced it. Whether you’re in an office or backstage, it’s important to be able to quiet your mind even in the midst of tumult. All of the women had their own process, their own drama, their own preshow rituals, and I had to adjust without letting the extra noise derail me from my performance. It took a lot of concentration every day to ignore everything that was happening around me, since it’s imperative that I engage 100 percent with my job so that I can do my very best.
PATIENCE
In Fiddler, besides playing the part of Daughter #4, I was the understudy to the much larger role of Daughter #3 (the first three daughters had the lion’s share of lines, while Daughter #4 and Daughter #5 said very little). As an understudy, you have to be prepared to go on every night, though going on rarely comes to pass. And that’s hard, because you want to play that role all the time but have to hang out in the wings and watch someone else do it instead. I really loved and respected Tricia Paoluccio, the girl for whom I understudied, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t challenging to not be in the spotlight—opposite Alfred Molina, no less—every night. As was my luck, Tricia never called in sick. The one time I got to go on was when she was on vacation. I was so incredibly nervous that I doused myself in lavender oil to calm my nerves; while I was sitting on the side of the stage prepping myself to go on, I heard someone exclaim, “What the hell is that smell?” I turned to them and apologized, and they said, “You smell like a tea bag!”
AS AN UNDERSTUDY, YOU HAVE TO BE PREPARED TO GO ON EVERY NIGHT, THOUGH GOING ON RARELY COMES TO PASS. AND THAT’S HARD, BECAUSE YOU WANT TO PLAY THAT ROLE ALL THE TIME BUT HAVE TO HANG OUT IN THE WINGS AND WATCH SOMEONE ELSE DO IT INSTEAD.
Ultimately, I left Fiddler because as nice as it was to collect a paycheck, I wasn’t getting enough out of the experience creatively—I needed to grow and stretch my muscles a bit more. The character of Daughter #4 didn’t have much of an arc,
and as an actor, it started to feel a little dull—I was anxious to take on more.
The Broadway revival cast of Fiddler on the Roof.
Me in my Shprintze, aka Daughter #4, costume.
SPRING AWAKENING (2000–2008)
LESSONS LEARNED: CONVICTION AND EMOTIONAL HARDINESS
CONVICTION
Immediately after Ragtime, I auditioned for a role in a workshop for a new play called Spring Awakening. A workshop is pretty much exactly that: Before a play can get the investors it needs to make it to Broadway, the creators put up a production to massage out all the play’s kinks. The script morphs, the actors come and go, and the play ultimately (and hopefully) finds its footing. We did four workshops for Spring Awakening over the span of five years (from age fourteen to nineteen for me), until it finally landed an off-Broadway run in New York City in 2005.
That was a big moment, since we’d all invested a huge amount of time and energy into seeing the show get off the ground. At that point, it was already a profound part of my life. When I got the call that we had made it to off Broadway I was in the hospital with my mother, who was recovering from surgery for uterine cancer. Needless to say, it was a very emotional day.
And it was emotional, too, because I believed wholeheartedly in the show. I always had a feeling about Spring Awakening. It was such a unique and powerful piece, and the character I got to play was so strong and unusual. Spring Awakening is about children exploring their sexuality in Germany in the late nineteenth century. My role changed considerably from when I did the workshops at age fourteen (kissing and innuendo) to when I was nineteen (full-on simulated sex), to the point that I eventually got a Post-it in my dressing room that simply stated, “We should see your breasts,” from the director, Michael Mayer. I was excited to do this, quite honestly, because I loved challenging the people in the audience who found it uncomfortable. I did have a clause in my contract, though, that I never had to do it when my dad was in the audience.
Besides the subject matter, the music was incredible. Duncan Sheik wrote it (I still have the CD of him singing all the songs, which was delivered along with the original script), and it sounded like a cross between Radiohead and the Beatles. While Rent had broken some ground, this really was a completely new sound for Broadway. Funnily, at my audition, they asked me to sing a pop song, but I was a musical-theater kid—the only song I knew was Jessica Simpson’s “I Think I’m in Love with You,” which I had heard on the radio. Thanks to my years on Glee, I know a lot more pop songs now!
We opened in 2005 to great reviews, which wasn’t surprising since we had a cast of really talented kids: Jonathan Groff, Jon Gallagher, Lauren Pritchard … the list goes on and on. And like with Glee, which we’ll talk about in a later chapter, the show rode entirely on the backs of those kids. One day, when we were in tech rehearsal, which is when you run through the play again and again and again to set the lighting, I was sitting up in the balcony of the Eugene O’Neill Theatre with Lauren Pritchard watching the goings on. She turned to me and said, “Lea, what are we going to do if this show doesn’t make it?” and then was promptly called to the stage to do one of her songs, which was a really beautiful number called “Blue Wind.” I sat up there and I watched her, and I got chills. When she came back up to the balcony after, I looked at her and I said, “Lauren, if you do that every night, we’re going to be just fine.”
And we were more than fine. While we opened the show in a tiny church in Chelsea, we were soon on Broadway and eventually found ourselves the stars of one of the season’s biggest success stories. In many ways, it was the perfect training ground for Glee, though on a much smaller scale, and like with Glee, those kids in the cast became my best friends and, essentially, my family. It wasn’t just a showmance—our bonds were very real.
EMOTIONAL HARDINESS
If you haven’t seen it, Spring Awakening is a very intense play to both watch and perform. What we went through on that stage was very, very hard and emotional, and it called on all of us to dig deep eight shows a week. Spoiler alert, but the character I played, Wendla, is young, precocious, and strong, and over the course of the show she goes through a lot. There’s a very intense beating scene, there’s a very intense sex scene, and ultimately Wendla dies from a botched abortion at the end of the play. It wasn’t easy stuff. There were days when I really didn’t want to go there emotionally; drawing upon those feelings every night so I could make Wendla come alive was truly exhausting. But doing that show again and again gave me stamina, and it taught me how to really access my emotions. I was going through a lot of personal stuff at the time—I was in a relationship that had its ups and downs—and so to do the show, I had to put that aside. That was an important lesson: No matter what, the show must go on. There are 1,100 people who have paid to see you perform, and you have to do your best. If the turmoil in my daily life wasn’t something that I could harness and use on the stage, then I left everything that was going on in the dressing room. I could never afford to let it affect the show in a negative way.
IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN IT, SPRING AWAKENING IS A VERY INTENSE PLAY TO BOTH WATCH AND PERFORM. WHAT WE WENT THROUGH ON THAT STAGE WAS VERY, VERY HARD AND EMOTIONAL, AND IT CALLED ON ALL OF US TO DIG DEEP EIGHT SHOWS A WEEK.
IN SHORT …
Spring Awakening won eight Tony Awards and a Grammy, which was pretty amazing validation for the work we were doing. And it was perfect prep for what came next. We’ll talk more about Glee, but it’s safe to say that I never would have landed that role without all the work of the years before—both onstage and off—which really taught me the skills I needed to succeed in the business. And quite frankly, probably in any business. In Les Misérables, I learned the basics of having and holding a job; in Ragtime, I learned a ton about acting, as well as teamwork and being accountable for doing my part well; in Fiddler, I learned that you don’t always get what you want and sometimes must be patient; and in Spring Awakening, I learned how to balance my personal and professional lives and really dig deep to access my emotions. I know that I don’t have the typical day job, but I hope—and think—that these are skills that are pretty easy to apply to any type of career. Ultimately, it’s about being part of a team, learning on the job, and always trying to do your best.
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OWNING YOUR ACCOMPLISHMENTS
We live in a world of self-deprecation, and while it’s healthy to make fun of ourselves from time to time, it bothers me when I see women of all ages belittling their accomplishments because they don’t want to appear boastful or overconfident. You don’t see a lot of guys out there underplaying their strengths or making light of what they’re good at, so why should women? While I get that there’s a fine line between owning your accomplishments and reciting every line of your résumé, there is absolutely no shame in being proud of what you’ve managed to achieve! Own it!
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The Other Things I’ve Learned Along the Way …
FAKE IT ’TIL YOU MAKE IT
When my dad is asked if he can do something, his standard response is, “Sure I can do it—of course I can do it!” regardless of what the “it” might be. As I mentioned, my dad hustles. Like father, like daughter, because I’ve done the same thing my entire life—sometimes to my detriment. I auditioned for the musical Brigadoon and after I sang for Rob Ashford, the director, he stopped me as I was leaving the room and asked, “Lea, how’s your extension?” I had no clue what he meant, so just responded, “It’s great!” He then asked me if I could do the splits, to which I replied, “Of course!” I couldn’t do the splits, but I wasn’t going to shoot myself in the foot unnecessarily. I figured I’d just muddle my way through. A few weeks later, I had a dance callback for the show, and I couldn’t do any of it: I thoroughly embarrassed myself in this room full of ballerinas who did have incredible extension. They were leaping across the room in perfect arcs, while I looked like a skit straight out of Saturday Night Live. It was hilarious but still worthwhile: I just don�
�t believe in admitting preemptive defeat, particularly if there’s any chance to learn on the job. Inevitably, I wasn’t cast in the show, but at least I didn’t limit myself. I always think it’s better to scramble to learn a new skill than to sell yourself short.
FREQUENTLY ASKED FAN QUESTIONS
Your burning questions about the business, answered!
Q HOW DO YOU DEAL WITH AUDITION NERVES?
A I prepare for auditions probably as much as everyone else prepares for a job interview. Ultimately, so long as I do my best in the room, the decision about whether I get the job or not really isn’t up to me, so to ease my nerves (I still get very, very nervous prior to auditions), I try to control as much about the experience as possible. By that I mean that I’ve researched the role, read the script, gone to see the show (if the show already exists), picked my music, practiced my music, practiced my lines, printed my music out, and figured out where the audition is and exactly how long it’s going to take me to get there. I leave nothing to chance. Ultimately, the more I know what I’m going to do when I get into that room, the less nervous I tend to be. That way, when audition day rolls around, I can stay calm and focused, knowing in the back of my mind that I’ve done everything humanly possible to prepare.
