by McKenzie Snellgrove
If you are a patron of the arts at Centre, you have probably heard of the raucous, absurdist comedy coming to the stage this fall—The Arsonists, by Max Frisch. However, under the slapstick comedy and witty humor, a far more sinister event emerges. In my commitment to journalism, I have gone undercover, going so far as to be cast in the show, in order to unearth this mystery and see the secrets that lie deep within the stage of Weisiger.
On the first visit to rehearsal, I found it was business as usual. Albeit somewhat madcap and wacky, the rehearsal room was filled with what seemed to be normal theatrical activities. Mr. Biedermann, the main protagonist, was desperately trying to relax, sprawling on the floor in what the actor described as “much needed floor time” as an escape from the trials of midterms at Centre and the exhaustion of monologues. A chorus member fiddled around with a prop axe for their firefighter costume, trying to get down their choreography. Other actors were running lines, the stage managers were marking blocking changes—all appeared to be a routine rehearsal. Luckily, one strange movement caught my eye and ended up leading me deeper down the rabbit hole.
In the corner of the rehearsal room, Schmitz, one of the titular arsonists, was carefully rolling a prop cigar between his fingers, humming an eerie, archaic melody. As soon as my eyes landed on him, he suddenly turned on his heels and glided out the door like a whisper. Obviously, as a passionate reporter, I had to get to the bottom of this and follow him. As I trailed behind, only knowing where he was going due to the loud and crisp click-clack of his shoes, I could not help but wonder about the mystery that lay before me. Were there to be ghosts, ghouls, or—dare I say—goblins?? What lay hidden beneath the well-varnished exterior of the Centre theatre department? I had to know.
Suddenly, as I neared the bottom of the staircase in Grant, I heard the footsteps abruptly stop. Slowly, I peered down and saw Schmitz running his hands along the wall. A delicate click echoed out as he unlocked a secret door that swung open to reveal a dark hallway. All I could see of the hidden passage were the deep and dingy shadows lurking within, as black as the ink on a newspaper–no, it was darker than that—as black as the hair of a cat (a black one). He swiftly entered the door, pulling it shut behind him. I quickly snuck to the door and slid my finger in the gap before the door closed completely. Of course, this hurt like hell and made me wonder if I even had a finger anymore, but anything for the sake of journalism. Once the footsteps faded into the distance, I entered the passageway and was immediately enveloped by darkness. I felt my way through the tunnel-like corridor, trying to feel for anything that resembled a light switch.
Walking through the abyss, I began to ponder what I was getting myself into. How far away was I from Grant? Was I still on Centre’s campus? Was I even in Kentucky?? There was no way to be sure. Just as I was about to give up hope and turn around, I heard whispers from deep within the tunnel. They echoed against the stone walls, growing louder and louder by the moment, like a snowball rolling into a bigger snowball, until they encircled me completely. A match was struck. A miniature fire burned before my face. Illuminated behind it was the mastermind behind the entire network, the gigantuous, hairy fly that lorded over the other flies, Babette Biederman: mistress of the Biedermann household and keeper of the dinner goose. With the push of a circular-shaped button, we were instantaneously flying upward at a vigorous speed.
The next thing I knew, we were standing in the center of the new plaza in front of Sutcliffe. The sprinklers lay oddly still, like silent towers that normally spray water but turned off. Standing in a circle around me were the rest of the cast members, dressed in long robes, red as the smoldering embers of an ancient funeral pyre. One by one, they began to chant, “Centre’s burning, Centre’s burning,” their voices joining together like malicious cicadas. As I turned to face my captor, she smiled down at me and began to explain the evil plan. Beneath the guise of a show about Arsonists, the secret cult of the theatre program pounced at the opportunity to hide their plots in plain sight. With great journalistic integrity, I interrogated Babette to reveal this hidden scheme.
“Simple,” she said. “We will burn Centre to the ground with our matches and from the ashes we will build a new college based on the freedom of mutiny. We will banish the corrupt rules that say no climbing on trees, no candles in dorm rooms, no entry into Champions hall after hours, and so much more!” With this, Babette let out a resonant cackle that echoed off the polished white stones of the plaza. “Unfortunately,” she continued. “Someone caught on to our plans and set up these sprinklers under the guise of watering the grass. Only we know the truth–these sprinklers are meant to thwart our great plans and keep us from achieving complete conflagration!! But now, we are here to foil their petty attempt to stop us and burn Centre College to the ground!”
Striking a match, Babette turned to her devoted followers and spoke a long sentence in accented German. As she spoke, I snuck up and pounced on her, like the vicious bird waking up with the rays of the sun to get a piece of the foul worm. Instantaneously, she fell, the match flying through the air. I gasped—the Arsonists’ evil plan was in motion because of me!! Curse my journalistic integrity. However, as I watched the match hit the ground and no flames appeared, I realized that since the grass was so incredibly wet from the sprinklers, no fire could be started. I pranced with joy, much like a gazelle prancing for no reason at all (they just do that).
With that, the mystery had been solved and the plot had been foiled. The Arsonists returned to just being regular actors and promised to give up their heinous schemes of chaos and mutiny. Be sure to go see their production of The Arsonists November 13-16th to show your support for their abandonment of evil: otherwise, they may grow resentful and return to their malicious deeds.