CrossFit GRIMM

Happy Friday the 13th.

In a previous post, I mentioned that the number 13 should probably never attach itself to Grimm.  Dangerous things can happen.  Your evil twin sister, after being gone for thirteen years, might suddenly return to steal your throne.  A gnomish, pedophilic abomination with a four-syllable name might suddenly show up on your doorstep and demand your kids.  Someone might hit your car. ....

But dangers are dangers nevertheless.

Alright.  At the risk of sounding too much like Jim Carrey in The Number 23 (seriously, did anyone see that movie?  Mr. Popper’s Penguins?  Anyone?), that’s the last I’ll say about numerology.  

On a completely different note, this weekend I’m flying out to California to watch my step-dad compete in the 2012 Reebok CrossFit Games.  Fitness is kind of my family’s “thing” (every family has one of those, right?) -- my parents run a CrossFit gym on Long Island, and Scott, my step-dad, will be defending his title as champion of his division (cue: violent flashback to last summer).  For those of you who might not know, CrossFit is an intense style of fitness, incorporating cardio, weightlifting, and gymnastics, all rolled into one, short, I-might-have-to-step-outside-and-puke-behind-the-dumpster workout.  

Last night, as I sat on Olivia’s floor wondering what I was going to write for my next entry, it hit me that Grimm is essentially the CrossFit of theater.  

Ahem.  For those of you who might not know, Grimm is an intense style of theater, incorporating music, set-lifting, and gymnastics, all rolled into one, short, I-might-have-to-step-outside-and-puke-behind-the-cauldron show.  

Those spinning wheels are heavier than they look. 
That's why grandma's knitted Christmas sweaters weigh as much as they do.

But seriously.  Grimm, back in 2009, was a workout in its own right, calling for extreme physical and cardiovascular endurance, up to and including power-cleaning pine trees and carrying heavy set pieces up and down a four-leveled set, all the while wearing ten-pound costumes and holding out harmonies well beyond normal lung capacity.  

Although Grimm 2.0 won’t be quite as excruciatingly elaborate (no four-tiered sets, no paper machete-monster cauldrons) the nature of both the show and the festival itself is still a kind of high-intensity explosion.  Before the show begins, we only have fifteen minutes to set up.  Fifteen minutes.  When I was a kid, I measured that kind of time as one Rugrats episode.  That’s nothing.  By then, the cast already needs to be ready in full costume and makeup (so don’t be alarmed if it begins to look like Halloween on the New York City subways during the weeks of August).  Then there’s the show itself, which, despite consisting of over half-a-dozen musical numbers and featuring characters that carry the weight of hundreds of years’ worth of oral tradition, lasts only fifty minutes, after which we only have fifteen minutes to strike the set so that the next show can tag in.

Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?  

The cast has been training hard.  Bring it on, Fringe.  Bring it on.