Logs:Critic

Critic
Dramatis Personae Gaétan, Lucien
In Absentia	2024-12-16 "{If that is the niche you want to live in, I support you.}"
Location <NYC> Ars Nova - Greenwich Village
It's been a very long day of rehearsal, but it's winding down now. Gaétan has been lingering, down now in the actual theatre space with his stage manager and one of his actors. They aren't speaking all that loudly but the blessing/curse of an intimate theatre space is that the argument is pretty audible all the same, the acoustics in here are distressingly good. The stage manager and the actor want a fairly radical overhaul of one of the numbers; Gaétan is stubbornly determined to keep it his way. It's been a very long day -- probably this argument will continue tomorrow. Gaétan is heading backstage, disgruntled, to pick up his things, fetch his bag and his jacket. Are Gaétan's bag and jacket where he left them? This is a rhetorical question -- they are right here by the door, held by one Elder Tessier and accompanied by an intensely critical look. At the very least the critical look is softened by the additional presence of a thermos of tea and takeout bag that smells conspicuously like tacos. Lucien holds his arm out, Gaétan's jacket draped over it like a coatrack. "{They're right, you know. They're actually being too soft on you, you ought to cut out that number entirely.}" "{Where did you -- how long were you --}" Gaétan starts, before remembering, perhaps, who he's talking to. He switches instead to a slightly peevish: "{It's a good number.}" Not peevish enough that he isn't eagerly taking the takeout bag along with his things. "Mmm." Lucien's critical look is deepening, for just a moment before his expression flattens into something more neutral. Relieved of his burdens, he is absently adjusting the collar of his own suede jacket, brushing some imaginary lint from it before he goes to get the door to Outside for his brother. "{Well. It is a superlative song.}" Gaétan doesn't follow Lucien to the door. He's been inspecting the takeout bag but now he looks up, his hand turning up and out like, what. "{It's a great -- how do you make that sound so shady.}" Lucien's brow hitches. He lets the door close again, and leans back against it. His arms cross, languid, over his chest, and now he turns one hand up in a casually elegant counterpoint to Gaétan's. "{It's very catchy. And it's very clever. I'm sure like the last, this show will get solid reviews from the three critics who see it before it closes, and if this is the art world niche you want to live in, I support you.}" Gaétan slumps back against a wall. His arms have crossed over his chest in probably unintentional mirror to Lucien's. The takeout bag crumples audibly at the top where his fingers press harder into it. His eyes cut sharply in his brother's direction -- maybe for just a moment he is strongly considering arguing that perhaps he does want to languish forever in art snob obscurity, has never once looked with envy upon the two Tonys that once graced Luci's mantle. He doesn't argue it, though. He turns his eyes up to the ceiling. Takes in a breath. Opens the thermos and drinks a swallow of tea. "{I'll cut it.}" He glances back over towards Lucien. "{How long were you watching?}" "{Long enough.}" Lucien drops his hand to fold back into the crook of his arm. His brows lower, a small indeterminate twitch brief at one corner of his mouth. "{It is very good. But if you want it to be great I have some notes. And probably some people you ought talk to. That last show of yours was technically stunning but --}" He does not, this time, elaborate on the but. He lets it hang, condemnatory, in the air between them for a beat or two. "{-- this one could make it to Broadway with a touch less self-indulgence and a lot of editing.}" "Make it to --" Gaétan actually looks startled, at this. He's standing a little straighter, brows hiking a little higher. But after this he's slumping back against the wall again, shoulders slouched, brows pulling low. "{C'mon, it's not that good.}" This doesn't really sound discouraged -- just pensive. He scrunches his fingers harder against the paper bag and then pulls himself upright, trudging slow towards the door. "{Would take a hell of a push.}" "{Have you seen some of the drivel that makes it to Broadway? Give yourself credit. It is heads and shoulders above plenty. If success were about talent alone the world would look very different. You are my brother. I will push.}" Lucien, now, does not pull away from the door just yet. His fingers are pressing down harder into the crooks of his arms, his mouth for a moment pressing thinner. "{The mutant subplot might raise an eyebrow or two. Especially after Lassiter.}" Gaétan shrugs. "{Among bigots, maybe. You really want to push, I'm in a hell of a better position to take risks there than some.}" He doesn't smile, but there's a grim amusement in his voice. "{Especially after Lassiter.}" "Mmm." Despite the faint tightness that briefly crosses his jaw, there's something almost pleased in this brief hum. Lucien pulls away from the door, now, head inclining just so. "{Well. If that is the niche you want to live in, I support you.}"