In Praise of the Nosferatus

If Dracula can't see his reflection in the mirror, how come his hair is always so neatly combed?
Steven Wright


There are always a few commendable individuals who play a vital role in the theater arts, yet shun the limelight. Without their hard work, however, it would be impossible for those in the audience to enjoy the magic of what takes place onstage.

Frankly, I have a difficult time understanding why anyone would wish to toil in anonymity, foregoing public adulation. I figure that if I’m going to sacrifice several months of my leisure time to help put on a performance, at least I should get a comedic cameo that brings the house down.

But, yes, there are those out there who, out of shyness or saintly modesty, prefer to remain behind the scenes. Just last weekend, though, I witnessed a remarkable exception to this rule when the Balboa Academy Players’ performed a stage adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, here in Panamá.

On both Friday and Saturday nights, the stagehands doubled as the Nosferatus. Their characters, seven of them, wore black hooded robes and ghoulishly white makeup—with the exception of the lead Nosteratu, whose face was painted black. Without uttering a single word, the sinister-looking Nosferatus/stagehands added much to the menacing atmosphere of the play. They hypnotized the Count’s opponents; performed the seductive dance of the veils that lured Lucy into Dracula’s arms; induced fear in the hearts of the audience with their wicked, behind-the-scene giggles; carried off Renfield’s corpse in a timely, comedic fashion; and, alas, died in a fiercely loyal and striking fashion when the stake was driven into their master’s heart.

The Nosferatus did all this in addition to changing the sets between scenes.

What more could the directors of the play ask of the Nosferatus?

Although the speaking cast of Dracula gave superb performances, particularly during Saturday evening’s show, I’d like take this moment to acknowledge those who work diligently in the shadows, without expecting any recognition: the stagehands.

Nosferatus, without you, those delightful evenings wouldn’t have been possible.

Bram Stoker would have been proud.