King for A Day; or The Lear Chronicles

The following are exerpts from a correspondence with my esteemed colleague, Maestro Les Marsden -- actor, director, composer, wit, bon vivant; founder and conductor of the Mariposa (CA) Symphony, and one-time candidate for the U.S. House of Representatives. I had just informed him that I had been engaged to direct a production of Shakespeare's King Lear. . .

From Les Marsden, dated 6 June 2007:

I replied to your e-mail, which was immediately bounced back to me in [a] somewhat summarily rude manner.  Why, I oughta...I trust you'll ensure this NEVER happens again. Or if it does, is at least accompanied by a REAL, non-simulated box of chocolates. Hence, I'll try this address of yours; if that one fails too - well, then: I think you know what you can do about it.

[Anyway]  I'm afraid your claim --- Marsden – Proof (if ever you needed it) that I am WAY crazier than you --- just doesn't hold water. Yes, you're quite f---ing nuts to direct Lear; however: I am FAR more insane than you because I would have insisted you cast ME in the title role....see? Me WAAAAY crazier. Good hearing from you, even despite the unfortunate fact that it was you I was hearing from. Have an incredible time directing that show, even with a hack in the lead who obviously couldn't begin to think about holding a candle to me....quite seriously, Lear was a role I someday looked forward to (click onto the attached pic of me getting ready to give a downbeat - see? Lear!) as I did also hope someday to do Prospero, but now: ain't gonna happen....
Okay. That's it. Oh - and did you ever work with Charles Nelson Reilly? He was a very dear friend....and so [read the] tribute I wrote which has managed to circulate here and there on the net.

. . . and my reply, dated a few hours later the same day. . .


Ah, Marsden, if only I DID have you as Lear. . . but that’s a story for another note.

Sorry about the bounceback; my primary ISP is (and I’m not kidding) a guy who runs his computer business out of his barn in the next town over; he was one of the first people in this area to offer internet access and I’ve stuck with him just because he’s the kind of New England eccentric that should be encouraged. Unfortunately, his idea of spam blocking is to bounce random e-mails from folks like yourself (an address that’s unfamiliar to him), while letting through at least 15 or sixteen dozen solicitations from on-line gambling sites, off-shore pharmacies, and some guy named Nkwome who claims that he is more than willing to cut me in on a chunk of 30 million (USD) that he’s trying to transfer into the States.

The piece on Charles Nelson Reilly was wonderful; I never worked with him (I’m lucky I got to work with YOU, nevermind anybody REALLY famous), and if I do drop dead tomorrow (an event not out of the realm of possibility, given the circumstances), it’s good to know that my grieving widow could count on you for an eulogy that would convince my friends and neighbors that the nice, sweet old guy they thought they knew was someone who made Jeffrey Dahmer look like the latest winner of the Pillsbury Bake-Off.

I’d love to make this note longer (and funnier); I’m glad to see that you, your family and the Symphony are all doing well. And remember – at least the dumbf--ks watching your hair bounce showed up to listen to the music. Lear as a summer’s evening entertainment in New Hampshire – my guess is we’ll play the whole run to about twelve guys from the English Department at Dartmouth, all of whom will be sitting in the dark, making “tsk, tsk” noises and taking notes. When I come up for air in a few weeks I will bring you the whole sordid tale that is me directing King Lear – right now I just need to get some sleep and pray to God nobody slices themselves in twain during tomorrow’s daily fight call.

Adieu, Hackenbush. May your hair grow ever longer.

Michael

Finally, the show opened, and, as promised, I had a long, sordid tale to relate to my old friend. . .


My Dear Hackenbush:

Not that you care, but my production of King Lear was a triumph; excellent audience response, kudos from all who saw it for the flawless direction and brilliant acting, etc.; but that’s not why I am writing you. I am writing to tell you a story that began this past Friday at around noon. The show only runs for 7 performances, barely time to get warmed up and really going with the piece, but that’s the result of all kinds of factors out of the control of the hired help. This past Friday was our 6th scheduled performance. I had planned not to haunt the theatre that night, figuring the kiddies were doing just fine without me coming around simply to take a nap in the balcony during the show. Around noon, my stage manager extraordinaire M ---- L---- calls me to say that J--- ,our Lear, the Artistic Director of the theatre company has laryngitis and might not be able to go on that night. We both of us agreed that trying to send some poor dope on as Lear with a book in his hand would be the height of folly; and besides, we didn’t know anybody who was (a.) Available, and (b.) Stupid enough to do it. J--- was heading off to his local quack to see what could be done with sprays, shots or other nostrums to get him in shape to perform; but we figured if by half hour he was not recovered enough to go on, we’d just cancel the show that night.

At 5 PM I get a call from the Producer. J--- still has no real voice and is in no shape to perform. The producer, a nice enough fellow possessed of no real experience in live theatre production but a VERY fat checkbook has, despite his inexperience, nonetheless read and memorized Rule 1 in the Producer’s Handbook – NEVER GIVE BACK THE MONEY. He goes on to say that he has consulted with members of the Board of Directors, the head of the Educational Outreach program (a 27 year old kid who is also running the fly rail for our show), and several of the members of the company, all who agree that I should be the dope that goes on tonight (cold) with a book in his hand. I give him at least 23 reasons why I don’t think this is a good idea, but he’s not buying any of them. So finally, provided he understands that I think this is a REALLY BAD IDEA I will suck it up and take one for the team (and the evening’s box office receipts).

By now, after talking with the producer and the stage manager, it is 5:30 PM. It takes me at least an hour and a half to get from home up to the theatre, which means I will get there (barring flood, fire, famine, accident or moose sightings) at about 7 PM just in time for Fight Call. Somehow on the way up I manage to simultaneously drive a stick-shift car and say ten decades of the Rosary. I arrive and am greeted by my cast, every man-jack of which asks “how are you feeling?”, the answer to which is “I don’t know yet, ask me in three hours.” I go to great lengths to assure all of them that this was not my idea and I was all for giving them the night off. I am hustled into the costume, my script in hand (fortunately, since I made them, it has all the cuts in it); and I have just enough time to work the slap Lear has with Oswald and to make a few test hoists of Cordelia (a woman who weighs all of 100 pounds) while figuring out how I’ll manage to hold on to the script while howling and trying to set her down on the floor without dropping her on her head for the last scene. She offers to hold the book in her teeth (an offer I momentarily consider); but I figure if I just keep howling until we get downstage I can put her down, extract the hand with the book out from under her skinny little tush, and then start the lines. The Company manager makes an announcement to the assembled multitude about the substitution, and all of a sudden I hear somebody who has a voice which sounds a lot like mine saying “Attend the Lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.” The rest is a blur. I didn’t fall down, and I didn’t throw up, so I figure that’s a win.

I am told it went well; the actors all claimed it was good (but they’re probably all just suck-ups hoping I’ll cast them again, so I can’t really rely on that). What I know is that I was reasonably audible and not particularly subtle, but I never lost my place even when turning pages and I actually remembered all the blocking.


I never want to have to do that again.


So I’m sorry, Marsden, but I can now say without fear of contradiction that I am WAY crazier than you.

Mikey

Epistling -- vbl. sb. Obs.

The Oxford English Dictionary (one of my favorite bits of light reading) defines Epistling as: Epistolary matter; correspondence. As if that weren't wonderful enough on its own, there are other great words like:

Epistler (the writer of an epistle), epistolarily (also epistolarly or epistolatory, in the manner of a letter or epistle); epistoler or epistolean or epistolist (the writer of an epistle), epistolet (a small epistle); and, my favorite, epistolizable (that which may form a letter).

All this is to say that much of what I will be sharing here are letters, as I mentioned before -- mostly to my daughter, many to friends. Letters are wonderful things, and while I'm not one of those Luddites that descries e-mail because it has allegedly ruined letter-writing as an art (I find I'm more likely to write longer, and better, in an e-mail than if I had to commit pen -- or typewriter -- to paper), I do think that too many people now are content to use a shorthand form of communicating, whether in text messages or e-mails, rather than putting in the time and the effort to craft a message, no matter how short that communication might be.

I send my daughter long letters, short notes, and random observations on a regular basis; I will post and share a number of these in the days to come.

In the interim, I do urge anyone who may read this to think about putting in some serious time when you write to someone, no matter how trivial it may seem at the time. You never know who might read it someday.

Disclaimers, Caveats, and The Fine Print

I don't do fiction. In general, what you will read here are true stories that involve many real people, and me (I make no claims as to my own reality; I leave that for others to judge). The events and characters may have been exaggerated for effect (especially if I was writing to a friend who knew the folks involved), but what you will read here did, in fact happen, and does involve all of the individuals named or hinted at. Because of this, while I do hold a grudge (as those who know me well will attest), I plan to exercise a certain level of discretion regarding the use of real names and places. My suspicion is, however, that if any of the people involved actually do read this, they will recognize themselves immediately. My hope is, in changing names, dates and localities, that they won't have grounds to sue.

In the Beginning. . .

I realized some time ago that I had amassed a great deal of written material from the last 30 years: essays, detailed letters and e-mails to friends and family , and other random jottings that I, at least, found reasonably amusing and perhaps worth sharing with the world at large. So, seeing as how pretty much everybody and their brother-in-law was taking to the Web to self-publish anything -- from what terribly cute thing their cat did the other day to novel-length manifestos (manifesti?) advocating apocalyptic revolution -- I figured, "what the hell, what's a few thousand words more charging around out there in the ether?" I've tried to keep a sense of humor in my life; it has certainly helped to keep things in perspective, and I've been aware that for a long while (probably the result of reading too many volumes of the Collected Letters of the Great and Near-Great over the years) I tend to write as if (I hope!) it will be read by a wider audience somewhere, someday. Some of it is funny, some of it wallows excessively in nostalgia and/or sentiment, and most of it is probably indicative of serious psychological disturbances that really ought to be looked into someday by a qualified professional.

And so, good people, despite all that -- or, perhaps, because of it -- I've decided to post this stuff to see if anyone else might see in it anything of value. Besides, I promised myself a while ago that I would write more and oftener, because I just enjoy the process so.

Like Hamlet says, "If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come -- the readiness is all." I have no idea what the hell that means in this context (well I do, actually, as you will see if you keep reading), except that a good quote, especially from Shakespeare, is always a fine way to round off a bit of writing. And, as the playwright/director /actor George Abbott once wrote :"If it's good enough for Shakespeare, it's good enough for us!"