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