Down With Dogs, I: Very Small Theatres Part 4

The Starbucks that Victor prefers is very small, and to get there you have to make several right turns in a row, in relatively rapid succession; even when you arrive, you walk in the front door and you have to turn a corner to the right before you even get to the front register. The seat Victor prefers is beyond that, around another corner to the right, tucked back into a little nook at the far back right corner of the room. You don't really see it when you walk in, because of the dark wood surrounding it. The way the room is shaped, you notice the hallway to the restrooms on the left, but not the dark nook tucked back away on the right. It's almost always empty, and when it's not, Victor is usually the sole occupant. He calls it his office, and getting there feels rather a bit like a journey to the center of the Labyrinth.

When I arrive, he gestures for me to sit down, an enthusiastic yet curt gesture which seems to imply that we are slightly behind schedule for the running of Planet Earth. It's immediately energizing. Sans preamble, Victor speaks:

Victor: A tearful phone call from Fat Sister after I left. You are, if I remember rightly, a Tyrant, a Neophyte, a Parasite, Judas Iscariot and Adolph Hitler rolled into one. Surprised?

Edward: No.

Victor: So. How'd it go?

Edward: She stomped out to the lobby after you left.

Victor (laughing): She had the courtesy to call me from the office phone.

Edward (a chuckle): A point in her favor.

Victor: I'm sure Charles will appreciate funding her rant.

Edward: There's got to be a discretionary Dissonant Diva fund in every theatre's budget.

Victor: Amen, my brother. Amen.

Edward: How was your first company meeting?

Victor picks up his coffee and sips it, tilting his head to the side and tasting it like wine. A thoughtful but brief pause.

Victor: Well, it's cold now. But when I arrived it was hot and dark and steaming.

Victor takes a second sip of his coffee.

Edward: Steaming like the Christmas Pudding you've ignited between Fat Sister's legs.

Victor spit-takes to his left, misting the wall perfectly with a fragrant spray of coffee. I'm telling you, his command of physical comedy is unparalleled. I'm laughing, possibly howling, at this; I take a look over my left shoulder to see if anyone else in the room is disturbed by our presence. The room is fairly full, nearing packed. The music, whatever it is, sounds like Louis Armstrong playing Saint-Saens' The Aquarium. Some of the other patrons are looking around, confused, trying to figure out who is laughing so loudly. It feels like we're invisible in the center of this labyrinth.

Victor: What are you going to do at the next rehearsal?

Edward: Run the show. Backwards.

Victor: Vagina my through poop I.

This slays me. I have this braying wounded-asthmatic-hyena laugh, sometimes. It can be a little off-putting. A lady two tables down slams her book of Feminist Thought Form Poetry closed, grabs her woven hemp bag and stomps her Birkenstocky feet right out of that Starbucks. Perhaps she is in search of a pumice stone and some toenail clippers. For the sake of the other riders on local public transport, let us pray.

Victor leads the way through an alarmed back exit that isn't terribly alarmed at all. We're on West 47th. I have no idea how. We walk over to 8th Avenue and down many several blocks until we reach the bar at which we had agreed to get a drink. Just as we cross the street, Victor's cell phone rings.

Victor: This is Victor. Yes. ... Yes. ... Yes. ... Yes. ... Yes. ... I see. ... No.

Victor ends the call.

Edward: Am I drinking alone?

Victor leads the way into the bar. Late afternoon light angles around buildings to flash from passing cars.

Victor: Heaven forfend. As I remember it, you are partial to Manhattans, no?

We are inside, heaving ourselves onto backed bar stools.

Edward: O indeed, Mighty Mister Maog.

Victor: You've penetrated my alliterative anus.

Edward: Mercy me.

Victor: ... Perplexed playwright purloins purpose.

Edward: Derelict director ditches duty.

Victor: Ha! Yes. ... effervescent Edward eases egress.

Edward: That was particularly well done.

Victor: Thank you.

Bartender: Order a drink, fancy fucks.

Slight pause.

Edward: Manhattan, up, Jack is fine.

Victor: Lemon Drop.

I turn to look at him, but he's regarding the bartender with calm, even eyes.

Bartender: You got it.

The bartender turns and makes our drinks in what feels like three seconds.

Edward: Lemon Drop?

Victor: I'll explain later.

Just as our drinks hit the bar, Charles appears next to us.

Charles: Scotch, cheap, neat.

Charles turns to us.

Charles: Fat Sister is crazier than a gay Republican.

Victor: Charles. What a coincidence. Tell us, we're all agog.

Charles: She is at a pay phone near my apartment, calling the office and calling my answering machine, waiting for me to get home.

Edward: How did you avoid her?

Charles: Iain saw her as he left to walk Stockard. He's sipping espresso at the cafe down the street --

Victor [sim.]: The one with the chocolate eclairs?
Charles [sim.]: The one with the chocolate eclairs -- pretending to read Proust.

Edward: Does anyone ever actually read Proust, anyway?

Charles turns to look at me, I can't tell if he's offended or thoughtful.

Victor: A gay man in a sidewalk cafe with espresso and a Pomeranian, pretending to read Proust. It would be better if he were eating madeleines.

Charles: They're baking a fresh batch. He's having the time of his life. Meanwhile, I'm being stalked by this crazy bitch -- all because of your little stunt, Victor.

Victor: Sadly, I think that the one most likely to be affected by this turn of events is Edward.

They are looking at me; I raise my glass to them. We clink, and the music in the background resolves itself into Louis Armstrong, A Kiss To Build A Dream On. We leave after one drink, scattering to three winds on the corner outside the bar. 

When I get home, my girlfriend is complaining that she did the dishes. I try to make her laugh. It does not work. We have nothing to do, very little money to spend. Well, she has money: wealthy upstate family, a full-time job at Godiva on 5th Ave., but I don't make as much. So I don't propose what I would have back in Boston: rent a movie, see a film, do something fun. We live in Corona, Queens: there is nothing to do when the Lemon Ice King of Corona is closed. I retreat to my room, where, when I hear her footsteps outside and the door quietly open, I pretend to be asleep.

Down With Dogs, I: Very Small Theatres Part 2

I went with the gentle diversion. He got in his car and left, I walked to the subway, and the next day we all had lunch with Charles, the Artistic Director of the company. The purpose of this lunch was to discuss the project -- this was something Charles did with every one-act in the festival: dine with the cast and creative team in order to casually bounce some ideas around. I'm betting it was also a way to gauge the overall tension, positivity vs. negativity, or whatever else might be going on with any one project. Thing is, the cast and creative team -- with one notable exception among the actors -- pretty much got along. The only major issue was that the playwright refused to rewright.

So we all went out to lunch. And some ideas were bounced around, most of them useless because they didn't take into account the biggest problem in the piece -- which I will address soon. I was actually somewhat embarrassed for a couple of the actors, because their main ideas stemmed solely from the notion that the size of their roles, and thus their stage time, should be increased. This is not a quality in the heart of every actor, but it is definitely present in some. They count their lines, some even count the words, they actually seek ways to upstage everyone else in the play; these are the actors who will hide your props, move your costume, possibly even poison your makeup -- though that seems relatively rare. I haven't often encountered them, but the funny thing is that every one I've ever worked with has always shown her or his hand pretty early on in the process. The first sign is always greed for more lines, more stage time. Which is not to say that every actor who wants more stage time is a theatrical sociopath -- just as every person who likes weaponry is not a mass-murderer -- but the angling, wheedling, grasping desperation for more lines that some actors display is a clear and bright red flag. That moment in Rivendell comes to mind, in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings, when Bilbo sees the ring on its chain around Frodo's neck and for a moment transforms into a scary grasping greedful creeper: that's what this kind of actor can't keep hidden away, and when she or he sees whatever represents her or his personal One Ring, greed and desperation take over and the actor will engage in behavior that ranges from the ridiculous to the deplorable.

We all met at the theater and walked down to a diner on the corner past Playwrights Horizons (was I the only one who looked with longing at those doors? Victor saw me and nodded as if to say, "You are right to be looking at those doors. It's only a matter of time." Alas, it would seem that the gift of prophecy does not rest among Victor's other talents.) Victor stood outside checking his voicemail as we got a large booth. He'd quietly insisted to me that he and I sit next to one another opposite Charles and the playwright, so I quietly arranged it thus; when Victor came in, it was with the news that our playwright would not be joining us for this mandatory lunch because of unforeseen personal obligations. To which Charles responded, "Translation: I'm a fucking pussy and I'm afraidseys to rewritseys my widdow babbow scwiptseys." 

This was a refreshing revelation, because it meant several things: first, that Charles was aware of the playwright's unwillingness to fulfill his side of the deal. Second, it appeared that Charles was thus laying the groundwork for open and honest discussion of the project. Those were the most important things, but an added detail was that it seemed that Charles had met this kind of resistance before and was impatient with unprofessionality. I asked him about it:

Edward: Charles, this can't be the first time you've worked with a stubborn playwright.

Charles: Oh my God, no. It's the entire reason we have that contract with all of our playwrights now: the first two festivals we did, we got people who thought collaboration meant refusing to allow us to do their play if we didn't cast it to their satisfaction, things like that.

At this point Charles opened the discussion to the table, and, while the main issue the actors had with the play was one of repetition and pointless lines, these important notes began to get bogged down as the more covetous actors began to work their dark charms. Victor and Charles were having none of that, and wanted more to focus on the clogged dialogue. Eventually, Victor even went so far as to say something to the effect of, "Hey, listen, we all want more to do. But until we get the issue of clarity across to our playwright, asking him to add more confusion will only make our work harder." This prompted the greedies to scrabble backwards, protesting that it wasn't about more lines. But it totally was. 

The leads were thus able to get their concerns across to Charles, who noted everything carefully in preparation for an e-mail and then meeting with the playwright. Finally, Victor asked the question I had been waiting to hear: "Does anyone have any thoughts about the overall structure or plotline?"

Silence.

I looked around, then raised my hand. Victor said, "Yes, Edward, O King of Structure?" Here is what I said:

Edward: Okay, here's the thing: this guy, our main character, he's a bestselling novelist, right?

Group: Uh-huh.

Edward: And the conflict in the play is rooted in his wife's fear that he's in danger of losing his job as a Biology professor -- and not getting tenure -- because he's focusing so much on his writing. Correct?

Group: Yeppers.

Edward: Then here's my question: if he's a bestselling novelist, what the fuck does he need to worry about a teaching job for? He has already made more money as, to quote page one of the play, " ...  a New York Times #1 Bestseller," than he ever will teaching Biology.

Group: [silence]

Edward: This premise, that a bestselling novelist would be so scared of losing a job that is only a miserable distraction from what he loves, is essentially flawed. And because it's the main support beam upon which the play stands, we are essentially presenting something that no half-intelligent audience member is going to buy.

Professor: Well, Edward, we don't know how successful he is ...

Edward: [pointing to script] Page One: "Honey, I am a New York Times #1 Bestseller, you'd think I could spend a Sunday afternoon working on my novel." I think it's pretty clear.

Wife: I always thought he was joking with that line.

Edward: Why?

Wife: Because otherwise, why am I so worried about his job?

Edward: You're proving my point.

Wife: Huh ... yeah, I guess I am.

Charles: You know, I hadn't even caught that. I think it's an excellent point, and I'll make that the thrust of my discussion with the playwright.

Professor's Fat Sister: I don't know ...

Victor: What don't you know?

Professor's Fat Sister: We're sitting here talking about rewriting his entire play ...

Victor: You were just arguing to bulk up your lines by half, Fat Sister.

Professor's Fat Sister: I just ... it feels wrong. All I'm saying.

Wife: Well, I can keep assuming he's joking if that's what needs to happen, but it's shit acting on my part and I know it. I can't invite an agent when I know I'm doing poor work.

Victor: What about you, Ballerina?

Ballerina: If the central conflict were no longer about not getting tenure at the university because of his relationship with his muse, what would it be about?

Edward: It would be about his relationship with his muse. His wife already as much as accuses him of cheating on her; the tenure thing is a pointless diversion -- this is a play about a love triangle between a writer, his wife and his muse. Getting rid of the tenure bullshit clarifies all of that, gives you all stronger wants and -- hopefully -- less confusing dialogue.

Victor: Thus Spake Edwardthustra.

Charles: Edward, do you want a job as a reader?

Edward: Yes, indeed.

Charles: We'll talk. As for the rest of you, this has been very fruitful and informative. I will run all of this by the playwright and, fingers crossed, I will succeed in --

Professor's Fat Sister: I still don't know ...

Charles: What is it, Fat Sister?

Professor's Fat Sister: It feels so underhanded, meeting like this. If I were the writer, I wouldn't want everyone rewriting my script without me being there. I don't know if I can be a part of it.

Charles: Are you backing out of the show? Because I have another actress ...

Professor's Fat Sister: Oh, no! No! Just ... y'know, concerned. 

Victor: Fat Sister, this is a mandatory meeting of which the playwright has been aware for months. He knew this was the lunch in which his script was likely to change. We are doing our jobs, according to our contracts. He is not doing his. 

Professor's Fat Sister: But Professor didn't even bring any of this up, the -- who are you, Edward, the "assistant director"? The "assistant director" brought this up. You're not -- he's not even a real member of the team, he's a gopher. Since when do gophers have opinions? I'm just sayin', is all. He's not an actor. He's an assistant.

[Long silence. Waiter passes, ignoring us; probably not the first time he's heard an exchange like this. Not gonna lie: everything she said hit home.]

Charles: Thank you for making your feelings so clear, Fat Sister. Edward, I apologize.

Edward: Yeah, no. Fine.

Charles got up to pay the bill and we all headed outside. I had plastered a pleasant smile on my face and, by some miracle, maintained it all the way back to the theatre. I think I let it slip once Victor and I parted at 8th Avenue, and I may have found a very tight corner to face on a very packed train back to Corona. For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to the numb soullessness guaranteed by a day of work at Restoration Hardware.

Victor called me the next day to tell me he'd had a long phone meeting with the playwright, who felt like we were "cutting his balls off." This affected Victor deeply. He began to back off. So, by the next week when Victor made a nice speech and handed the cast over to me, the wrighter had basically been given carte blanche and was using it to not rewrite anything in his play. My job had become very simple: shepherd the show through this last week of rehearsals and two days of tech, making regular reports to Victor, then attend all performances. I inquired later with Charles and Victor about pushing some rewrites, and the consensus was that it might be better for the company to avoid pushing a playwright into a nervous breakdown over a 30 minute play. I agreed, and everything ahead appeared to be clear skies and smooth sailing. None of us had reckoned, however, with the vengeance of the Professor's Fat Sister.

Down With Dogs, I: Very Small Theatres

While I lived in Queens, my friend Victor Maog contacted me. He was directing a play at The Vital Stage, 3rd Floor, corner of Dyer and 42nd Streets, a few doors up from Playwrights Horizons. Impressive location for indie theatre projects, and the play was exactly that: one of many in a festival of short plays. The entire conceit of the project -- rather well conceived, I feel -- was that playwrights would submit original plays that had never before been produced anywhere; part of the deal, to which all accepted wrighters agreed with a dated signature, was that they would work with and trust their directors: if the director felt that the piece needed to change in some way, they would discuss it and the wrighter would make the changes. I saw almost all of the plays in that festival, and many -- if not most -- were very good or great and had benefited from collaboration between wrighter and director.

The reason that Victor brought me on board had two levels: the first was that, excellent friend that he is, he wanted to give me an opportunity to be working and directing in theatre right away. He heard my idiotic plan to get a non-theatre job and "save up" for what it was: blind stupidity. Wonderful friend that he is, he never said a word about that stupidity -- instead saying, "Hey, I have this project coming up. And it conflicts with another thing I've got at Second Stage about two weeks in. Why don't you come on as my assistant director, and when the conflicts start I will hand the reins to you and you will get your first chance to direct on the isle of Manhattan?"

I was a very great fool at that time; it's probable that I am possibly an even greater fool today. But I knew enough to say yes. And I'm delighted that I did. In spite of what came next.

The play that Victor had agreed to direct was about a very famous, fictional, bestselling novelist. This novelist has hit a wall, major writer's block, and can't get anything done. He is also a biology professor at a local university, where the motto is, of course, publish or perish. Because he hasn't published anything in a while, his job is in danger. So as he's fighting all this internal stuff, he is suddenly visited by a very attractive young ballerina, complete with tutu and toe-shoes. She appears and disappears in between the various discussions the writer has with his increasingly frustrated and therefore unintentionally antagonistic wife. The main conflict in the play is centered around the writer's desire to be writing and his inability to do so, his wife's desire to see him remain gainfully employed by this major university and thus stay focused on his familial commitments. The writer, however, is falling in love with the ballerina. So when he's not writing, he's discussing writing and such with this very attractive young woman who is wearing the theatrical equivalent of nothing at all. He feels like he's cheating on his wife, she begins to feel cheated upon, things build to a climax and are eventually resolved as the writer has an epiphany and -- shocker! -- begins to write a play about a writer plagued by writer's block who is visited by a mysterious young ballerina who teases him into a sexual frenzy and thus inspires him to write.

Guess what? The ballerina was his muse! I know you didn't see that coming. 

Simplistic as the story appeared to be, it had heart and some very good moments in it. Victor, however, had not bothered to read it. He asked me to read it. I did. He asked me to join him in casting the play. I did. We watched auditions, he read various people in the roles, he tried all sorts of wildly inventive things (including veering dangerously close to casting a 250 lb. woman as the ballerina; the more he read her for that role, the more pissed off she became), and eventually he consulted me on every aspect of casting, taking my word as gospel and trusting me completely. The show was thus very well cast. I suspect that he did all of this on purpose to make me feel useful to the project and a part of the process. He confided in me that he didn't actually care about this show, it was something he'd sent a resume in for on a whim and when he got the call he'd had to look back through old issues of Backstage to remember what the job had been. I am fairly certain that he hadn't actually read the play, because his responses to every line seemed genuinely surprised / dismayed / amused -- whichever was called for. However, Victor likes to keep something secret, and here I am spilling the beans: he is a superb actor. So he may have been using his superior acting skills to get me deeply involved in the process. Truly, though, I really don't believe he'd ever read more than the title before the first day of auditions.

The show was cast, we got started on rehearsals, and the meetings with the playwright began. On walks between the theater and local bars or diners, the playwright confided the following to Victor and myself: he was a frustrated writer who made his living as a High School biology teacher; his wife was really, really angry with him for spending so much time writing instead of being focused on the family; there had been some sort of kerfuffle and things had come to a head but then resolved nicely. And for me, the only really dismaying point: this play had in fact been produced before; ten years earlier, the wrighter had produced and directed it himself in the cafetorium of the very High School in which he teaches. It had, he assured us, been wildly successful; and everyone in the school as well as everyone in his small town in New Jersey had been wildly enthusiastic about this, his magnum opus. All thirty minutes of it.

The problem I suspected we would meet around the next corner: the wrighter's complete emotional attachment to the material as it was, and a resulting unwillingness / inability to see it altered in any way.  I warned Victor. He was not concerned. I detailed my argument with sharp bullet points of gestures between the Times Square station and the building which housed the Vital Stage:

* The character is a writer who teaches biology; the wrighter is a would-be writer who teaches biology.
* The character's wife is / was angry with the character for the conflict between his commitment to his muse and his commitment to his family; so, too, for the wrighter.
* The obvious pride of the wrighter in having produced and directed it all on his own in the hinterlands of New Jersey; his increased pride at having it selected as part of a festival of one-acts at an independent theatre company on Fabulous 42nd Street in New York City!

These tersely-voiced and oft-repeated bullet points were met with calm and relaxed assurances from Victor:

1. Every wrighter in this festival has agreed in writing to collaborate with the director and alter his play as the director asks, thus ensuring that this is a festival of vital (get it?) theatre -- living, breathing work.
2. If it becomes an issue, we meet with Charles, Artistic Director of The Vital Stage, who will arbitrate and generally find in favor of the director -- though nobody wants to see a play cut from the festival.
3. The wrighter will eventually see the light when everything comes together -- it is safe to trust that everything will all work out. (Translation: in two weeks, I will be making a lot more money on a far more interesting project: a musical to be directed by Mark Linn-Baker; by that time, this will be your problem and we will be so far into this project that you will not be able to alter it in any way. But I truly appreciate your passion and I love your friendship, my friend.)

Sure enough, the actors had a lot of questions. Victor would note these questions and bring them to the attention of the wrighter. The wrighter would respond that he is okay with things the way they are. Victor counters with further questions, stemming from inconsistencies brought to light by the original and still unanswered questions. The writer maintains his position, digging in until he is entrenched in an artistic foxhole, shoring up his defenses after every Maogian bombardment and maintaining strict adherence to his unbending boundaries.

Not knowing that I was also a source of questions -- and perhaps more of a dangerous geyser than a gentle fountain -- the wrighter confided further to me: he hadn't just written, produced and directed this play in the cafetorium of the school where he works -- he had played the leading role of the writer/teacher caught at the crossroads between creative and procreative responsibility. This was, I realized at the time, probably the final nail in the coffin of any possible changes to the script. However, as my entire purpose in walking him to his car that night had been to find a gentle ingress of revision, I simply nodded and asked some polite questions about the hotness of the girl who played the ballerina in that first production. Then I believe that I took it up a notch and made some jokes about special meetings after rehearsal to "work the tip -- I mean the scene -- into the right spot."

The way he stumble-stopped and turned to me, face alternating between ashen and beet red, half laughing like I'd just said the funniest thing in the world oh my ho-ho-ho that's gigantically hilarious, and half gasping like a man suffering the first in what is destined to be a long line of inconveniently-timed myocardial infarctions, told me everything I needed to know. That knowledge brought me to my own artistic crossroads: Machiavellian promise or gentle diversion of topic?

The Machiavellian Promise goes like this: "That's right, motherfucker, I know. I know what you did. And if you don't allow us to change your play as we see fit and make it into the theatrical masterpiece it will never otherwise be, I'm going to tell everyone in the theater and everyone you bring to see this mediocre piece of shit that you fucked the ballerina. YOU FUCKED THE BALLERINA! [echoing in the parking garage, convenient for me, he's clutching his chest and backed up against his Ford Explorer ("almost paid off")] So now you have to ask yourself: 'What matters more: my reputation? Or my perception of my control over this production of my play?' Because there's something you need to know, fucko: you can always revert your play to its currently ridiculous, piddling namby-pamby suburban scraped-off-my-shoe status, once the show has closed. And good luck with your tenure at the High School, because your train stops here. Now: what's it going to be? Your way? Or mine?"

The Gentle Diversion goes like this: "Man, I am so distracted by the hotness of Estelle. Holy shit! When Victor cast her, I was like, 'Thank you! Thank you! Please let me help her with any quick changes!' But now that she's here in those toe shoes and tutu every night, it's all I can do to refrain from jizzing all over her thighs when she bends over to pick up that book! Is it wrong of me to try to fuck an actress in this festival?"

Guess which one I went with?