Dinner and a Show 3: Something Appealing, Something Appalling

As the Granada Hills Woman's Club Annual Fundraiser was morphing into the Granada Dinner Theatre, I was completing my undergraduate studies at nearby Cal State Northridge. It was during this period that I met my dearest friend, who continues to be a part of my life today, Judy. A fellow student, Judy directed me in various student productions, as well as providing me with my first musical theatre leading role, Albert Peterson in Bye Bye Birdie.

My final show at CSUN was also my favorite. Directed by Judy, I appeared as Feste the Clown in Twelfth Night. This was a wild and wacky production, environmentally staged, with the actors climbing walls and flying through the air on ropes while the audience was seated in and amongst the action. For some reason which escapes me now, my mother and father could not attend the show on the same night, so Mom invited her friend Jo, the artistic director of the new Granada Dinner Theatre, to accompany her. Jo was blown away by the artistry which Judy displayed in this student production, and asked her to direct a show for her new theatre.

It was thus that I appeared as Pseudolus in the Granada Theatre production of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Not unlike Toby's Dinner Theatre, we performed the show in the round (the first and, as far as I know, only time Granada Theatre allowed such a thing. All other productions were performed on the proscenium stage). I have many, many memories of this show, which remains one of my favorite stage experiences of all time. Judy cast the show superbly, completely ignoring the untalented ladies who were running the theatre, and instead placing her college chums in the piece. In addition to working with my old high school friend Claudia, this was the summer during which I became close to another friend who has remained with me through the years, Scott. This was an instance when I was playing a part I would not have been given elsewhere, as the character was originally played by Zero Mostel, and the role is still to this day cast in his general type. I was decidedly NOT a Zero Mostel type, then or now, so I welcomed the opportunity to play this hilarious role. Here's a publicity shot from the show, with me on the right, and my buddy Scott on the left:

...Forum was the only musical in my career (so far) which had five choreographers. There was no money at Granada Dinner Theatre, and none of Judy's dancer friends could commit to the long hours necessary to choreograph a large-scale musical. Judy hit upon a winning solution: she offered four choreographer friends the chance to stage one song each. So, my friend Valerie ended up choreographing my favorite number, the vaudeville-tinged Everybody Ought to Have a Maid, while one of the belly-dancing courtesans in the show staged the Marcus Lycus number. Another dancer buddy staged the arrival of the Roman Army, Bring Me My Bride and my dear friend Jenny handled the huge opening song, Comedy Tonight. Judy herself choreographed the remaining numbers. You would expect the result to be a real mish-mash, but instead, we were a hit. Adding to the delight of performing such a perfect piece of musical theatre was the fact that I spent the summer cementing friendships which would remain with me the rest of my life.

My next experience at Granada Dinner Theatre was much more emotionally draining. Several years passed, during which time the theatre grew a bit in stature, though they retained the Woman's Clubhouse as their crummy playing space. Meanwhile, I worked in other theatres around LA and elsewhere. This period was marred by my mother's declining health; she was entering the final phase of a decade-long battle with breast cancer. In early 1983, we were told that the battle was lost, and she would not survive longer than a month or two. We brought her home from the hospital and set up the master bedroom with oxygen tanks and other medical paraphernalia which would allow her to die at home, which was her greatest wish. And we set about trying to say goodbye.

During this period, I received a call from my college buddy Barrie, who had played one of the courtesans in the above mentioned ...Forum and had become a friend. Coincidentally, she was directing the next show at Granada Dinner Theatre. She had held exhaustive auditions, but was still shy one actor, and could I please come to her rescue and play one of the supporting leads? The show was Arsenic and Old Lace, and the role was one I had no business playing, Dr. Einstein, a drunken plastic surgeon, a role which had been written specifically for film star Peter Lorre. I was decidedly NOT a Peter Lorre type, but Barrie trusted me as an actor and asked me to take the part. I could not commit myself to the show without letting Barrie know that she must expect me to be absent at some point, during rehearsal or even performance, because my mother was about to die. It was thus that Barrie, who was a good but not particularly close friend, became one of only two people in my life to know that my mother was terminally ill.

This ghoulish pronouncement did not deter Barrie in the least, she still wanted me for the part. I am so glad she did not rescind her offer. My mother died in late March, about two weeks before the show was to open, so the week of rehearsal I missed was not crucial. What was crucial was the fact that, during this period of personal devastation, I had something else to thing about.


As I mentioned, I had no business playing Dr. Einstein, a middle-aged psychotic with criminal tendencies and a drinking problem. Somehow, rehearsing and performing this part became a haven from the despair I was feeling, and I threw myself into creating this off-the-wall maniac (that's me on the left), complete with the Suzanne Pleshette hairdo, and the most outlandish German accent since Hogan's Heroes.

This show was a ball to do, but cannot be considered the artistic triumph which Forum had been. Barrie had been forced into using many of the theatre's usual players, so the leading performances were largely regrettable (except another buddy, Rob, in the role of Mortimer, who was a scream). Another regrettable aspect of the show is now cause for amusement, though I wasn't laughing then. Granada Theatre, like all theatrical organizations, was always out to raise a few bucks, and artistic director Jo hit upon a sure-fire money-maker. At each performance, she auctioned off the chance to actually appear in the show.

If you know Arsenic and Old Lace, you know it concerns two elderly sisters who poison lonely people to put them out of their misery. As the show progresses, bodies pile up, and hilarity ensues. At one point about half-way through, the character of Dr. Einstein (that would be me) sneaks into the living room to remove a dead body from the window seat and carry it down to the basement to be buried. It was this role, that of the dead body in the window seat, which was auctioned off every night. Yep, whoever paid the most bucks earned the right to lie in the window seat and be hauled across the stage by yours truly. It didn't matter how fat, or how smelly, or how old, or how ANYTHING this person was; if they bid the highest, they became the corpse that I had to lift out of the window seat and carry into the basement.

Without rehearsal.

Night after night, I would make my way over to the window seat, praying to find a Michael J. Fox or a Karen Carpenter stashed there, but usually finding a John Goodman or a Cass Elliot.

Arsenic and Old Lace did not come near the artistic success of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, but I don't regret a single moment of appearing in the show. I did not know it then, but it saved my life.

Or at least, my sanity.

Dinner and a Show 2: Miracle of Miracles

As I mentioned, I hold no feelings of superiority regarding Dinner Theatre. I spent many of my formative years appearing in such a venue; during those years, I learned a great deal of my craft, and played many major roles I had no chance of playing in larger, more professional venues.

My Dinner Theatre experience all happened at the Granada Theatre, in Granada Hills, CA, a suburb of Los Angeles at the north end of the San Fernando Valley. This theatre was actually an outgrowth of the local Woman's Club (no, I was not a member, smartass), a group which initially did one show a year as a fundraiser. They served donated food at these affairs, which all took place in a large meeting hall with a stage at one end.

The acoustics were all that you would expect in such a barn.

Anyway, my mother's friend (let's call her "Jo") was the ringleader of this gang of middle-aged ladies putting on shows. They had the ongoing problem of finding men to cast in their productions (you can only do "The Women" so many times, and the Nunsense musicals were yet to be inflicted upon the world). The ladies' husbands were usually not interested in donating their time to such projects, recognizing that if they did so, they would be spending far more time with their wives than if they declined to participate (who wouldn't want several nights a week of freedom from the girls, who were at rehearsal?).

Once Jo discovered that she had a friend with a son interested in performing, she demanded that I come down to the clubhouse to audition for their upcoming production of Fiddler on the Roof. I could not have been more than 18 or 19 at the time. I have to explain at this point that, though I secretly considered myself a Musical Comedy Star, I was very self-conscious about my singing ability. I had been told in high school that I could not carry a tune very well (which may have been true at the time), so I was always hesitant to audition for the Big Musical. Once I hit college, though, I gathered up my courage and auditioned for Li'l Abner, and was astonished to be cast in the featured role of Lonesome Polecat. The role was pretty small, though he was memorable as the only Indian onstage (we called them Indians back then), and I was part of the dancing chorus of the show. The Big Thing for me, in getting this goofy little part, was the fact that, for the first time, I would be singing onstage, alone. I had sung onstage in a chorus in high school, but I had never had any kind of a solo.


In Li'l Abner, Lonesome Polecat has the distinction of being the first character to speak, and his first words were in song. I had two whole lines of the opening number, all to myself, at the very top of the show.

I acquitted myself admirably, I must say, so by the time Jo approached me to audition for her production of Fiddler, I felt I was ready for my next step: singing an entire song alone. So I agreed to come to the Granada Hills Woman's Club and audition. The role for which Jo was interested in me was Motel the Tailor, and that should tell you exactly how inadequate a director she was.

Motel is decidedly Hebrew, and I am decidedly Presbyterian; I should have been considered for one of the other young men in the show, both of whom are much more goy than Motel. But no matter, I learned Motel's big solo number ("Miracle of Miracles". Never heard of it? Nobody else has, either. It is one of the very few songs in the score which are NEVER sung outside the show).

So, I arrived at the clubhouse prepared, but nervous. My hesitation increased when I walked into the hall to discover at least a dozen club members waiting around just for me. I was going to have to sing this solo in front of all of them, as well as the director and musical director.

I climbed onto the stage to face my humiliation head-on. I realized the only way I was going to get through this nightmare was to treat the song as an acting exercise. (It is the way I treat every song I sing now, but way back then, that was a novel idea to me.)

"Miracle of Miracles" is an explosion of exuberant emotion from the character, who has just been granted permission to marry his love. So, while singing the song, I was constantly moving, leaping up onto furniture, dashing hither and yon, and even, in the last phrase, turning a cartwheel. The place exploded with applause, and Jo the director approached the stage to offer me the role. I crouched down to hear her words of praise.

"That was terrific, Scott! Could you tell that you were singing offkey?"

In hindsight, I don't believe singing offkey would have kept me out of the show, they were so desperate for male actors, but in fact, I knew very well that I was singing offkey. The song is written for a tenor, and I am decidedly not one.

"Yes," I replied, "the song is too high."

Jo gestured for me to follow her to the piano, where the musical director sat. I murmured that the song was lower in the Vocal Selections book from which I had learned the song. Don't you love actors who make excuses for their poor performances? The pianist took a look, played a few phrases which I sang (on pitch, thank you), and the part was mine.

This happened at least 30 years ago, and I have never since been privileged to have a song's key adjusted to suit my voice.

This production of Fiddler on the Roof remains etched in my brain. Remember it was being produced by a bunch of middle aged women, many of whom performed in the show. Yes, all five of Tevye's daughters were being played by ladies in their 40s and 50s. I played opposite a woman named Muriel, a very nice lady though a crummy actress (all she did was smile). I still shudder when I recall the wedding sequence, which culminates in a kiss between my character and hers. It was like kissing my mother on the lips.

Paging Dr. Freud.

There were other icky aspects of this show. The make-up artist, I think her name was Beverly, was a chain-smoking broad who sipped her Scotch while building my beard, on my face, one hair at a time. Think a smelly Elaine Stritch, but more butch. She claimed to have studied stage make-up, and she was pretty good at building beards, but she had apparently missed the day in class where one learns how to build a beard which can be used again. So, before each and every performance, I sat on a stool in the clubhouse kitchen while Bev spread spirit gum all over my face and laboriously built my beard, hair by hair. The fact that this practice was allowed to happen in the kitchen shows you how far under the radar this group operated.

All the actors were paid, of course. But not in dollars. We each received two cocktails per show for our efforts. Even those actors (both of us) who were under 21. It was during Fiddler that I had my first cocktail, and for many years afterward, I drank only Bourbon & Sevens, which may be the sweetest of all highballs. I always had my two drinks after the show, but I was the only actor who held off so long. Most of the others had their first drink at intermission, and their second after the curtain call.

After several performances, I started to think I should be doing the same. Motel the Tailor is at the center of the major plotline in Act One of the show, but in Act Two, my character receded into the background, with only a few appearances onstage. Why not enjoy my first cocktail with everyone else at intermission?

I did that only once.


That single drink did not make me drunk, but, mixed with the adrenalin of being onstage, it interfered with my equilibrium. There was one scene which, in classic musical theatre terminology, is played "In One." It is a scene which takes place in front of the stage curtain, and is placed there so a major scene change can be performed behind the curtain. In Fiddler, this scene consisted of several actors cris-crossing each other as they spread a rumor around town. The problem at the Granada Theatre was this: there was no apron on the stage (the apron is the part of the stage which juts out in front of the stage curtain), so this cross-over sequence always required some maneuvering, as one actor passed behind or in front of another.

Can you see this coming?

On that fateful night when I decided to have my first Bourbon & Seven at intermission, I entered this scene, crossed to center, stepped right off the front of the stage and fell into the audience.

This production of Fiddler on the Roof happened around 1977. From that day to this, I have never touched a drop of alcohol before any performance, no matter how many hours before the curtain goes up.

There are more stories from this fated production of Fiddler, but I'll continue to be grateful to those Granada Hills battle-axes for giving me a relatively safe place to learn how to sell a solo.

This group soon graduated from being an annual fundraiser for a Woman's Club into a full-fledged Dinner Theatre. I had many more adventures there over the next years. Stay tuned...

California Road Trip: Dinner and a Show

I lived in Los Angeles, off and on but mostly on, for 20 years before heading east to grad school. I've returned to the scene of all those crimes many times since leaving, but this has been the longest stretch between visits.

The problem seems to be that when I am out of work, I can't seem to justify to myself the expense of a vacation. And what if an audition pops up while I'm out of town? And when I AM working, well, there is no time to travel.

So, four years have slipped by.

I was lucky enough to snag a cheapo flight from National Airport to Burbank, rather than LAX, which is convenient to NOTHING except traffic getting to wherever you are going. I was UN-lucky enough, however, to be seated next to a gigantic woman in the middle seat who never relinquished the armrest. Not once, in five hours.

I picked up my bags from the baggage claim carousel, which is located OUTSIDE. Only in LA.

My hosts for my fortnight's stay are dear friends who kindly let me take over their guest bedroom and bath (Alternately known as "the west wing" and "Skipper's Guest Bedroom," after Barbie's little sister. Don't ask). I came and went as I pleased. I lined up some teaching at Notre Dame High School from my best friend Judy, who runs the theatre program there. Three days of my trip were spent running movement workshops for 40 energetic teen agers.

I also spent some time driving around the Valley, looking up some old haunts. Get a load of these swanky digs, where I worked several times during those formative years:

This is actually the Granada Hills Woman's Club, from which the Granada Theatre sprang, like snakes from Medusa.

This little hut housed some of my early and probably most eye-rolling performances. Sadly, my debut performance at Granada, as Motel the Tailor in "Fiddler on the Roof," seems to have gone undocumented (at least in photos; I write about the experience here). I admit I am most proud of my performance as Pseudolus in "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum:

After "...Forum," I appeared as the neurotic drunk Dr. Einstein in "Arsenic and Old Lace:"

That's me overacting on the left. Note the hair, similar to Suzanne Pleshette on a bad day...

(I described my experiences in ...Forum and Arsenic here.)

I also attempted, and mostly failed, to play that tap-dancing ego-maniac "George M" during this period:

Ah, youth...




After a while, Granada Theatre gave up sharing their space with the Woman's Club, and moved into their own little theatre, where I appeared several more times. TWICE I played Prince John in original musical versions of Robin Hood:

I was also in an embarrassing original Christmas musical called "Winter's Magic." It was really just a cheap fund raiser for the theatre, which was always on the cusp of bankruptcy:

I'm sure the most fun I had during this period was as part of "Perfectly Frank," a musical revue of Frank Loesser's work:

The truth is, Granada was not an easy place to work, and I eventually outgrew the place. There was little chance of "being seen" by important industry people, and since I was waiting tables at the time, I usually lost money by being in the shows. And the pay? A single glass of wine after the show.

Still, I drove down to check out this second Granada space. I didn't take a picture. It's now a Korean grocery store.