Christopher Columbus and his Ninjas

Our fourth and final week of Man of La Mancha ended with a bang. Literally. In fact, lots and lots of them.



We shrank to five shows this week, only two of which took place at their normal time. Our closing day, Saturday, was also the Fourth of July, and both shows were rescheduled to attempt to compliment, rather than conflict with, Middletown’s lavish Independence Day celebrations. Those celebrations included a parade (I missed it, but was told that there were fewer tractors than usual, and that the troupe of Bolivian Dancers was greeted with stony silence...no fondness for furriners here), and a family-friendly campground with live music and booths offering pretzels and funnel cake. I had heard of funnel cake, but did not know what it was. After asking somebody, and getting more information than I really needed, I determined that, essentially, funnel cake is a cake that’s fried. And looks like a steaming pile of...well, you can see what it looks like.

Fried Cake that looks like turd. Welcome to the Deep South.


Both our Fourth of July shows had about a quarter of a house (which was expected); they were warm and receptive audiences. Our evening show had been bumped up half an hour to avoid the fireworks which Middletown always provides to its citizens, paid for by their numerous speed traps. The pyrotechnics are ignited in the field behind the theatre, so it was important that they be held until our final curtain came down. No such luck. The building began to shake during Don Quixote’s deathbed scene, and continued through the end of the play. I decided that the Spanish Inquisition had stopped burning people at the stake. They were blowing them up instead.

But the weirdest performance of the week was on Thursday. Our regular Wednesday matinee had been canceled, or rather moved to Thursday morning to accommodate a school group. It was never clear to me what the hell kind of school group goes on field trips in July. One rumor stated that it was a "make-up" performance for a kids’ matinee of Wayside’s annual Christmas show, which had been canceled back in December due to bad weather. You’ve heard of Snow Days? This was a Snow Show. Another rumor I heard was that this was not in fact a school group, but a summer camp group. That made a bit more sense to me, though I wondered why they didn’t go down the road a bit and see West Side Story at Shenandoah University. At least that show has kids in it. Man of La Mancha has dirty, foul smelling men, and a woman who gets raped.


Welcome to Children’s Programming!


I don’t complain about singing at 11 AM, though it’s not the easiest thing in the world. I spent enough time on tour with a kids’ musical to consider 11 AM a gift; we often performed Tom Sawyer at 10 or even 9 in the morning. But backstage at Wayside, I did inquire what age our audience would be. "6 or 7," was the reply I received. "6th or 7th grade?" I hopefully asked. Nope. 6 or 7 Years Old. Some School Group or Camp Counselor actually considered our very adult, two-and-a-half hour show, to be appropriate for children who are still learning not to eat Play-Doh. Our director Warner tried to lessen the violence by clipping the majority of the rape sequence, but we left everything else intact. We lost three quarters of the audience at intermission, as the children hadn’t had lunch and the chaperones were under the impression the show lasted only 90 minutes. But even with slightly older kids remaining for Act Two, they did not follow the story much, and never recovered from the sight of Quixote grabbing that gypsy’s boob.

Warner did his best at intermission, running a Q&A session to try to clarify any misunderstandings, but it was clear that the kids were just too young. Their questions did not revolve around the story, but rather things like "is that a real sword?" We did get a kick out of two misconceptions. One kid asked if the Captain who comes into the jail cell to fetch prisoners was Christopher Columbus (I guess the Spanish military helmet caused that confusion):




Another kid asked if the black-robed Inquisitors were ninjas.

Columbus and his Ninjas. There’s a video game waiting to happen.

At least we did not receive the one question everyone backstage was sure was coming:

"Mommy, what’s a whore?"

Friday Dance Party: Independence Day Edition

I've written previously of my love for 1776, the unlikely Broadway musical concerning the creation of the Declaration of Independence. I first saw the thing in summer stock as a kid (with Joel Grey, of all people, playing John Adams), and realized even then what a special bird it was. The book is one of the strongest, most suspenseful, of any American musical, and can actually stand on its own without the music. The Founding Fathers are treated as men rather than icons (with the occasional twinkle), and the writers did a few amazing things. It's hard to imagine if you have never seen the show, but as soon as the piece begins, they manage to make you forget that you already know the ending.

The show won several Tonys in its original run, including Best Musical and Best Supporting Actor in a Musical, for Ron Holgate, who stars in this week's Dance Party. He, as well as many of the original cast, recreated their roles for the film version. A notable absence from the film was Betty Buckley, who had made her Broadway debut in the role of Martha Jefferson; the part went to Blythe Danner in the film (above). The terrific William Daniels, playing Adams, made a huge name for himself with 1776, both with his performance and with his off-stage ego. Back then, the Tony rules claimed that only actors billed above the title of a show could be considered in the leading actor categories, and Daniels refused to allow himself to be considered a supporting player in the piece. (That rule still stands, but the Tony committee gets together periodically and votes to waive it these days.) So, Daniels was never nominated for his stellar work in 1776, though he surely would have been a contender for the award (Jerry Orbach took the prize that year, for Promises, Promises).

I was privileged to appear in a staged reading of 1776 several years ago, as a special event to reopen the Smithsonian's National Portrait Gallery. Coincidentally, Tom Simpson, with whom I currently share the Wayside stage, tore the roof off the joint with his rendition of "Molasses to Rum" (and he had a cold, too!). There have been several local productions of the show in these parts, but no director has had the good sense to put me in one. Maybe one day...

When we were rehearsing for that staged reading (actually, FIVE readings, as we performed them all weekend), we realized another brave thing the authors had done. The third scene of the play takes place in the meeting room of the Continental Congress (as do most of the scenes) and is notable in that it contains absolutely no music. Of any kind. For over 20 minutes. It's said that this is the longest stretch of time in ANY musical without a song. The number below immediately precedes that long stretch, and is strategically placed in the musical to send the show off into Dramatic Scene Land with a big bang.

Here's Ron Holgate as Richard Henry Lee, being sent off to his state legislature to win a vote for Independence. Happy Fourth of July!

The big joke in the play is that Richard Henry Lee doesn't leave. He returns and stops the show again, with a reprise. They filmed it for the movie, but it was cut before release. It has since been restored in the Director's Cut DVD version. Here's more Lee:

Pat's Wish

One of my favorite comic character actors is Pat Carroll. Those of us in my generation are familiar with her work in countless sitcoms and romantic comedies of the 60s, 70s, and beyond. My earliest memory of her was her appearance in the mid-60s remake of the TV musical Cinderella, in which she stole her scenes as one of the stepsisters (I wrote an appreciation of that performance here). She is a Tony nominee, and an Emmy and Grammy winner. Her longevity is amazing. In 1970, she appeared in the first season of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, as Mary's cranky hospital roommate, and 23 years later, she appeared in the final season of Designing Women, as Julia's former school teacher. If you saw her, you would remember her. She has a robust personality which shines through all her work, and an infectiously raucous laugh which reflects her love of life.

For later generations, she is known primarily as the voice of one of Disney's most famous villainesses:

Back in the mid-90s, I was thrilled beyond words to find out that, during my year at The Shakespeare Theatre Company, I would be performing with Pat Carroll. She was playing the (male) lead in Ben Johnson's Volpone, and among other things, I was to play the all-important role of the fishmonger.

Pat was a delight to work with. She clearly relished performing onstage, and behind the scenes, she treated everyone with the greatest respect. They loved her at The Shakes, and she appeared there several times over the years, winning Helen Hayes awards for her turns as Falstaff (another cross-dressing role) and as Mother Courage. When it was discovered that she would be turning 70 years old during our run of Volpone, a surprise party was planned. It was the end of a long week, and a long weekend, too. Like most theatres in DC, The Shakes ran a "five show weekend," meaning we did five shows in the 48 hours between Friday and Sunday nights. It was a particularly gruelling schedule for the leading players, and Pat was no spring chicken. She was suffering from bad knees at the time, and other ailments resulting from her advancing age.

The party was set up in the green room, and dozens of well-wishers (in addition to the company) gathered to surprise Pat when she emerged from her dressing room after Sunday night's show. All went well, and Pat was genuinely touched by our efforts. She was the belle of the ball, sharing stories and circulating among her admirers and her comrades with great humor (and a nice bottle of hooch). She led an extraordinary life, and had spent some of her early years living in Mexico (she claimed to have sung in cantinas as a child, and I believe her).

She told a little story which has remained with me since. I think of it every year on this day. Pat said that she had been receiving phone calls and messages all day long, from friends and family, who were sorry that she had to perform two shows on the day she turned 70. But Pat corrected them all. "When I was 12 years old," she told us, "a life in the theatre was my greatest wish. To have two shows on my 70th birthday? My dreams came true."

When I was 12 years old, I was afraid to wish for a life in the theatre. Today is my birthday, and like Pat on her 70th, I am lucky enough to have two shows to perform. They'll be dedicated to her.

A Little Knight Music

Our third week of performances of Wayside's Man of La Mancha ended yesterday with a wildly enthusiastic audience. I understand we had some former interns of the theatre in attendance, as well as other well-wishers, but I also attribute our continued good response to the continued growth of our performances.

(You're not tired of my going on and on about Man of La Mancha, are you? Yes, I know I have written about my experiences with this production many many times, but I offer no apologies. It is very normal for me to obsess about my work, when I am working. In addition, this show has sneaked up on me and grabbed me by the windmills.)

All of us doing the show have been running across the same reaction, when we tell a friend, relative, or stranger that we are doing this piece. "Man of La Mancha?" the listener will undoubtedly exclaim, "I LOVE that music." It seems that the show is remembered primarily for its musical score, though I am a bit surprised to hear so. If you ask a civilian to name (or even hum) a song from the show, they can usually come up with only one item. But that item is so huge that people believe they remember the whole score.

The item, of course, is "The Impossible Dream," which burst off the Broadway stage in 1965, and may be the last Broadway show tune to become a true standard. There were certainly other hit songs to come out of subsequent shows, but "The Impossible Dream" has passed out of the "show tune" arena and become an actual classic.

Nobody can really pinpoint any other songs from the show. Theatre Geeks may be able to hum the title tune, if given a hint:

"I am I, Don Quixote

The Lord of La Mancha,

My destiny calls, and I go..."

...and perhaps the haunting tune of "Dulcinea" rings a bell with some hardy theatre-goers, but the truth is, there is only one reason everyone remembers the music of La Mancha so fondly: "The Impossible Dream". The director of our production, Warner Crocker, has been quoted as saying, "If your Don Quixote can't deliver "The Impossible Dream," do No, No, Nanette instead." (OK, I paraphrased that a bit for comic effect, but the truth behind the remark remains.)


Well, our Don Quixote delivers the song, in abundance. It is not unusual for his forthright performance of the number to stop the show with lengthy, well-deserved applause. Tom Simpson is spectacular in the role; the challenging score sits beautifully on his voice, and he has made acting choices which fully flesh out this character. His performance moves seamlessly from the aristocratic storyteller Cervantes, to the eccentric nobility of Quixote, to the heartbreaking fragility of the delusional Alonso Quijana. Tom is a DC actor known primarily these days for his work in musicals, but I can attest that he is also a first-rate dramatic actor. It is a privilege to stand next to him throughout the show.

Our particular production has an ensemble quality which most star vehicles do not provide. With Tom as the anchor, Wayside's La Mancha incorporates terrific supporting performances which bring the lesser known songs to life. (I have a hunch I'll be writing about those performances before we close later this week.)

I openly confess that I am not a competent judge of music, which will not, of course, stop me from judging the music. The composer of Man of La Mancha, Mitch Leigh, struck gold with this show, providing some melodies which linger in the soul. His lyricist, however, does not rise to the same level. Yes, the words to "The Impossible Dream" can't be challenged, but it seems that in some of the other songs, lyricist Joe Darion twists sentence structure to provide a convenient rhyme:

"In my body it's well known

There is not one selfish bone."

Really? I like lyrics which sound like characters might naturally say them. These...um...don't. (I refuse to admit that I may be prejudiced against the lyric writer because I made up my own at the first preview. This has nothing to do with that. Really. I promise.) Darion has an unfortunate habit of repeating phrases over and over again. And over and over. Again. Over and over. Once you notice it, you can't stop hearing it.

Neither Mitch Leigh nor Joe Darion was able to recreate their La Mancha success in other projects. Composer Leigh returned to Broadway with the musical telling of the Odyssey legend in Home Sweet Homer, a notorious flop which opened and closed in a single night, despite the star power of Yul Brynner in the lead (not by coincidence, Joan Deiner, La Mancha's original Aldonza, was the show's leading lady). Lyricist Darion did little better with Illya Darling, the musical version of Never On Sunday which starred the original film's Greek beauty Melina Mercouri. Unfortunately, she was paired with (get this) Orson Bean as her romantic leading man, and that show failed as well.

But nobody really cares about these guys' later failures. Folks still remember Man of La Mancha primarily through its music, or rather, through its huge central ballad. And who am I to quibble?

A LIttle Late to the Wake

Since my Internet access has been limited lately, and with no television service in my digs, I've been unable to mention several folks who recently died, but who deserve some attention. At the top of this list has to be Dr. Jerri Nielson Fitzgerald. You may recognize this picture, which swept the world back in 1999:

This sunny scientist was stationed at the South Pole when she discovered a lump in her breast. Bad weather marooned her there for many months, during which time she performed a biopsy on herself, and discovered a malignant tumor. Chemo was airdropped to the station, and she treated herself. Her cancer went into remission, and she became the poster gal for courage and stamina. According to her husband, her cancer returned several years ago, and she died last week at the age of 57.

Quite a few weeks ago, this guy died:

1926-2009

He was actor Frank Aletter, who was one of those workhorses of the Hollywood industry, appearing in hundreds of episodics and features. He worked constantly, but probably had his greatest fame in the 60s, when he headlined a couple of forgettable sitcoms, including It's About Time, in which he played an astronaut who was transported back to the era of the caveman (Imogene Coca was in the cast). His death caught my eye a while back, as he was one of our neighbors when I lived in Los Angeles. His daughter, Kyle, was a classmate of my little sister's, and his wife at the time was Lee Meriwether (the above pic is their wedding photo).

Regular readers of these pages know that I have a lot of respect for actors who spend their careers "in support," and Aletter was one of the best. Also in that class would be the guy at left. He was T. Scott Cunningham, a stage actor who spent his career Off-Broadway and in regional theatres. He was well known in New York circles as a great interpreter of the works of Nicky Silver, and appeared in the original productions of Pterodactyls, Fit to be Tied, and The Eros Trilogy. He was a founding member of the Drama Department, and appeared in the biggest hit to come from that troupe, As Bees in Honey Drown. He was only 47 at the time of his death a few weeks ago.

Here's a bigger star who died just this past weekend, or at least she WAS a big star back in the day:

1922-2009

She was Gale Storm, and she had quite a career in the 1950s. Though she started in movies, she never hit the big time until she moved to television, where she starred in two top sitcoms, My Little Margie and The Gale Storm Show. She defined the perky, plucky, trouble-causing, lovable heroine of the period. She reemerged decades later when she wrote frankly of her alcoholism, at a time when such openness was still a bit taboo. She died this weekend at age 87.

I can't say I'll miss this guy. Billy Mays was a leader in the tacky world of the infomercial, and if it can be said there is a star of the genre, he was it. He also appeared in millions (well, it seems like millions) of shorter commercial shots, hawking cleaning products, kitchen gadgets, and just about everything else nobody needs. He died unexpectedly yesterday at the age of 50. (An autopsy is planned. He was reportedly knocked on the head on Saturday when his airplane made a rough landing, but walked away from the incident. Remind anyone of Natasha Richardson's awful death recently?) Anyway, Mays carved a huge career out of the theory that American consumers will buy things if you shout at them. I have hopes his commercials will be yanked from the airwaves, but that's probably too much to ask for.

Keep that mute button handy.

Stonewall's Birthday

Today marks the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. In the early morning hours of June 28, 1969, a motley crowd of hustlers, drag queens, and other gay fringe folk resisted a police raid on the Stonewall Inn, a Mafia-owned gay hangout in Greenwich Village, and touched off several nights of rioting in Manhattan.

The event spawned the formation of gay rights groups throughout the world, and is considered the birth of modern gay activism. (I wrote a bit about the event a year ago in these pages.) On the one-year anniversary of the riots, the first Gay Pride commemoration took place in New York and Los Angeles. Today, June is considered Gay Pride Month, with thousands of festivals and parades taking place throughout the world.

I wonder if any of those drag queens at the Stonewall Inn could have imagined that same-sex marriage is now (or soon will be) legal in 6 states. Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Iowa currently allow gay marriages to be performed, with Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire scheduled to begin allowing such ceremonies in the coming months. New York and Washington, DC, currently recognize same-sex marriages from other states, but do not allow them to be performed at home.

Those tortured queers at the Stonewall would probably not be surprised that, along with the activism their actions inadvertently ignited, a more powerful backlash was created as well. While 6 states recognize same-sex marriages, a whopping 29 states have passed laws or constitutional amendments banning them. Most famously, California allowed the marriages for about five months last year, before the right was removed by constitutional amendment (I wrote about the passage of the infamous Prop 8 here).

Anita Bryant's anti-gay crusade of the 1970s seems almost quaint now, measured against the virulent gay-bashing still displayed by the likes of Pat Robertson (who blamed the 9/11 attacks on homosexuality), Larry Craig (the hypocrite who plays footsie in airport men's rooms), and those stand-up teens who strapped Matthew Shepherd to a Wyoming fence and left him to die.

Back in 1969, I was totally unaware of the Stonewall Rebellion and its political and sociological implications. I was barely a pre-teen, and spent all my time and energy trying to avoid getting beat up by the bully down the street.

I was introduced to gay-bashing decades before there was a name for it.

Tonight, though, I hope you'll join me in raising a glass to those hustlers, street boys, and men in heels who struck back when they were accosted at the Stonewall Inn forty years ago.

Farrah Fawcett

1947-2009

By now, everybody on the planet knows about Fawcett's tragic death from anal cancer. Or you would, if Michael Jackson hadn't died simultaneously. I'll postpone yakking about Jacko until some of the commotion dies down, but Farrah deserves some attention, too. Diagnosed in 2006, her health battles were played out in the tabloids and on television, the same venues which catapulted her to stardom. Her most famous contribution to pop culture occurred several years before her breakout role in TV's Charlie's Angels, when, as a model and occasional actress, she posed for what may be the biggest selling poster in the history of posters:

Every adolescent straight boy in the nation had this poster hanging in his bedroom, and it hung in a great many garages and biker bars as well. Though she tried for the rest of her life, Fawcett never escaped her iconic status as a pinup girl.



In the 60s and early 70s, she appeared in a dozen or more television series, including I Dream of Jeannie, Owen Marshall, Marcus Welby, McCloud and The Partridge Family. In 1976, she appeared in several episodes of The Six Million Dollar Man, starring her then-husband Lee Majors (for a while, she took her husband's name and was known as Farrah Fawcett-Majors, which was the kiss of death for the marriage. I wrote a long while ago in these pages about that odd Hollywood phenomenon, where the marriage inevitably ends if the woman adds her husband's name to her own).

Fawcett's role on Charlie's Angels made her a star. The show invented the genre called "jiggle television," with Farrah herself remarking that the show shot to number one in the ratings because none of the three stars wore bras. It was the centerpiece of producer Aaron Spelling's TV empire during the late 70s, and Fawcett's back-swept hair style became a sensation. She deserted the show after only one season, which landed her in court for breach of contract. She was later required to fulfill her contract by appearing as a guest star in subsequent seasons of the show.

Like all actresses known primarily for their looks, Farrah was determined to prove herself a real actress, and did so by appearing off-Broadway in the gruesome rape drama Extremities (she took over the role from Susan Sarandon, and ended up in the film version as well). She won her first Emmy nomination for the TV movie The Burning Bed, the true story of an abused housewife who set her husband on fire.

As she struggled to prove herself a legitimate actress, Fawcett's personal life continued to feed the tabloids. Her long-term relationship with Ryan O'Neal (they were a "Hollywood Golden Couple" back in the day) has endured numerous trials, including the habitual incarceration of their son Redmond, who is currently again behind bars for possession of illegal substances (I wrote about this loser here). There was talk earlier this week from Ryan that the couple would tie the marital knot soon, but that apparently did not happen.

I confess that I never considered Farrah Fawcett an exceptional actress, or even a particularly competent one. But her brave struggle with cancer, which she endured in the public eye, makes me hope she has found some final peace.

Farrah Fawcett died yesterday at the age of 62.