Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Suspension of Disbelief…..as a life style

Wikipedia describes suspension of disbelief as “the willingness of a person to accept as true the premises of a work of fiction, even if they are fantastic or impossible.” I realized – not long enough ago – that this has been pretty much my approach to my life. To clarify, I will tell you about The Acting Place.

What happened was this. 1976: my husband and I separated; I worked three jobs to support my three children and our wonderful old house in Beverly, MA. I taught at The Actor’s Workshop in Boston five mornings a week and Friday evenings. I taught at the Temple four afternoons a week and Sunday mornings. I directed the Temple youth group Sunday afternoons. And for further insanity, I performed in a play – “Kind Sir” – with the Workshop. February 1978: I came home from teaching; it was snowing; I was tired. The mother of one of my son Jamie’s classmates phoned to thank him for a kindness he had shown to her daughter. Then Cynthia introduced herself to me and said, “How are you?” The answer to that is supposed to be “fine, thanks.” I heard myself say, “I feel as though all my life forces have left my body.” She told me to stay where I was and she’d phone me right back. I’d never met this woman but I did as she said, serving dinner to my kids at the kitchen counter with my coat still on. She called and gave me an address. Through the snow I drove to Salem where I entered a very old apartment building. I rang the buzzer on the designated apartment and a small, elderly lady smelling of castile soap showed me into her tiny, pristine flat. We sat at her kitchen table and she read my cards.

Okay – I just heard your bull-shit alarm go off. Remember what this piece is called: Suspension of Disbelief. So suspend; and be patient.

I was with Nana Riggs for maybe an hour, maybe a bit more. It was enough time for us to bond; to become friends and confidants; and for me to be inspired by her brilliance and her spiritual acumen. Over the course of several years, we'd spend many an evening just this way.

On February 6th, we experienced what is now known as the blizzard of ’78. The snow fell like lace doilies. I saw it coming with the first minutes of its gentle beginning. Jamie and I went to the store, stocked up on necessities, and along with my other children, Alex and Clea, we settled in for a forced and welcome vacation. We had a fireplace and wood, flashlights and candles, food and water. And we had each other. When the snow finally stopped falling, the quiet of our world was unearthly. The ploughs came through, creating six foot high walls. During the next week, the boys shoveled and all played. In the evenings, I walked the silent passageway of snow and ice to Cynthia’s where we’d talk, spirit write, (remember the title!!), throw the cards, become friends.

One afternoon close to the end of our seclusion, I tried a spiritual, chakra kind of meditation and fell asleep. When I woke up (so help me universe!) I knew exactly what I wanted to do – would do. I went to the phone, called Cynthia and said, “I’m going to start my own company. It’s called The Acting Place. It will be a theatre school and maybe performing company. Do you know a lawyer?”

I don’t know why it is – but sometimes we have to go to our lowest place before we can rise up to our highest. Now you’ve been reading forever and we’ve only explored the journey to the idea. When cars rolled again and life returned to its normal days, I returned to my jobs and to my Wednesday evening pottery class. There were five of us including our teacher. I was working at the kick wheel, deep in clay and thought. My mates remarked that I was very quiet. So I announced that I was going into business, and it was called The Acting Place. All the wheels stopped. “Do you have any money?” “Oh, sure,” said I, without irony. “I have a $250 income tax refund.” (This is where the suspension of disbelief as a lifestyle comes into play). There was some snickering as I recall. And then, Wendy, one of our classmates, said, “No. Don’t laugh. That’s okay. She can do it on that. Come on. Let’s get to work.” And she washed her hands, found pencil and paper, and a clean spot on a marble slab. The rest of us followed suit.

“Your $250 is the money to grow the money you need. We’ll have a party at my house. (she lived in a gorgeous place in Beverly Farms). Use the money to print a really beautiful invitation – you’ll need a logo. And to buy the champagne for the punch. You’ll go to my wine store; tell them I sent you. What we don’t use, they’ll take back. All of us will make little sandwiches and cookies. And each of us will send ten of those invitations to friends with personal notes. So you’re assured of 40 people.”

We did all of that. Many of my students and friends from the Workshop came. Friends in Beverly and from Boston. My colleague, Laura Sheppard, was performing her mime show in Chicago. She flew into Boston; Paul Lingard, another dear friend, picked her up at the airport. She hadn’t had time to change so traveled and arrived in costume and whiteface. Students of mine did monologues; some sang. It was a terrific evening. And I walked out of there with close to $2,000.

Cynthia’s cousin was the attorney who incorporated our new not-for-profit. Finding a location was difficult; it took maybe 5 or 6 months. And during this time, I planned the curriculum and intention of The Place. The location I found was the top two floors of a building that had been a mission house when Beverly was first settled. After putting two months rent down, our budget for creating a studio theatre in the space would be very tight. The light shown through the windows filtered by years of grime. Some sort of shop had been up there I think. Mark’s Beauty Parlor was on the first floor. Mark owned the building. Okay, I said. “What magic wand do I wave for you to become a theatre?” Ah, you can almost hear the hooves of that white horse galloping up the stairway! My estranged husband, Don Beaman, a brilliant set designer and genius with space arrived as I was walking around the main room. It was summer by this time. Don walked in and announced, “Here’s the way to do this.” One look around and he knew the best layout. The rest was improvisation.

A softer white horse arrived soon after. Ginny Williams who volunteered at The Actor’s Workshop as stage manager was the Executive Assistant to the head of the Katherine Gibbs School at that time. Ginny walked in and presented herself as my new assistant. Over the next five years Ginny taught me how to run a company, how to write grants, how to manage a business. She gave up her apartment in Boston, wrote grants for her own salary, lived in a tiny apartment in Beverly above a shop. She participated in classes, acted in the shows, recreated herself.

Did we really stretch the money that far or have I forgotten something? All that wood and paint and carpeting and fabric. The chairs, the lights, the mirrors for the dressing room (yes, Don even figured in a dressing room!) The floor for the upstairs space to be a dance studio. All the people who showed up to paint or hammer or scrub. People who’d never done anything like this before (like me). And a couple like Paul Lingard, who could wield a hammer, paint brush, drill, anything. Passing building inspection; fire inspection. Printing up our first brochure and distributing it around the city. Getting ourselves in the local newspapers.

The night before the grand opening, we carpeted our way to the exit, kicking paint cans and debris out the door. It had been seven months since my epiphany. The launching party was delightful. Then Monday came, and registration for the classes. And the next surprise. Most of the students were not kids as I had envisioned. They were adults with actors hiding inside their traditional lives. A good number signed up; but the full-time school that I had expected to carry the organization brought in only two students. Another would join in a week, and Ginny joined the class whenever she could so there’d be a suitable number. A dance teacher who had left her passion to work in a corporation appeared to become a dance teacher again; Laura would teach mime; a ballet teacher was being mom somewhere in Beverly and so welcomed the opportunity; an acting teacher came out from Boston. We had created a powerful magnet.

Cynthia was my partner for a brief period. She and her husband helped us get a bank loan for $3,000 to float us while we grew our baby company. I rarely if ever took salary. Every month my kids and I would hold a garage sale. Yes, it was a very empty house after a few years. But it was, as one of our best actors said to me many years after, “it was magic.”

All because I didn’t know I couldn’t do it. All because I suspended disbelief and went with my passions. And that belief in the impossible is obviously contagious because a large, talented theatre family was created on Bow Street in Beverly. The church across the street rang its bells on the hour. I heard them one of our painting days and remembered the phrase, "the sound of Bow Bells." When I was at school in England years earlier, I spent a week or so with a cousin in London. Heading back to her house after touring one day, I got up suddenly and exited the train at an earlier stop. I didn't know why I was doing it. Up on the street I stood in front of Covent Garden. The street sign read Bow Street. Well, this wasn't Covent Garden nor was it London. But it had a kindred spirit.

I ran The Acting Place for five years. We had a rep company doing three or four plays a year. We had a participatory children’s theatre. All that The Acting Place was is another story unto itself. So I’ll save it for another time.
But how it happened is always powerful to me. I did it because I didn’t know I couldn’t. With a $250 income tax refund, and an idea born from a nap on a snowy day. And other talented, visionary people drawn in by the power of the dream; and the suspension of disbelief.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Love at Eventide

A very dear friend phoned me yesterday. She sounded energized, happy; very. This is not her typical state. Her biography would make Frances Farmer's read like a "Happy Days" episode. Consequently, her health has been majorly impaired (she weighs maybe 80 pounds after dinner); and suffers expectedly from paranoia and depression. With all of this, she can still be funny, and bright, and orders champagne at New York's rough-edged Irish bars. We won't go into all of the causes. Suffice it to say, she's been unable to live in her condominium for nine years. And, finally, resolving the issues of this exile, she fortunately was referred to a contractor who is good at his work, fair in his price, and values my friend as a client. He is, she tells me, in his late 30's -- maybe 40 -- European, charming, and extremely solicitous. He drove her around the outer regions of New York City to choose kitchen cabinets, etc., and then took her to lunch on City Island. My friend had a lovely day. Then she couldn't reach him for a few days and, fearing a repeat of past experiences with lawyers, doctors, contractors, etc., my friend sat in her apartment and wept.
Then she told me that he did call, very apologetic; there'd been a death in the family. My friend suddenly heard herself say, "I love you." She told me she meant to say I love you for being so kind and for doing such exquisite work. "Did you qualify what you said?" I asked her. "No," she replied. "I just paused. I couldn't believe I'd said that. Then he said, I love you, too." "Ahhhh," I said. "That's so sweet. Friendship is the best kind of love, you know." (reference C.S. Lewis) "Yes, of course, but there's no reason there can't be romantic love, even sexual love between a younger man and an older woman," she said. "After all, he is a European." Ah-ha, I said. My friend is 70.

I've been thinking about this. There was, after all, Harold and Maude. There was also--more aptly-- Ladies in Lavender. Have you seen that movie? Judy Dench would break your heart as Ursula. The outcome breaks poor Ursula's heart. The list goes on: The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone; etc. etc. I wrote one myself, a film called The Woman's Voice, which has a happy ending. But this isn't cinema, and it isn't celebrity. Societal pressures still exist when older women and younger men pair up. I don't believe it's wrong. By what standard, whose judgment could make it "wrong?" My concern is: is it possible? A woman of 40 with a mate of 30. Okay. A woman of 50 with a mate of 35. Okay. A woman of 70 with a mate of 40? And the woman isn't rich? Who is this guy? Well, if 60 is really the new 40, then my friend is 50. Ah, were it only that simple!

I'm the sermonizer of it's never too late. And I take this personally. When I ask 'is it possible, ' I don't mean is it possible for a woman of a certain age to fall in love, to be sensual, to perform sexually, to be romantically involved with a younger man -- any man. I mean is there a younger man -- any man -- who could feel all of these feelings -- genuinely -- for a woman 30 years his senior? Sometimes I'll be touched by a love story, in a film, a novel, a poem, and find myself weeping. Not for what I've lost. But for what I can't ever experience again. That really sucks! All those wonderful, terrible, metabolism-charging feelings. Oh, dear, I hope my friend doesn't lose any more weight! The last time I was thin, it was because I'd fallen in love. Too long ago to even do the arithmetic.

When I was in my late forties, a very nice young man got a crush on me. He was the brother of a gal who was in a show I was directing. He'd come to rehearsal several times; after one session he drove me home and invited me to a gathering he was having. I wasn't in love with him. I wasn't even strongly attracted to him. I was enamoured of the idea that a good looking guy had the hots for me. His sister told him how old I was and reprimanded him for his interest. And that was that. Well, he was a putz for listening to her. She was a putz for quelching his interest. I was a putz for giving a damn. Or for being turned on in the first place.

I don't know if after all these years of living alone, I could live with a man again. But I think it would be very nice to have someone (the Gentleman Caller?) take me to dinner, be my escort to theatre, or my traveling companion. And perhaps even stay to breakfast. Someone who was happy to see me, to be with me; who'd call to make sure that I'm okay. If my dear friend gets a rush when her contractor calls; if she takes the time to wash her hair, and dresses with care, and walks with energy to meet him for a consultation over the color of paint for the bathroom -- this is a tonic she sorely needed. I'll just hang around with lots of tissues when he moves on to his next project.

I received a call recently from a man I haven't seen in over 30 years. He says he'd like to come to see me the next time he can take a trip. I told him not to wait too long. And then I wrote:

Now he comes. Now that my smile is helped along by fixatives.
And my legs boast maps of several continents along with
similarities to the “camel with the wrinkled knees.” My face an
ancient calendar; and words like lust, insatiable, besotted,
one-more-time – are lost somewhere in Webster’s. Now he comes.
Looking so much younger than his years. A jogger, soccer player,
womanizer -- looking at me as though I were dinner.
Me – who can’t possibly serve myself up after a lifetime of saving
myself up. This is beyond ironic. Where has he been all this
waiting time? Will he care? Can I bear it if he does? What’s the
point of questioning the gift, lost in the mail for so awfully long.
But one does. When only one question matters. If not now, when?

THE ARRIVER
Mickey Coburn

Monday, April 7, 2008

Good Ole Days Opus One: Cinema Overtures

I connected with movies immediately and forever when I saw my first film. It was How Green Was My Valley. My Dad took my brother and myself to see it. I must have been two years old. All I remembered of the film growing up was the old man and a boy and a dog walking above a meadow. My Mom thought it must have been a Lassie movie; but I can imagine that my Dad would have taken us to How Green Was My Valley. The first film that stayed with me in total recollection was Song of the South. I loved that movie and saw frame after frame, song after song, in my mind throughout my childhood. (I know it's politically incorrect to even mention that film now. But the characters were like family to me. And I was pretty much color-blind, so I missed the racial thing.) I must have seen other movies in between those two films, because somehow the reality of movies got all mixed up with the actuality of my life. I would change my clothes in my bedroom closet – in case I was really a person in a movie and people were watching me; I didn’t want to be seen without my clothes on. I’d peek out of the closet and wonder where the audience was. (No, I never told anyone that at the time. They would have locked me in that closet for keeps.)
Gratefully, by the time I was seven or eight I understood what movies really were. Along with being my refuge. By then I wanted to be a movie star (when I didn’t want to be a dancer), and Elizabeth Taylor was my idol. (I had all of her cutout dolls and coloring books.) Every neighborhood had its movie house. The big one on the “avenue” was called “The Midwood;” several blocks away from our house in the opposite direction was “The Leader.” But around the corner from where we lived was “The Kent.” I probably spent almost every Sunday afternoon of all my growing up years there. Kids were permitted to attend by themselves. One day they announced a new rule that you had to be accompanied by a 16 year old if you were under 12. I know I couldn’t get in to see Pinocchio when it finally arrived at The Kent – that was the first day of the regulation. I was probably about nine, because my brother was able to go to see it with his buddies; he was three years older than me. They wouldn’t let me go into the theatre with him, and he “nyah-nyahed” me home. I was devastated. It was too late to see the film by the time my Dad came home. Realizing how unhappy I was, he went to the store and bought a game of Tidally-Winks; we played Tidally-Winks all afternoon. I don’t think I saw Pinocchio until I’d grown up. I ‘m not certain how I got into The Kent after that; I think my brother sometimes saw me inside and then we’d part. I do know that I was quite tall at 10 years old and probably passed for 12 without a hassle.
So every Sunday, after religious school, after going to the shops on Avenue J for my Mom (usually Stern’s Bakery, and I’d eat an entire loaf of New York corn rye before I reached home), after whatever else was going on - I was permitted to go to the movies. It didn’t matter what was playing. There was always a newsreel, a cartoon, and a double feature. All shown continuously. You could stay to see the films as often as you liked, and if you came in late, you’d just stay to see the part you’d missed. (I knew I was growing up when I started phoning to find out what time the film began so I wouldn’t miss the beginning.) It cost no more than 25 cents to get in back then if you were a kid. And Jujubes or Jordan Almonds would cost 5 or 10 cents. A coke was 10 cents. So for half a dollar, I had an entire afternoon’s entertainment. Sometimes, I’d have to return the empties (soda bottles; jars; milk bottles) to collect the deposits for my movie money.
Very rarely did I go to the movies with a friend. Not until I was a teenager. Then we’d go to The Midwood on Avenue J because there was a balcony and we could smoke up there (or practice smoking). There were actually ashtrays on the back of the seat in front of you. We were encouraged to be like the smoking stars on the screen: Paul Henreid lighting two cigarettes at once and sharing with Bette Davis! And we could watch the couples “make out.” On those excursions the film itself was less important than the side-show. The kids I knew didn’t watch movies the way I did. They’d talk or make frequent trips to the washroom or give a full critique before we’d left the theatre. And I hated that. I can count on one hand the people in my life I’ve enjoyed seeing movies with. Yes, I suppose I’ve always been an elitist of sorts. But certainly, when it came to cinema or the theatre, I was never a civilian!
My mother would take me to Radio City Music Hall or the Roxy maybe once a year. I don’t remember her ever coming with me to the local theatres. She liked the expedition from Brooklyn to Manhattan; the event. Most of the time, she’d take my older brother and me; sometimes she and I would go “into the city” and shop and have lunch either before or after the show. At a restaurant called “The Virginian.” (It was a chain specializing in burgers.) And later, more elegantly, to The Charleston Gardens at B. Altman’s Department Store. (Finger sandwiches served with your salad or soup – wonderful sandwiches and no limit!) Radio City and the Roxy had colossal productions before the film. But it wasn’t the stage show that impressed me. It was the huge screen in a huge theatre. It changed the way I perceived the movie. It was less intimate, of course. In the smaller venue, I felt as though I were experiencing a private showing. I had a personal relationship with the film. I could be part of the movie. In the larger theatre, I was a member of the audience. The film washed over me instead of whispering in my ear. What’s remarkable to me now is that I recognized this as a kid. Even if I couldn’t have put it into words.

At home we listened to the radio. Everyone listened to the radio. The women could knit or crochet or whatever. The kids could color or do jigsaw puzzles. It was so long ago but I remember it very well. There was an uncommon closeness about it because people could continue to interact with each other while they listened to the show. My brother wouldn’t miss Terry and the Pirates, The Shadow, Henry Aldrich, The Green Hornet, Dick Tracy. During the day, my mother listened to the “soaps:” Back Stage Wife, Aunt Jennie, Stella Dallas and the rest. (she could cook, clean, sew --whatever--while listening to the radio). Dad liked the news programs; Pal liked the comedy: Allen’s Alley, Can You Top This? Fibber MaGee and Molly, Baby Snooks, Halls of Ivy. Grandma didn’t like to miss the variety shows: Al Jolson, Eddie Cantor, stuff like that. There were also quiz shows and talk shows. And sports events were narrated, often generating more excitement than if we’d been there in person. Not surprisingly, my favorite shows were the dramas: “LUX Radio Theatre.” I’d sneak out of bed and curl up at the top of the stairs to hear the plays. (When I’d grown up I realized that curling up at the top of the stairs cast a shadow on the stairway wall. My folks knew I was there but never bothered me. Wish I’d known they did that.) Some of those radio dramas remained with me, along with the voices of the major stars who performed them. Plays like Sorry– Wrong Number (Barbara Stanwyck) became motion pictures and many programs were later transformed into television shows.

We didn’t have a television set until I was in high school. I was probably 13 or 14 years old. It was a large piece of furniture with a 10 inch screen. Dad put the TV in the basement (which was sort of finished) because he didn’t want it to dominate our home life. He only went downstairs once in awhile to see something. My grandparents and Mom would watch Ed Sullivan and Milton Berle and the Show of Shows with Sid Caeser and Imogine Coca, and Pal liked the wrestling. It made him laugh. My younger brother watched Howdy Doody. I, of course, liked the movies. They were shown almost exclusively late at night. There was the Late Show and the Late Late Show. (Really.) On a Friday or Saturday night, I frequently stayed up until the last station signed off. Eating my way through early Jennifer Jones. In fact, the first show I remember seeing on television was a late night movie starring Jennifer Jones: Good Morning Miss Dove. And what a luxury! To sit up late, alone in the basement, eating leftovers and sobbing into paper napkins.

My grandma, Jennie, took me to the art cinema on Coney Island Avenue to see foreign films. She adored Marlene Dietrich – not only for her talent, but also because of her stand against Germany and her courage going overseas to entertain the troops. We saw all of her movies together. She especially loved Golden Earrings. She played her records. And Piaf’s records. And Russian music. And she sang all the time, in Russian and in Yiddish. She loved to sing. She didn’t have much of a voice, but that didn’t stop her. She would read Pushkin to me in the Russian and translate it. In the summer evenings, she’d drive me to Brighten Beach and we’d walk the boardwalk in search of Russian music – all the little gazebos on the boardwalk hosted a different nationality. People gathered nightly to sing and dance and laugh together. When she heard the Balalaikas and found a welcoming group, she’d give me some money to basically “get lost” at the arcade, and she’d sing for hours with her old or new landsmen.

I write screenplays now. All the movies I've created in my head over the years might never make it to the paper. And all the screenplays I do write down may never make it to the screen. But those Brooklyn Sundays at The Kent; those afternoons watching Jennie weep over a film in French or Italian or whatever while I attempted to read the subtitles; the warm dynamic of visualizing radio shows within a family circle; it was all so special. We connected.
If you're fortunate enough to live in a town somewhere that has preserved an old movie theatre (without stadium seating and often with freshly popped corn), I hope you frequent it. The seats may be rather uncomfortable, and it might smell of age. Or is that history? But even if you're watching a first-run film, it will be like time travel. I hope you'll go there. It's part of our cultural DNA. If you can, pass it forward.