by Brad Fraser
I did. Quickly. And I never regretted it, even though it caused the former GM and theatre management some grief after the fact.
This taught me an important lesson about subsidiary rights for intellectual properties, and I’ve been judicious in granting them throughout my career. Does the producing theatre have a right to future profits for producing the play for the first time? I’ve always acknowledged the risk in producing any new play, and it’s my opinion that a first-rate production should share in future rights for five years if—and only if—it is a demonstrably first-rate production that has turned enough of a profit for the playwright to earn specific royalty amounts. A play’s failure to draw an audience is rarely the script’s fault alone. A bad actor, an inept director or a useless publicity department can ruin the best of plays. Why should the playwright be forced to give the theatre subsequent royalty splits if the theatre didn’t do its job?
Michael Dobbin and Bob White called me in for a meeting to get my thoughts on who I’d like to direct the play. My first choice was Peter Hinton, a brilliant, uncompromising director in Toronto. They both immediately rejected him because “he’s never worked at the festival or the theatre.” My counter-argument, that their argument was idiotic since the festival was only in its third year and hardly anyone had worked in it, fell on deaf ears. When I asked for Bob himself I found out he’d already committed to another play. When I suggested Paul Thompson I finally understood what the phrase “they visibly blanched” meant. Then I said, “I can do it,” but Bob and Michael shot that down immediately, saying they didn’t want to set any kind of precedent with writers directing their own shows. It was clear they had already decided who they wanted, so I suggested they just fucking tell me.
The director they suggested was someone I’d met, and a close friend of Michael’s, Susan Ferley. I protested that I’d never seen Susan’s work.
Michael said, “You have to appreciate what a great risk we’re taking—”
I cut him off. “Yeah. The risk of actually making some money.”
Bob laughed, but Michael continued seriously. “This is a new festival in Calgary—not always the most open-minded place on the planet. I need someone I know in charge. This is the only play in the festival we haven’t found a corporate sponsor for…”
He let the sentence dangle, implying I’d somehow let the festival down by not attracting a corporate sponsor. I knew from their expressions I wasn’t going to win this one, and I shrugged. Susan Ferley would direct Remains.
Having lost at choosing the director, when it came to casting I was uncompromising. I wanted John Moffat to play David. Again there were objections. Both of them had heard dodgy things about John’s health and were unsure he’d be up to the challenge. I’d already spoken to John; he’d assured me that he was strong enough to do the job.
I also wanted Kate Newby to play Benita, the psychic hooker, and Pete to play Kane, the sexually uncertain busboy, and they were fine with these choices. Luckily the rest of the company that had already been chosen were almost perfect actors for the parts: hulking Peter Smith as Bernie, Ellen-Ray Hennessy as Candy, Wendy Noel as Jerri and David LeReaney as Robert.
The day of the first reading of the script, when everyone who worked at the theatre in any capacity was present, there was a tension in the air—a cold front of disapproval meeting a warm front of acceptance that resulted in odd bursts of supportive laughter and barely concealed sighs and snorts of derision. Many uncertain looks were exchanged, particularly when the words “fuck” and “cunt” were used and there was talk of gay sex. I looked at the director smiling nervously and got a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Because I’d been working on the script for so long, I had little rewriting to do, so I wished everyone good luck and went home. I’d learned that a playwright who’d done a decent job had no real reason to hang around rehearsals making everyone nervous. But I’d also learned that I’d be an idiot not to check in regularly.
In the early days it was all bonhomie and drinks at the bar after rehearsal as everyone got to know one another. John looked to be in good health. I smiled secretly to myself as I saw him working his charm on various members of the company, seducing his next on-the-road lover. It was generally known that John had AIDS, but he was still so attractive and magnetic that it made little difference even in the days when the stigma and fear were at their height.
Pete knew the whole story of my history with John and was nervous. I took him through the AIDS educational material I’d been compiling since the beginning of the plague: books, articles and essays by reputable experts who made it clear that passing on the virus through casual contact was unknown, and through mouth-to-mouth contact, very rare. Pete and John exchanged a kiss, but it was a stage kiss, their lips didn’t touch.
After two weeks of working on other stuff I dropped in to see how rehearsals were going. The actors were wandering around listlessly, speaking in monotones. There was a torpid passive-aggressive tension in the air, a sense of wheels being spun and no work being done. Finally Kate said to Susan—with that certain ring in her voice that said “I’ve had just about enough of this shit” which I knew so well—“I have no idea where I’m supposed to go.”
Everyone stopped. Everyone looked to Susan. Susan said something about following the journey and gestured for them to continue. They did. I watched an hour of their work before we broke for lunch.
As they all wandered off I approached Susan. With any production, my most important alliance is always with the director. I asked her if everything was all right. She said it was just one of those days. I wasn’t persuaded and talked to her about how uncommitted some of the acting had been, suggesting it seemed to result from people not knowing where to go. She told me she liked to let the actors claim the space and the story before formalizing the movement.
Susan mentioned she was finding John resistant to her way of working, which always varies according to director, and that seemed to be affecting the rest of the cast. I asked her if she wanted me to sound him out to make sure everything was all right. She thought that would be a good idea.
John was at lunch with Ellen-Ray and Kate, but the ladies, sensing something was up, excused themselves as I was diplomatic about it, but I let him know I was very confused by what he was doing in the rehearsal hall and asked him if everything was all right.
Everything was not all right. John said he had worked with Susan before and he hadn’t enjoyed the experience. When I asked him why he hadn’t told me this at the outset, he replied that he thought he could deal with it because he loved the script so much. He had major issues with some of Susan’s directorial techniques, and he complained about her unwillingness to commit to any kind of physical life for the play.
I talked to him about honouring each other’s process and trying to make them mesh and, if he couldn’t do that, being candid with Susan about his own needs. I said, “In the end, it’s your performance. You can do what you want to. Don’t be resistant.” He assured me he wouldn’t and I left, hoping that I had at least opened the door to some sort of connection between the director and the lead actor.
On my way out I ran into Bob White and gave him a rundown of my experience in and after rehearsal. He told me to relax, it was early days. I reminded him we were two weeks in and no blocking had been done. He waved my concerns away with a laugh and hurried off to his own rehearsal.
Unless you’ve worked in a major undertaking with a multitude of creative personalities under intense pressure, you have no idea how bad things can get when just a few personalities within a theatre company grow destructive. Fear and fatigue are a dangerous combo with actors, and the bitterly cold Calgary winter that kept everyone indoors wasn’t helping.
In the beginning Pete would come home from rehearsal bubbling with stories about the day, but as time went by he became quieter. We’d talk of other things while sharing a joint a
nd enjoying a beer, but I knew something was wrong. The cold sores he suffered from when under stress were beginning to show just above his lip. I demanded to know what was going on.
Pete’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s horrible.”
I was stunned. “Horrible?”
Pete said, “We’re doing it all wrong. It’s all this lovey-dovey, touchy-feely shit. The pace is all wrong. No one knows what to do and we’re starting to hate the play.”
Now it was my turn to cry tears of rage and frustration. After the years of being turned down and criticized, to have this play fucked up by forces beyond my control was too much to consider. I vented, he listened. He vented, I listened. Then I spoke with each of the cast members privately, telling them what Pete had told me and asking them to be completely candid in their responses. Five of the seven actors felt Susan was negatively judging the characters and their actions and causing the actors to do the same thing. As Ellen-Ray so eloquently put it, “I feel like I’m in fucking Long Day’s Journey into Night.”
The next morning I slipped into rehearsal and watched a run of the first act. It was even worse than Pete had led me to believe. I listened to the final scene with my head in my hands and slipped out while Susan was giving the company notes.
I demanded an emergency meeting with Bob White and Michael Dobbin. I briskly brought them up to date on what the actors had said to me and my own concerns for the show, considering how close to opening we were. Again my concerns were brushed off. “It’ll be fine by opening” was their attitude as they both headed back to their own rehearsals.
I returned to the rehearsal hall and asked for a quick meeting before they started. Susan looked at me curiously. Some of the actors were looking nervous. I took a seat on a set piece in the centre of the rehearsal hall and calmly told Susan everything that had been said to me, then followed up with my own concerns after watching the run-through.
She looked completely stunned. Turning to the actors, she asked if this was true.
The actors were all suddenly interested in the state of their nails or the tips of their shoes.
I stared at them in shock, realizing they were about to sell me out.
Pete said tentatively, “I’m not sure we’ve got the pace right.”
The rest shrugged and nodded, making vaguely reassuring noises. Susan looked at me, confused. I shook my head in disgust and walked out of the rehearsal hall.
When Pete got home from rehearsal he said, “Sorry that didn’t go better.”
I gave him a wounded look, grabbed my coat and left the apartment. I wandered the streets for a while, feeling exactly like I remembered feeling in Saskatoon and then Toronto when watching Wolfboy fall apart—powerless.
Eventually I ended up at the gay bar. I checked my parka and sidled up to the bar. There were more staff than patrons, but I wasn’t here for company. As I ordered my usual Labatt’s Blue I caught the eye of an emaciated older man in an expensive leather jacket staring at me from the other side of the square bar. Something about him was familiar. He smiled.
It was Benny. My old fuck bud, Benny the beautiful muscle man with the fat, uncut cock, melon-like ass-cheeks and girlishly smooth skin. It was obvious he was in the late stages of AIDS.
As I moved around the bar to greet him I tried to hide my shock behind a surprised smile, but he saw right through it. As we hugged he said, “It’s okay,” and that was the extent of our conversation about his health.
I took the stool next to his as he looked me over with a smile, saying, “You’re all right?”
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Some of the guys I fucked with—they’re not all right.”
Having no idea how to respond, I said, “It’s good to see you.”
“You too. When I first got sick I was laid up for a while—but I read about you when I started travelling again.”
Something hit me. “What happened to your accent?” Benny always had that sexy Texan twang. I remembered what he’d told me about himself in our first few meetings: born in Texas, a couple of brothers, worked at something to do with the steel industry—sales, maybe—had a life partner who was much younger and a brother who’d got into drug trouble in South America.
Benny said, “Everything I told you about myself is a lie.” He went on to explain to me that he wasn’t from Texas, he was from someplace in the Maritimes, and he didn’t work in the steel industry, he worked for a major coke cartel that had been smuggling blow into the country. I was so gobsmacked. Most people have an alter ego, but queer people in those days often had many identities, mostly forged out of necessity. We did what we had to in order to survive. Nonetheless, when he was done, all I could do was gape at him.
I said, “Everything?”
He said, “Except the stuff about my partner. That was real.”
I had no idea what to say.
Benny said, “All of those condos and apartments we fucked in were safe houses. You have no idea the danger I put you and other people in. I had some pretty nasty people after my ass.”
I shook my head in shock. He put his hand over mine. It was cool, already slightly dead. “So what’s happening with you?”
Benny ordered us two more beers and I brought him up to date with my life, Pete and the play. When I was done I could tell he was tired. I offered to see him back to his hotel, but he said he was fine. He got off his stool to hug me, and I could feel his bones move loosely beneath his skin like the last few pretzel sticks in a nearly empty bag.
Benny said, “Don’t waste a minute.” I kissed him quickly.
I walked home in a teary daze. Pete was in bed but wide awake. I told him about meeting Benny. He held me while I cried. After a joint we went back to the subject of the play.
Pete said, “What are we gonna do?”
I said, “I’ll think about that tomorrow.”
As I dropped off into sleep I realized Benny hadn’t mentioned why he was in Calgary. I would never find out.
* * *
—
After Pete left for rehearsal the next morning I got a phone call from Ellen-Ray, who wasn’t called for that day. She apologized for not being able to say anything during rehearsal and admitted she was at her wits’ end. She had no idea what the play was about or what she was doing with her character.
I made a crucial decision in that moment. This was my play. I knew what it was about and I knew how it would work. Although it defied everything I’d learned about professionalism and never contradicting the director, I felt I had no other choice. So I told Ellen-Ray that everything she was doing was wrong. Candy wasn’t a weepy, sensitive woman hopelessly in love with David, as it was being played. She was hard, cynical and outspoken. She wasn’t a victim; she was a predator who was out to get what she wanted. She was caustic and witty. “Put the joy and fun back into it,” I told her before hanging up.
I began to get calls from other cast members, more than half, who’d obviously spoken to Ellen-Ray. I said basically the same thing to each of them and reminded them my influences were rock videos, comic books and sitcoms. I told each of them to quit worrying about what Susan was asking for and to do what their instincts told them to do.
The next morning, a couple hours after rehearsal started, the phone rang. “You’d better get down here,” Pete said. I asked him what was happening, and he said Susan had been upset by Elly’s reinterpretation of Candy and, when she’d questioned her about it, Elly had said she was doing what I’d told her to do. Susan had walked out of rehearsal.
I raced to the theatre expecting to find the cast and crew fretting over things, but, thankfully, the stage manager was putting them through a run of the show. I watched a bit of it, pleased to see some of the actors shrugging off the funereal energy they’d been dealing with and starting to play. Then I headed to Dobbin’s office, Michael and Bob were waiting for me. Sus
an wasn’t there.
I’d expected fireworks and accusations of unprofessional sabotage, but got neither. They informed me that Susan had decided to leave the show and take her name off it because she didn’t feel she had the support of the playwright. I said that was probably for the best and asked what they planned to do now. Bob acknowledged that the basic blocking and analysis were pretty much done and, since his show was opening shortly, he’d take over for the technical rehearsals that were to come.
We then went down and informed the cast, who were, of course, unnerved by the director’s departure. Bob reminded them that we were all professionals, we still had a show to open, and these things sometimes happened.
I sat with Bob as he worked to shift the energy of the show in a new direction. The actors grew more confident and took more chances. Bob encouraged them to go further, to work for a snappier pace. The play began to show signs of life.
The cast was now galvanized. Things with the director had gone much more wrong than most of them had imagined, and I think a few of them were questioning their own culpability in what had played out. Now they became consummate professionals and were doing everything they could to support one another.
Susan was a popular figure in the Calgary theatre community, and many people had enjoyed working with her over the years. They couldn’t imagine what it might take to cause her to quit a show and cast me as the villain. I was snubbed by many and told off by some. This is what I’d expected, and I’d prepared myself emotionally for the chilling disapproval that I knew was going to follow—nice people in the Canadian theatre didn’t upset other nice people even if it meant producing mediocrity. Of course my indifference to their animosity only made it worse.
As the opening approached I grew more nervous. I felt like the play was already cursed. I had no idea how people would react. Had the actors and Susan been justified in the terror they’d seemed to feel? Was Remains really that offensive?
