Violencia!

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  Neophyte librettist though he was, Gurney could not help but detect some restlessness in the audience. He felt strongly that the show had lost a great deal of their sympathy and goodwill for a major part of the first act. Not until the act finale, when Hobie Hancock was dragged in and chained to a radiator, some of the dicks going after him with bone-bangers, other more socially enlightened ones trying to restrain their colleagues, (at least until they had a feasible explanation as to why he’d slaughtered so many pants-pressers), did Gurney feel a current of excitement return to the show. Though the applause was far from tumultuous, it was decent enough, much of it coming from the contingent of hotel security guards. It turned out to be a stroke of luck that they’d been invited. He decided he would let his check clear and say no more to anyone about it.

  During the intermission, Gurney, with Angela coming along beside him, sought out Clement Hartog in the rear of the theatre. He was in a state of frustration when they found him.

  “We had ’em,” he said, “and then we lost ’em.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s strange,” said Undertag, who had flown west at the last minute and was unable to get a seat. “The audience wants to like this show. And you folks aren’t letting ’em.

  “They ask for so very little,” he continued, an odd whimper coming into his voice. “Why would you want to not give it to them?”

  “I believe we’ll give it to them in the second act,” said Hartog. “We’ve been doling it out….”

  “So that they really appreciate it when they get it,” said Gurney, once again rallying to the support of his director.

  Toileau joined the group, looking more dapper than ever and quite aloof.

  “I see you’ve gone ahead and kept ‘doody,’” he said.

  There was a good deal of hurt in his tone. Gurney could only look down at the floor, avoiding the man’s eyes.

  Mandarin, who had come along with the producing team, took Gurney aside.

  “There’s so much there, Paul. Would that I had been given the opportunity to direct it. I think you would have seen your values realized.”

  Mandarin’s naked and somewhat ruthless ambition always came wrapped in a coating of gentle concern. As a result, it invariably took Gurney by surprise and never offended him as much as it no doubt should have.

  “I think Clement is doing a fine job,” said Gurney. “Give him a chance. And don’t forget, this is only Winslow.”

  The second act got off to a rousing, foot-tapping start, beginning, as it did, with the “Let Us Inform You of Your Constitutional Rights” number, sung by a quartet of dicks as they ironically smashed a suspect to a bloody pulp. Even Norman Welles’ light romantic musical approach could not dampen the effect of the piece as it reached the final chorus. With the victim stretched out in the bullpen and beaten into insensibility, several of the hotel security guards in the audience advanced on the stage, shouting, “Bravo.”

  “You”d think they were seeing South Pacific,” said Angela.

  But as the second act turned more complex, with the mass-murdering Hobie Hancock character turning out to be a political operative closely affiliated with the Associated Union of Dry Cleaning Workers, Gurney could sense a return of the first-act restlessness in the audience.

  Halfway through the act, steam began to pour out into the theatre. It had a fragrant, not entirely unpleasant odor to it. Puzzled at first, Gurney soon realized that he was smelling overcooked shashlik from Sardi’s Pacific Northwest, which bordered on the theatre. To verify this suspicion, Gurney looked around at Norman Welles’ seat and saw that the composer had grown ashen, finally falling to the floor, where he once again began to writhe in agony. It was difficult to tell if this was caused by dissatisfaction with Violencia or by the restaurant’s attempt at gourmet cooking. Whatever the case, several members of the audience left their seats and began to file out of the theatre. Perhaps given courage by the first walkouts, many more people got up and left, too, the small exodus soon becoming a stampede.

  Gurney looked around and would have sworn that Norman Welles had been crushed underfoot by the young, vigorous underwater demolition people in their haste to vacate the theatre. Feeling that his actions were high-minded, Gurney remained gamely in his seat. Among the huffier walkouts was John Gable. Gurney would have sworn he’d stick it out to the last, if only as a courtesy gesture.

  “You sure got a lot of guts, kid,” he said as he passed Gurney’s seat, and then joined the outgoing throng.

  Gurney felt this was poor form on Gable’s part, a real kick in the teeth. Still, he clung to the hope that his old colleague had actually enjoyed the show but was forced to leave because of the shashlik fumes.

  By the time the curtain came down on the second and final act, only Gurney, Angela, Clement Hartog, and a cluster of hotel security guards were left seated in the theatre. The tiny band members gave the cast a big hand, trying to make as much noise as possible and insisting on two curtain calls. Clement Hartog, in a brave and moving gesture, laid a bouquet at his mother’s stilts.

  When the curtain came down the second time, Gurney walked over and put his arm around the forlorn director’s shoulder.

  “We had ’em again,” said Hartog. “But this time around we lost ’em for good.”

  Norman Welles, bloody and trampled upon, looked bewildered.

  “You guys may not know it, but we’re in big trouble. I’ve never had this happen before. There wasn’t one of my numbers that drew really big applause. Forgive me, Paul, and watch your temper, but the libretto wasn’t any bargain, either. I may have to pull out. Not only that, but you fellows don’t know these producers. They’re liable to close the show before I even get to quit.”

  Essie Hartog, in her dressing gown, came out from the wings. It soon became clear that she was still hypnotized by the emotional impact of her return to the stage. As a result, she hadn’t even realized that all but a handful of people in the audience had walked out of the show.

  “They loved me,” she said. “I knew they would and they did.”

  Clement Hartog came forward quickly and stroked his mother’s hair.

  “They more than loved you, darling,” he said, “they adored you.”

  The three collaborators then took seats, each of them gloomily assessing the condition of Violencia and concluding that the prospects did not look good.

  But then Philip Undertag came skipping down the aisle and surprised them.

  “The show’s a stinker in its present condition, but I don’t think it’s that difficult to fix.”

  It was entirely possible that the producer was speaking out of self-interest. After all, he had taken over the Pokerino and completely restructured it to meet the specific needs of Violencia. Apart from the embarrassment of a closing—though Lord knows he was a veteran in this area—he would have an empty theatre in the city, a situation that would cost him quite a bit of money. Whatever the case, the three collaborators could not help but be cheered by his attitude.

  Even though they were all physically and emotionally drained by the experience, the group met at once in Undertag’s suite. What the producer had in mind was a certain pruning out of the more conspicuously objectionable elements in the show.

  “First off,” he said with a nod toward the distinguished-looking Toileau, “we get rid of that ‘doody’ line.”

  Tolileau lowered his eyes in modest triumph.

  Both Gurney and the director looked at Undertag with a mutually steady gaze. It had always been Hartog’s view that if you let Philip Undertag talk, without interruption, he would begin to deflate as he gradually lost confidence. How much could he have, really, after all those years of consistent theatrical defeat. But this time, his assurance was reinforced by the thunderous rejection of a short while ago. He did not back up.

  “The line is not doing us any good, and it may be harming us. You fellows probably noticed that the really big walkout came on ‘doody.’”

  “I thought i
t came on the shashlik smells,” said Hartog innocently.

  “I disagree,” said Undertag. “I think shashlik started them on their way and then ‘doody’ clinched it. Whatever your feelings, you’ve got to agree that the ‘doody’ line isn’t scoring for us and may be offending some people.”

  Hartog and Gurney were silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Undertag went on. His thought was that if certain of what he considered the vulgar elements were excised, and a thread of wholesomeness laced in—very subtly—the show had a hell of a chance to make it.

  “Can you give us some examples?” asked Hartog.

  “Frankly, no,” said Undertag. “You fellows are the creative ones. And I certainly don’t want to change the basic nature of the show, which, as I understand it, is by design ballsy. I just think it can be made fun ballsy, that’s all.”

  “And more theatrical,” Toileau put in.

  “What would happen, for example,” said Undertag, “and I’m not pushing this, even though it is my money and my theatre … what would happen if the kid detective were to call the old Chief ‘Daddy’ a few times? Let’s just speculate on that. Would the show really be injured? Would anything be fundamentally different? Think a second. Or let’s say the dicks, instead of smashing Hancock over the head, lifted him to his feet once in a while and told him he’s probably not a bad guy, but that they’re just doing their job. ‘Put yourself in our shoes,’ they could say, and you know, Norman, that’s not a bad idea for a song. You could write the hell out of a song like that.”

  “It’ll never work,” the composer said glumly. “And I’ll get killed for your idea.”

  “All right, forget that. I never claimed to be creative. But would a touch like that, here and there, really hurt the show, fellas? In your heart of hearts, would it? Or let’s say, at the end, instead of the young detective booting his old man out of the Bureau, the two of them went out for a cheeseburger. Would that kill you guys? I’m just saying that it just might do us a helluva lot of good. I’m trying to save the show, fellas, because there’s a lot to like in it, and I want to bring the damned thing in.”

  Undertag’s argument was not only a sincere one but, for all of its weakness, was frustratingly difficult to challenge—especially since he was quite believable when he said he liked Violencia and would do anything to save it.

  “I know, I know, Philip,” said Hartog in reply to the producer’s suggestions, “but it’s just not the show we wrote.”

  Gurney had the uneasy feeling that the director might have been a bit more conciliatory if he, the librettist, had not been present.

  But perhaps he wasn’t being fair to Hartog.

  A bit later, the two repaired to Gurney’s suite, Angela darting into the other room when she sensed that they wanted to be alone.

  “Don’t worry, Paul,” said Hartog. “We’re not going to knuckle under. I’d rather close the show than alter the conception.”

  But the director’s weary eyes seemed to be saying something else. Gurney tried to make it easier for him.

  “Well now, Clement, were his suggestions really so preposterous?”

  “That’s just it,” said Hartog, grabbing at the bait. “He may have had a thousand turkeys in a row, but he’s not an entirely stupid man. Maybe he’s on to something, even though he’s not expressing himself brilliantly.

  “Look, Paul,” he continued, “there are changes we both want to make anyway. So let’s really go at it. Between now and our opening in Holliman we can get a ton of work done. We’ll keep Undertag’s suggestions way in the back of our minds and at the same time vow not to change the basics of Violencia, even if our lives were to be put at stake. If we get him to push back the opening date in Holliman, we can bring in a show nobody will even recognize. And it will still be Violencia.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Gurney.

  And he did. The best part of the plan was that he would be getting back to work with Hartog, the two of them closeted for hours, having little snacks and exchanging boyhood anecdotes once again, even though there would be less time for that now.

  There was a drawback, however. While it was true that they had succeeded in emptying a huge, packed theatre—whether it was the show or the shashlik—Gurney had really loved Violencia. It was rough and awkward, but it seemed to have a brutal, black-and-blue, malevolent growl of violence to it. The frightening picture of Essie Hartog on stilts, the accuracy of bloodstained homicidal panties, the bared fangs of chained-up police dogs—all of it struck him as being crudely correct. Despite its flaws, the show had an eerie, sour, whining, absolutely impeccable smell of the authentic to it. And now they were going to make it folksy. Or maybe they weren’t. But they were going to change it, and this was painful for Paul Gurney to contemplate.

  Though the reviews had not come in yet, Gurney, to lighten the atmosphere, recited a fictional one he felt might be written about the show:

  SKIP THE SHOW, ORDER THE SHASHLIK

  “Neither chained-up police dogs nor actresses on stilts nor great gusts of shashlik fumes wafting in from a neighboring restaurant, could disguise the fact that what transpired on the stage last night was essentially a small, tepid, quite dull and witless little concoction.

  One can only wonder what outrageous whim on the part of the producers could have induced these chaps to feel that life in an uggghhh!!! homicide bureau might provide the materials for a quote Broadway entertainment. One’s mind boggles at the thought of these presumably sane gentlemen investing yet one more cent in bringing this monument of dullness, this salute to insipidity, to the Great White Way. Yet latest information is that, indeed, that is their very plan. Well, good luck, gentlemen, good luck, and may reason, taste, and minimal intelligence soon return to all of us and to America.”

  Gurney, who had worked on the mock notice and wasn’t really reciting it extemporaneously, caught the great director off guard. In all the time he had known him, he’d never heard Clement Hartog laugh quite that hard.

  Yet, uncannily, the review in the morning Winslow Standard was an almost exact representation of Gurney’s imagined one.

  GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE

  “Neither real police dogs, nor second-rate actresses on stilts, nor a fading and desperate director’s cutesy-pie idea of filling the Winslow theatre with shashlik fumes could disguise what was most apparent to the large group of unfortunates who assembled to view the soon-to-be-forgotten Violencia last night. This must surely go down (as quickly as possible, one would hope) as one of the most stupefyingly dull evenings in all theatrical history….”

  Gurney had an eerie feeling as Hartog read just about as much of the notice as he could stomach. It was almost as though the local critic had been under the bed taking notes, the night before. Indeed, Hartog suggested that perhaps he had been hiding under the bed.

  “That happened to me once before, on a show I did in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. We were goofing, the same way you and I were, and we caught the little fucker listening in through the window and taking notes.”

  The afternoon notice was not much kinder, although it put the emphasis on an assumption by the producer that the people of Winslow were unlettered no-nothings.

  A SENSE OF SMELL

  “…. Do they think we’re simps? Neanderthals? Well, we may not be sophisticated East Coast critics out here, but dammitall, we certainly know garbage when we see it—or shall I say smell it. And that’s about the kindest comment I can make about the monstrosity that was foisted upon us last night, at—get this, kind sirs and mesdames—$12.50 a ticket.”

  Without expressing their feelings aloud, both Gurney and Hartog had prayed for at least one nice word from Lester Daggo, the critic whose light, breezy capsule reviews appeared in a national entertainment monthly.

  But Daggo, too, quickly took his place among the naysayers.

  THANKSGIVING COMES EARLY

  “The fact that Violencia is a turkey—and let me establish quickly that it is most emphatically
a bird of that nomenclature—could easily have been discerned by anyone fortunate—or shall we say, unfortunate—enough to be in on the show’s beginnings. The frail and most unappealing little creature was doomed from the start. I tried to tell the two young collaborators that, and nice young lads they are, too, but it was to no avail. They just kept plying deponent thine with club sandwiches and going about what turns out to be their not-so-merry way. Told ya, fellas.” Lester Daggo.

  “The creep,” said Hartog. “He never said a word to us.” The reviews, in a curious way, only served to anger Gurney, who had always enjoyed being an underdog, the thrill of coming from behind. He had never actually pulled this off in his life, but he could imagine what a treat it would be. And he was happy to see that the various critical death sentences had the same effect on Clement Hartog.

  “It would really be wonderful to turn one of these things around,” said Gurney. “Really show these bastards. Ever see it happen, Clement?”

  “Plenty of times,” said the director. “And usually to my shows. I can name you a dozen that weren’t given a chance and that came in as big hits. Guess what?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s going to happen to Violencia, Paul.”

  Scene 11

  The first order of business was to put a little spark and hope into a cast that was, quite naturally, discouraged about the show’s early reception. They could certainly have seen for themselves that the show wasn’t clicking; it was no small accomplishment to drive almost two thousand people out of a theatre and could hardly be written off as a freak accident.