“What about Brad Lester? I would think given his success in Hollywood, he would be somewhat awe-inspiring as well.”
“Funny that you should say that, Mr. MacGregor. I was prepared to be in awe of him every bit as much as with Ashley, but he put me at ease from the very first. He seems to totally lack any pretension. Have you talked to him?”
“Not yet. He and Max Ennis are next on my list.”
“Max is a dear, an absolute dear. You will like him, I am sure of it. Now it is my turn to ask a question: Did you enjoy the show?”
“I did, and I have seen it twice now.”
“I hope you write nice things about the production, and about all of us, in your magazine,” she said with a smile that would melt a tray of ice cubes.
“Our goal is to give an accurate account of the plays we see, along with human-interest stories about the people in these plays,” I said, feeling more like a Caleb than ever. “You are not trying to unduly influence me, are you?” I replied with a smile of my own.
“Heaven forbid, Mr. MacGregor. Would a nice girl from Lansing, Michigan, do that?”
“I simply can’t imagine it. By the way, this chili is excellent, not that I ever doubted your word.”
“I’m glad you like it. I hope that doesn’t count as my attempt to unduly influence you.”
“It does not. Let’s go back to what you were saying about Max Ennis. I gather you are quite fond of him.”
“Oh, I am, but not in any, well . . . inappropriate way. He has been like a favorite uncle to me, someone whose shoulder I can cry on.”
“Do you do a lot of crying?”
She paused. “No . . . not really. That was just a figure of speech. What I mean is, whenever I have any questions about the play, or about New York, or anything else, I feel like I can go to him.”
“Nice to have someone like that in your corner. Anything more you’d like to tell me about your experiences as part of the Death at Cresthaven cast?”
“Oh, I don’t think so—or do you feel it is important that I should say something erudite about the role of dramatic theater in the broad and ever-changing spectrum of performing arts in America?”
“That sounds like the subject of a term paper. To be honest, it doesn’t grab me, and I don’t think it would grab our readers.”
“I was only kidding,” she said with a laugh that bordered on giggling. “And to think, I haven’t even had a drink, although I never drink when I’ve got a performance coming up.”
“That brings up another question,” I said. “Do you find that there is a lot of drinking today among those working on Broadway?”
“Not that I have seen in my relatively short time in the business. Oh, I’ve heard stories about some of the greats over the years who had a fondness for the bottle, John Barrymore for one. But I really haven’t seen any evidence of alcohol abuse since I’ve been in New York. I really don’t believe most actors would last very long these days if they were drunk or anywhere close to it, do you?”
“No, and I would say the same is true in Canada.”
“Surprisingly, I have never been there,” Melissa said, “even though it’s right across the river from Detroit. And yet, when I was in college, I spent a semester in England and traveled over to Paris, too. Life is funny.”
I agreed and paid the bill. “This has been very pleasant,” I told Melissa as we walked back to the theater, where I still had time to talk to the other two actors before the evening performance.
Chapter 13
I dropped Melissa Cartwright off at her dressing room and walked down the hall to the door marked MAX ENNIS.
“Yeah?” a voice said gruffly in response to my knock.
“It’s Alan MacGregor, the magazine writer from Toronto. When you have time, I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Now is just fine for me,” Ennis said, pulling open the door. “Come on in, have a seat. Mind if we do it right here in my humble abode?” he continued. “Getting around is not as easy as it used to be. After all, I’m almost eighty-two, I just seem older.”
His medium-size dressing room was plain to say the least, with a pair of nondescript stuffed chairs, a scarred wooden table littered with paper plates and empty sandwich wrappers, a lumpy love seat—and of course the obligatory makeup table and mirror, neither of which appeared to have been used much by the room’s current occupant.
Ennis, who wore an undershirt and jeans, had plopped his rotund form down on the love seat, which groaned, even before I had a chance to land myself in a chair. I studied the old character actor as he wheezed and mopped a ruddy brow and a nearly bald dome with a handkerchief. “I find myself moving pretty slowly these days,” he said by way of apology.
“You looked plenty energetic on the stage today,” I told him, “and also when I saw a performance a few nights ago.”
“Well, thank you; I am glad to hear you say so. It takes everything I’ve got to make it seem like I’m not straining to move around. I’ve been in better health, I can attest to that, and it’s a good thing my role doesn’t call for a lot of physical activity. Truth to tell, I feel like hell most of the time.”
“You have had a fascinating career,” I said, trying to steer the conversation away from Ennis’s physical condition.
“I have been fortunate, darned fortunate, I’m here to tell you. And I was delighted when Roy cast me as Harley Barnes, even though, as you have seen, my character is something of a toady, which is not a role I usually play.”
“Are you and Breckenridge old friends?”
“We go back a long way,” he said curtly. It seemed that he was not about to elaborate.
“You said your current part is not a normal one for you. Talk about the kinds of roles you like best.”
“I’ve been a heavy—and here I am not talking about my physique—more times than I can count. I have never been the lead, as I’m sure you know, but these tough-guy parts have been a staple for me, something I can really get my teeth into. I’m usually third or fourth billed in the program, which is fine as far as I’m concerned. I have always seemed older than my actual age. From the start, I guess I was fated to play character roles.”
“And you’ve won a Tony,” I said, using information gleaned from reading Ennis’s short bio in the playbill.
“Yes, in a supporting role about ten years back as a hard-bitten, straight-talking police detective in a whodunit. The play was forgettable, but I got lucky. A reviewer from the Times was particularly complimentary about my role. I believe that is what really got me the award.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. How do you feel about this show?”
Ennis looked at the ceiling as if mulling over the question. “It’s been . . . good, a good experience.”
“Any tension among the cast? And before you answer, I always ask that at least once or twice in any story I write about a show.”
“Tension? Um . . . no, I wouldn’t say so. Oh, there’s the occasional comment after a performance about somebody not picking up a cue quickly enough or standing or sitting in the wrong place, but most of those criticisms come from either Roy or Hollis—you know, Hollis Sperry, the stage manager. They are both sticklers, which is as it should be.”
“But no one-on-one trouble between actors?”
He sighed. “Okay, so I wasn’t counting Ashley. I’m off the record now, understand what I’m saying?”
“I do. Believe me, I am not looking to dig up dirt. Ours is a magazine that aims to promote theater, not run it down. I suppose you could describe us as cheerleaders.”
He nodded. “You know plenty about the theater world, I’m sure. So it won’t come as any surprise for you to learn that Ashley can be a pain in the lower back.”
“How so?”
“Sometimes, she seems to think she’s the producer, d
irector, and stage manager all rolled into one, an egomaniacal prima donna. Oh, wait—that is redundant now, isn’t it, sir?”
“I will take your word for that. Sounds like Miss Williston wouldn’t win a lot of popularity contests, at least with other performers.”
That brought a derisive laugh from Ennis. “I use redundancies, and you use understatement. I have only been in one other production with La Williston, and that was . . . oh, close to fifteen years back. Fortunately, we were never onstage together in that show—I might have done something violent. But I saw enough of her, both from the wings and backstage, to see what a harpy she could be. And how she browbeat others in the cast.”
“Roy Breckenridge must be aware of her shortcomings,” I said. “Yet he chose to cast her in this production.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Mr. MacGregor. She is a first-rate actress when she doesn’t let that hyperactive ego of hers get in the way. And on the whole, she has been pretty well behaved this time around. After all, this may well be her last chance to win a Tony, and she’s lusted after one for years, which is hardly a secret around town. Although she’s never said anything to me about it, I know she resents my having a Tony, even though mine was for a supporting role. And I’m sure the fact that Brad Lester has won an Oscar sticks in her craw as well.”
“I haven’t spoken to Mr. Lester yet. Do he and Miss Williston get along? After all, they do play a married couple.”
“I suppose they get along about as well as any real-life married couple.” Ennis chuckled. “Seriously, she took a couple of digs at him during rehearsals. Word is she didn’t like having to share top billing with someone from Hollywood.” Ennis made the last word sound like a disease.
“That was in rehearsals. How has their relationship played out during the run?”
“I’ll throw the question back at you,” Ennis said. “Do they seem natural during the performances?”
“Yes, I would say so. She is clearly the dominant one in the ‘marriage,’ while he seems a little . . . well, distracted and nonconfrontational. But the relationship seems realistic.”
“I agree with that observation, young fella. Now backstage, it is a different matter. She treats him as though he’s in the cast just to make her look good, nothing more.”
“How has Mr. Lester reacted to that?”
“He has taken the high road, and if her attitude bothers him—which it damned well should—he does not let it show. You can ask him that question yourself,” Ennis said, taking several deep, asthmatic breaths, as though the conversation had exhausted him.
“Maybe I will. Thank you so much for your time.”
“Like I’ve got anything else to do between performances,” he said with a dry laugh that turned into a cough. He was still coughing when I left his dressing room and closed the door behind me.
Chapter 14
It was still well over an hour before curtain time, so I opted to see if I could locate the only cast member I had not yet talked to—Hollywood’s own Brad Lester. My search was short, as he answered my knock on his dressing-room door. “Come in, come in, whoever you are.”
I did and was greeted with a grin that showed perfect teeth. “At last! I thought maybe you were ignoring me,” Lester said, rising from an ancient chair and putting out a hand. His handshake was firm, and he gestured me to a chair that was in no better shape than the one he occupied. “I can offer you only water or a second-rate beer, Mr. MacGregor,” he said, smiling again.
I chose water and studied Lester. Viewed from the audience or the wings, his chiseled good looks and well-barbered black hair made him appear to be every inch the matinee idol he had been for years. Up close, he lost none of that aura. Some people seem to have it all.
“So, fire away,” he said, settling back and lacing his hands behind his head. “Ask me anything, I am an open book—more or less, that is.”
“I will start with an obvious question, one you’ve been asked many times lately I’m sure,” I said, pulling out my notebook and pencil. “How difficult has the transition from screen to stage been for you?”
“Interestingly, I have not been asked that very often at all since I’ve been here, which has surprised me. I’ll be honest, Mr. MacGregor. When I was offered this part, I was leery of accepting it. I have done almost no stage work in the past, although the theater has always fascinated me from afar, you might say. Roy Breckenridge approached my agent, who encouraged me to read for the part. I was damned nervous when I did the reading, I’ll tell you that. But Roy liked what he heard, and here I am,” he said, turning both palms up.
“How have the cast members accepted you? I’ve been told more than once that some Broadway people tend to resent what they call ‘Hollywood interlopers.’”
Lester laughed and hooked one leg over the arm of the sofa, showing a finely tooled tan cowboy boot. “Oh, believe me, I have heard that as well, and I wasn’t sure what to expect when I got here. But I hope I am not going to ruin a good story for your magazine. The fact is, everyone’s been terrific, very supportive.”
“Even Ashley Williston?”
The pause before his reply was only a second or so, but it was telling. Being a good actor, however, Lester recovered quickly. “Oh, Ashley, she has been absolutely wonderful to work with. What a professional that woman is,” he said a little too quickly, waving my question away.
“I’m glad to hear that. What would you say has surprised you most about working on Broadway?”
As if searching for a reply, Lester rolled those brown eyes that had likely been setting female moviegoers’ hearts aflutter for years.
“I think it is the discipline that theater people have, Mr. MacGregor, the steel nerves, really. After all, you don’t get a second chance to do it right. You’ve got to be ready every night—and for every matinee, for that matter—and you simply can’t mess up. This will hardly be a surprise to you, but I know actors out where I came from”—he made a vague gesture toward the west with his hand—“who show up in the morning totally unprepared to shoot a scene.
“And what is the result? Take after take, whole days wasted. It’s no wonder half the directors in Hollywood are said to be in therapy.”
“Lots of big egos, eh?”
He snorted. “More than you’d ever believe, and I think it’s getting worse. It is all about discipline, and these people I’m working with have it.”
“Would you say that everyone in this cast gets along well with one another?”
That brought a nod. “There is a real camaraderie, no question about it. After all, if one of us flubs a line, it ends up affecting everybody.”
“Have there been many of those flubs so far?”
“No . . . not really. Oh, maybe the occasional slipup, but what few there have been were so minor that I doubt if anyone in the audience even noticed.”
“How do the cast members feel about Roy Breckenridge?”
“They respect the man totally. He is a giant in the theater world, as, of course, you know better than I do, I’m sure.”
“He has a great reputation, no question about it. Do you find him hard to get along with?”
“Not at all,” Lester said. “Though he can be critical when he feels something isn’t quite right in a performance, we often have a short meeting after a show and talk about how everything went. We are all given a chance to talk about how the performance went and what problems we saw.”
“Does what gets said in these sessions ever cause friction among the cast?”
“I wouldn’t say so. A little while ago, you mentioned big egos in Hollywood. Well, there are egos in the legitimate theater as well, but they don’t seem to me to be as easily bruised. There has been plenty of good-natured kidding about the occasional foul-ups, but all of us, me included, take the ribbing in good spirit.”
“What’s the general attitude
toward the stage manager?”
“Hollis Sperry? Like Mr. Breckenridge, he is definitely a stickler, a perfectionist, and he always has plenty to say when we have postperformance meetings. He can be a little more hard-hitting and acerbic in his criticisms than the producer, but his notes to the cast, and also Mr. Breckenridge’s notes about what they see as missteps, are always on the mark as far as I am concerned.”
“Do you feel Cresthaven will have a long run?”
Lester nodded. “Overall, the reviews have been good, some of them very good. And from what I’ve heard and been able to see, the house has been full or close to it for most of the performances. Personally, I don’t have any film commitments at the moment, so I’m looking forward to a long stay in New York, a place that I find is growing on me. I’m a West Coast guy, grew up in Northern California, and I had never spent much time here before.”
“Apparently, the city likes you as well, at least your performance,” I told him, trying to sound like the theater booster I was supposed to be. “Do you think you will do more theater in the future?”
“I certainly would like to, Mr. MacGregor. It is energizing, and this experience has been good for me; it has helped me grow. Besides, I’m totally unfettered right now. As you may know, I’ve just gotten through a divorce—an amicable one, by the way. My ex-wife is an actress, and our schedules were such that we passed like ships in the night, sometimes going weeks without seeing each other. Fortunately, we never had any children.”
“Well, your move into theater certainly has given you a flexibility that can only add to your marketability,” I told him, again trying to sound like someone who knew what he was talking about.
“I suppose so,” he said, nodding. “I’m going to be forty-nine on my next birthday—although, as you have seen, I play somebody at least ten years older in Cresthaven—and I know damned well that the kinds of action and adventure roles I’ve been lucky enough to get in Hollywood the last couple of decades will soon, very soon, start getting offered to younger actors instead; that’s just the way it works, as it should. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. So, faced with reality, the idea of doing more legitimate theater is very appealing to me.”
Murder, Stage Left Page 7
