Juliet Marsh’s star was on the rise.
One morning, over coffee, Carlisle asked Juliet, “Do you drink?”
“Sure. Wine, a cocktail now and then.”
“But, you’ve never been stopped on a DUI?
“Never.”
“Well, I want you to be.”
“What?”
“Not dead drunk, but a couple of shots of vodka, then go through a stop sign or two. I know an intersection where the fuzz always hang out.”
“Ashton, why? What’s that all about?”
“Notoriety. You’ve got to get into the news. Good or bad, makes no difference.”
Juliet acquiesced, and, as her agent expected, the media fished out of her portfolio several flattering, and unflattering, pictures, and her face appeared on the evening news and on the third page of the Los Angeles Times.
It was a sudden and sobering education. Fame would be acquired at a price.
Harry was bemused by much of Juliet’s narrative about her current obligations. What did not sit well with him was her seeming new attachment to this Carlisle fellow. He met the man, at Juliet’s invitation, and was put off by his attempt to persuade him to leave Nan Bartell and hook up with him.
“I can do a lot more for you,” Carlisle said.
“I feel a sense of loyalty to Nan,” Harry replied. “I’m just getting started, but I know her as an acting colleague as well as an agent. She’s a good person.”
“Good person, yes; good agent, well….”
The issue was dropped, but, at some level Harry began to wonder about the depth of Juliet’s relation to this man. He knew, of course, that she had slept with Galen before he knew her; he did not know, but had fears, about her sleeping with influential people along her way. He was naïve, but not a complete fool concerning the road to the top.
Ashton Carlisle was, by any standard, an attractive man, tall, well over six feet, hair a sandy brown, cut to veer over his left eye, making him look a bit like a younger Jack Nicholson. His eyes were a steady—and to Harry, an arrogant—green, which he would focus intensely on whomever he addressed, especially on shorter people he could look down upon. He walked with the gait of an athlete, with a slightly dipped left shoulder, usually a giveaway that one is left-handed, maybe a pitcher—as it turned out, he had been a high-achieving basketball player in high school.
Too many times lately, Juliet referred to “Ashton” this and “Ashton” that, giving Harry cause for reflection. The green-eyed monster of jealousy rivaled Carlisle’s green-eyed look of condescension.
**********
Katy became part of the Odyssey Theater ensemble, starting with the Heidi Chronicles and moving on to revivals of Christopher Hampton’s Dangerous Liaisons, Harold Pinter’s Birthday Party, and Neil Simon’s Prisoner of Second Avenue.
At one point, feeling static, she said to Harry, “I like what I do, but it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. I’m building a lovely resume, gaining valuable experience, and yet not moving forward, no grand leap, no big break.” She was thoughtful, then said, “Maybe I’m not hungry enough. Becoming a big star has never been my dream. Getting good at what I do has.”
“You are exquisite at what you do. Nothing’s wrong with local theater work. You never know who could be in the audience on a given night, and off you go. Star-status is a by-product of good works.”
“Look at Juliet. Talk about ‘off you go.’ She’s on a super-speed jet, at nose-bleed altitude.”
“Different energy, different focus. She markets her sensuality. I’m not sure I like it, but it’s a fact of life.”
Again Katy became pensive. Softly, she said, “When Gus died, a light went out. I can’t seem to get up a head of steam. Something got lost. I imploded. My ambition withered.”
She did not add, nor did Harry take in, that she no longer had a daily companion. Her life was narrower, shrunken, the intimacy lessened.
“I can appreciate that. Galen’s death devastated me. But, some intrinsic spark refused to go out. I realized it was a choice. I told myself, ‘Everyone dies, but all we have is our own lives, and I have to get on with mine.’”
She smiled wanly. “Wish I knew how to do that.”
Something ends, something new begins, as natural as recurring hunger or thirst.
Formal schooling was over. Harry, Juliet and Katy left college with the blessings of Garth Benjamin and Florida Berry, the nurturing comfort of the home nest dissolved. Off they went to face the challenges of flying on their own, in the brassy, unforgiving, dog-eat-dog world of professional acting.
The ascent would be, at moments, treacherous as war, at others, smooth as a super highway, and at rare instances, and most rewarding, elegant as a reception for royalty. Each would stumble and fall and rise again on the path to theatrical success; each would travel along his or her own unique by-way—a route taken by no other—in the clawing and cloying, sometimes fruitless, often humbling, always demanding struggle, to grasp and hang onto that elusive and fabled gold ring of fame.
BOOK THREE
FLYING HIGH
ONE
B eethoven’s Fifth begins with a V for victory: dot-dot-dot-dash.
There can only be victory on stage, for if one falters, there is no one to rescue an embattled thespian, no way to throw a rope, plug a leak, stop the bleeding; actors read for parts, win their roles, step out onto a stage or in front of a camera, alone, succeed or fail on their own; it is a heartless profession, and the old adage is as certain as rain in a storm: you are only as good as your last performance.
Competition in the theatrical arena can be as straightforward as actors deciding on their breakfast eggs: sunny-side up, over-easy, boiled, poached, or scrambled. Or it can be as fluid as a Beethoven symphonic transition from one movement to the next. And sometimes, it can be distressing and impossible to resolve, coldly terrifying, as each ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will steer a career in a committed direction—like Frost’s two roads diverging in a forest.
Harry’s work as Clarence Darrow was an eye-catcher, his sensitivity apparent, the Odyssey audience exuberant in their appreciation of his power in the role, his youthfulness not a consideration. In preparation, he had read everything he could find about Darrow, studied his life and his mannerisms.
“Age is important,” De Genera told him, “in wines and cheese. For an actor, the key is adaptability. You have that skill. Your interpretation of Clarence Darrow is ageless. I, for one, am proud to have you as part of our family.”
As if his pronouncement jinxed his assumption of Harry’s permanence at the Odyssey, when Inherit The Wind ended, De Genera’s own colleague and friend, Nan Bartell, undercut him with a ‘can’t refuse’ opportunity for her client, Harry Schiff.
A much larger, and prestigious, theater in San Francisco was producing Inherit The Wind, and with no pun intended, contacted Nan that they had gotten wind of an over-the-top performance by her client, this young Schiff fellow, and wanted to audition him. Harry flew up on a Friday, stayed over one night, read for the part, and was signed for a nine week run at eleven hundred dollars a week. He was mandated to join Actors Equity, which cost him his first two weeks salary, and from that moment on was a professional with an asterisk after his name.
“Ah, so you are this vunderkind, Harry Schiff.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“No need to yes ma’am me. I am not your grandmother.”
“I know, but…”
“I am sorry I missed your audition. My scouting for our next production had taken me to Phoenix. I trust my underlings to make the right decisions.” She paused, and asked, “Can you sing? We may do a musical next.”
“A little,” Harry said. “Took some lessons a few years back.”
“As you know, I am Sydnee Villapane, and the San Francisco Repertory Theater is my creation. Started sixteen years ago.” She laughed, a full, unrestrained laugh, and said, “I am your boss.”
As Harry would come to find out, this fo
rty-eight year old ‘boss’ would be a formidable obstacle to the smooth unfolding of his Darrow role, a person with her own unmovable agenda, at odds with his.
She was a tall woman, perhaps an inch less than Harry, her trim form and erect carriage a tribute to five mornings a week at eight AM—regardless of how late the previous night’s show and follow-up—in the gym, her relentless pursuit of a toned body parallel with her audacious thrust for excellence in her theater.
Sydnee Villapane was a stern taskmaster, to her colleagues and herself.
Over time, Harry would admire the discipline, and wonder how one gets to such a point in life; in the beginning, he felt thwarted, criticized and regularly pummeled.
It was routine for Sydnee, no remorse, no hesitation; she confronted the way she exercised, vigorously, ferociously, a clear goal in mind: perfection. Not a dense person, she was quite aware that perfection was a myth, unreachable, beyond attainment, yet her relentless push was towards it, her mission, always, and sometimes at the cost of cast morale, to get as close as humanly possible.
In the end, it all worked. Harry loved San Francisco, from the pungent fishy smell that excited his senses when he wandered at the Wharf, to the charm of—as the lyrics in Tony Bennett’s song goes—little cable cars that went half way to the stars, to the bracing dampness of the ever-present fog, to the Giants, with their superstar, Barry Bonds, to the overall sophistication of the theater-going audience. No question about it, the northern California ambience was different, the politics of the area clearly more radical, the fans keenly insightful about on-stage entertainment.
It did not frighten Harry; he considered it a heady challenge: if he could win over this astute congregation, his accomplishment would be complete.
Here it was, in this stimulating new environment, that he first had the thought that perhaps fame did not matter. What mattered was satisfaction. Did he cherish what he was doing? Was he content that he did the best he could? Was he becoming truly skilled at his work? His own advice to Katy had escaped him: that good work would bring about the inevitable fame. His focus slowly and steadily began to shift from ambition, his parents’ unremitting thrust, to excellence, his own.
A fly in the ointment. It was not a clear sabotage, but the event tainted his three-month experience in the Bay Area, and persuaded him to resist performing there again, musical or not. The outcome was unintended, at least on the part of Sydnee Villapane, but if she had been a bit less hormone driven and a lot more shrewd—which was her usual way—she might have realized what her actions would produce.
The first three weeks of his term up north, he took the red-eye back to Los Angeles on Sunday night—they were dark on Mondays—to be with Juliet. After that, Juliet’s own work took her away, and she informed Harry that she and he would be “lovers in our minds and hearts” for several weeks.
Sydnee, aware of just about everything her cast did, noticed the change in his weekend routine.
“Harry,” she said one night, in that unmistakable voice from the mountain-top, with a designated name—almost always the name of someone in the cast—that when spoken, commanded absolute vigilance. The cast knew that when the madam singled someone out, he had to snap to attention, eyes forward, feet together, arms at the side, as if a drill-sergeant had roared it out in fury. “I would like it if you would come into my office after tonight’s performance. I’ll be waiting for you.”
A few of the actors exchanged glances, one, Jeremiah Friend, the man who was playing the William Jennings Bryant character, went so far as to say to Harry, “Well, well, well, an invitation from the wicked witch of the west. Watch your ass, brother.”
“What does that mean?”
“Look, Harry, you can see that we all respect the Queen Bee’s knowledge of theater. She’s a world-class producer and director. As a person, she leaves a lot to be desired. And as a friend, forget it. I don’t think she has any.”
“Wonder what she wants from me?”
Friend smiled and said, “Silly boy.”
“So, Harry Schiff, you have steered your compass north and conquered a new venue, become an icon to a whole new cadre of fans.”
They were in her luxurious but small office, her disdain for ostentation obvious, affection for elegance her clear focus. Chairs were comfortable without frills, wall decorations artistic and eye-catching, the color-scheme in the room muted and tasteful, soft blues and contrasting reds.
“I don’t exactly look at it that way.”
“You don’t have to. It’s my observation, the way I like to frame it. In any case, you have done a superlative job. I saw the Chronicle review in which they compare you to a youthful Paul Newman.”
“Silly stuff.”
“Perhaps. In one way you do remind me of Paul—a man I know, by the way. Your rugged good looks. Not gorgeous like a Rock Hudson or the old timer, Gable.”
Harry flashed on Galen, once compared to Gable, and for an instant, his heart sank. The pain of loss does not disappear; it simply submerges, ready to float to the surface at unsuspecting moments.
“That’s not how I think of myself. I try to get better at my job.”
“Modesty will get you nowhere. In this business, one must be a braggart, blustery, audacious, even insulting. It is the outrageous who get noticed.”
“I respect that insight. It’s a bit hard for me to do.”
“I catch no lack of confidence in your acting, but you are self-effacing when it comes to promotion.”
“My agent tells me that too.”
“Changing topics here—my prerogative as head of this enterprise. What’s with your actress girlfriend back home? Has she given up on you?”
Startled that Sydnee knew anything about Juliet, Harry blurted out, “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t been disappearing on Sunday nights. Separation can breed discontent.”
“She’s working,” he said lamely. “We both have our commitments.”
“So, are you lonely?”
“I miss her, sure.”
“I wonder if she misses you?”
“I’m certain she does.”
“But you don’t know.”
“She…she’s not as expressive about her feelings. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t have them.”
“I imagine you wonder about her loyalty.”
“I don’t.”
“Ah, but you do.”
“What? I do what?”
“Wonder about her loyalty. I can tell.”
He began to twist in his chair, discomfort flooding his body. This authoritative woman was nailing him, seeing through him. How did she do that? What was she getting at?
Before he could complain, she said, “Poor boy. I find you to be an adorable man, yet pining, and my heart goes out to you. Why should you be lonely just because someone is less than attentive to your needs?”
“I don’t feel neglected.”
“You act neglected.”
“How? How do I do that?”
“You’re a loner. I see the cast going off to dinner or a frolic in the park, or to the zoo, or across the bridge to Marin. I see you by yourself.”
“I like being alone.”
“Sometimes, of course. But then, you also need companionship, a soft shoulder. We all need comforting.”
She paused, and Harry said nothing. There seemed to be an extra energy in the room, an elf-like presence, something eerie that made Harry flash on Og, the Leprechaun in Finian’s Rainbow.
Softly, she said, “I’m good at comforting.”
Ah, so that was it. That was what ‘watch your ass’ meant. The spider woman was on the make. He was to be her newest toy.
“Look, I appreciate your concern, but we only have a week to go, and I’m doing fine.”
“But not fine enough. Pleasure is relative. What if I told you that my major talent—aside from theater—is how to pleasure a man?”
He looked at her with two related sensations:
was she nuts? was she an ego-maniac? And then, a touch of curiosity kicked in: could there be something about lovemaking, sex, to put it more aptly, about which he was totally naïve? One thing he prided himself on was his strong value as a committed, one-woman man. Oh sure, there were doubts coming from the other side, but for him, Juliet was his person. Sydnee was laying it on the line. She wanted to bed him, to show him her self-proclaimed uniqueness as a lover. So what, that she was an attractive woman! Curiosity was not compelling enough to shake his values.
He knew it would be a bold rejection, a flaunting of her power, and he didn’t know how it would play out for him, but it would be better, he thought, to be decisive, and best to erase any misunderstanding.
With ice in his voice—not nasty, but unrelenting—he said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Her first response was to pretend she misheard. Ignoring his words, she said, “Though it is beside the point, I could make you rich and famous.”
“Not my goal.”
“Are you pissing on me, Harry Schiff?”
“No ma’am,” he said, reverting to respect and subordination. “I’m only saying that I don’t want to get involved with you that way.”
“Out!” she said. “Get the hell out of my office.”
“Yes ma’am,” he answered.
TWO
I t would be hard to measure—always is when looking for an antecedent—what impact his snub of Sydnee Villapane had on his ongoing career. Harry knew she was influential among the stage crowd, but did not know how vengeful she could be, or how profoundly she valued her seductions. What he experienced was a sudden end to the breaks he seemed to be getting.
Despite wonderful reviews of his work, he returned to Los Angeles without a “next gig,” the dry well feeling unnatural, as if the planet had spun off-course, his “express-to-success” derailed.
To compound his frustration, Juliet, now returned from location, seemed indifferent, reluctant even, to resume their once-a-week sexual rendezvous. For a span of three months, his energy flagged, interest in theater, his life for fifteen years, began to wane.
Famous Page 13
