by John Gardner
Douglas dropped back into his chair, willing the look of anger from his face. He swallowed hard, taking a deep, controlling breath before speaking.
‘Inevitably any radical change here is going to reflect to some extent on personalities. But what you must see is that, while myself and the many actors who will be concerned, may benefit, so will the festival. On the other hand, my bad judgment, or an actor’s failure, can damage the festival as a whole.’
Daley nodded. ‘And how would you build this first season? The productions?’
‘Othello, The Merchant of Venice, Romeo and Juliet and Richard.’ He tried to sound matter-of-fact.
‘Favourites all. Can’t monkey with them.’ Lewis Roland smiled.
It was time for the first bombshell. ‘At the core of the season,’ Douglas began, ‘I want Romeo and Juliet. The Capulets will be played by coloured actors and the Montagues by white.’
‘The Capulets coloured? Coloured Capulets?’ It was the first time that the precise Tupnall had spoken.
Douglas nodded. ‘Negro Capulets.’
‘In fair Verona?’ Tupnall was queer, Douglas would put money on it. The mocking rise in his voice. A man who gratified himself and nibbled in the twilight areas of art, picking up a few facts, a little knowledge and the right phrases, listening to semi-academic chat from gay actors.
‘They were there. There were black people in Verona.’ Douglas spread his hands as though to pacify the five men whose facial expressions now ranged from incredulity to amusement. ‘Just think of the play for a moment. I realize there’s nothing in the text to assist a racial slant to the play; but there’s nothing to hinder it either.’
‘I would have thought,’ Daley leaned back with steepled fingers, an elder statesman humouring a young back bencher. ‘I would have thought that there’s enough about racial prejudice in Othello, and of minority groups in The Merchant, without building it into Romeo and Juliet.’
‘Othello does not entirely stand or fall on the colour question,’ Douglas countered quickly.
‘Even now, now, very now, an old black ram is tupping your white ewe.’ It was the kind of quote that would have readily stuck in Tupnall’s mind.
Douglas waved it away with a flick of his right hand. ‘In the final analysis, as people are fond of saying, it doesn’t matter a fart whether Othello is black, puce, or vermilion — excuse the Elizabethan language. The play makes many points, colour is one tiny facet. As for The Merchant, go and examine that more thoroughly and you’ll find it’s not just about anti-Semitism. These are all subjects that call for new production slants. But just think. A black Juliet. Think of the tragedy of the play and put it into the spectrum of the colour issue. All right, it may not be a revolutionary idea, but, my God, it’ll be a talking point.’
Surprisingly, he saw that Daley was nodding agreement. ‘You’ll have a problem with casting.’ It was a statement from the chairman, as though Douglas had already won his case.
‘Yes, a small problem. I know the actress who could do Juliet. I would want a black actor or personality of some standing to play Othello...’
‘Mr. Poitier, I presume.’ The scoffing Mr. Tupnall again. ‘I’ve checked,’ said Douglas coolly. ‘He’s not available. I would like to get Joe Thomas.’ The second bombshell.
‘But he’s a nightclub entertainer.’ From Crown.
‘One of the best. He’s acted as well. Has a lot of movies and one Oscar to his credit.’
‘And is a very difficult and costly gentleman.’ Daley’s smile was less wintery but in some ways more dangerous. ‘Would you be able to get him? And if you did...could you...?’ He hesitated, picking his words with care. ‘Would you be able to control him?’
Sir Basil Daley was not altogether the square that Douglas had thought. Joe Thomas was the epitome of the American Negro club entertainer who had made it right to the top with limitless talent and ruthless morals. Now a multi-millionaire, Thomas could command huge fees for short appearances, small fortunes for television spectaculars. His ego was unbelievable, his energy unflagging, while the world’s press made it plain that his flashpoint was exceptionally low.
Vivid stories gushed in the wake of Joe Thomas. In the past six years he had got through as many wives as a normal man gets through motor cars; his sexual excesses were whispered about through every capital he visited; there were the usual, eagerly reported, brawls; the occasional, and unpredictable, outbursts in defence of militant Black Power; the fact of his heavy drinking; the rumours of his long periods of elevation on pot — not unnaturally exaggerated to include the popular fantasy that he was main lining it on the hard stuff: a tale that could be discredited by simply watching him work, or checking on his exhausting schedule.
Among the private information that Douglas had gleaned about Joe Thomas was the fact that he had no firm commitments for the following year. Also his doctors had advised a complete change of environment. For a period he had to be unobtrusively removed from the bright lights and the remorseless nightclub scene.
Douglas smiled back at the chairman. He had no idea whether he could handle Joe Thomas or not, but, at this moment, confidence was essential.
‘I said that I would like Joe Thomas. Not just because he’s a very big name, but I think it’s the kind of off-beat casting that just might come off. In the middle of all that talent there’s a rich vein that’s still waiting to be tapped.
‘I’ve only met him once, but, yes, if I could get him I think I could control him. You see, for him it would be a huge gamble. He’d need help and I think he’d know that. I think I could gain his trust. Tap the vein.’
‘Cost?’
‘Astronomical’ Crown answered.
‘Not necessarily’ Douglas had them going now and he was not giving up. ‘There is a way to Joe Thomas. Straight through his ego and into his guts. That’s the way I would go. Present a big enough challenge and you might bypass the salary problem.’
Even Tupnall showed interest, though he seemed to be switching the conversation away from Othello. ‘You said you already had an actress in mind for Juliet?’
‘Yes. Unknown. But she’ll do it easily. A girl called Carol Evans. She’s very good.’
The snake in the brain; the taste of tobacco and whisky and brandy; the smell of melon on her body.
‘And your Romeo?’ Tupnall was asking.
‘I’m not certain yet. Unknown. I’ve got to find him.’
‘What about Desdemona?’ Bland.
The catch question? Douglas allowed the pause to build until
Tupnall, over-anxious, tried to slide the knife home. ‘No chance of your wife playing it?’
‘Would you want that?’ Douglas tried to sound surprised.
They all knew that she was the obvious choice in the circumstances.
‘Was it in your mind?’
‘Not until you put it there’
‘I think we would like it,’ interrupted Daley.
‘Then I imagine it would be possible.’
‘Good. Shylock?’
‘Straight casting. A Jewish actor. A comedian. Maurice Kapstein.’
‘Plays the lead in that television thing?’
Douglas gave an abrupt nod. ‘The Game. Yes.’
‘I wouldn’t have called it “straight casting”.’
Daley once more proving that he was no fool.
‘And Richard?’
‘Not easy. Larry still lingers constantly in the public mind because of the movie getting so many playings on television. Ian Holm topped the lot at Stratford in ‘64. Not easy at all. I want a genuine power politics motivation: a live dictator. And there’s something else. I want an actor capable of playing Richard as a bisexual. I had thought of Conrad Catellier.’
He saw Tupnall’s eyebrows rise a fraction.
Dempsey smiled. ‘You’ll have The Fellowship of the Boar around your neck.’
‘Everyone has The Fellowship around their necks when you do Richard III. They’re nic
e people. They just don’t happen to believe the political propaganda Shakespeare was spreading around about Richard Crookback.’ He suddenly realized that Dempsey’s smile was not friendly.
‘Catellier will be high, he’ll cost a great deal,’ said Dempsey. ‘I think the whole thing is too high. The budget on the company alone is going to be a strain.’ He had been playing with a pencil throughout the meeting. Douglas could now see, across the table, that he had been scribbling lines of figures.
Daley held up a restraining hand. ‘Might I suggest that we discuss this in private?’ He turned back to Douglas. ‘We do realize, as businessmen that you have to spend a bit to make a bit.’ His smile had become tinged with warmth. ‘If we accept your plans in principle, and then, perhaps, supply you with what we think to be a realistic budget, you could let us know if you think it possible to come anywhere near fulfilling your intentions.’
It was more than Douglas had hoped for.
‘God,’ breathed Revill in the car outside. ‘You’re a bloody maniac. Joe Thomas as Othello. Do you know about Thomas?’
‘I know.’ Douglas grinned.
‘And Kapstein. The problems you’re going to have with Kapstein.’ He held up a hand. ‘A great actor. Okay. But you’ve got to keep a company happy. Kapstein, the lovable old Jewish gent. He’ll insist on at least six seventeen-year-olds who’ll play. And how are you going to keep him out of your wife’s dressing room? She’s the first he’ll make for. The full exposure bit. Are you really going to throw in with that lot?’
‘I’m going to throw myself in.’
‘And that raging old queen Catellier,’ muttered Revill.
‘Listen Revill.’ Douglas put his hand on the driving wheel. ‘I can compound the most spectacular and mind-blowing Shakespearean season this country’s ever seen. They’ll remember it for decades.’
Revill Sutcliffe put his Rover into gear and drew away from the house. ‘Maurice Kapstein already. And impossible Joe Thomas. Mad. You’re bloody crazy, and another thing, who’s Carol Evans?’
‘A great Juliet.’ Douglas was looking at the burning white of the theatre’s façade rising among the trees across the velvet lawn.
CHAPTER THREE
He was quite a tall man, around six two; but well-proportioned, slim-hipped, standing in the centre of the spotlight, one arm raised high, the other clutching the microphone, the head bent and sweat dropping to the floor.
Energy exuded from him: a kind of dazzling static which flowed out in warmth, caught the audience by the throat, and made each of them a part of this electric figure: white pants and shirt contrasting obviously with the striking black face, cropped hair and strangely sensitive hands.
The final curtain
Is certain.
But until it has come,
And I’ve ended my run,
T hen I give all I have,
All I want,
All I dream,
All I glean,
All to you.
The banality of the lyric did not jar on Douglas Silver. For ninety minutes he had been engrossed in Joe Thomas’ performance. The songs; the chat from the stool in the middle of the floor; the sentiment; the impersonations and dancing. This was a unique entertainer. A fluid ball of black fire the quick quip ad men called him.
The more Douglas watched, the more his mind became encased in the idea of harnessing this talent and energy to one production: one performance.
It seemed impossible that he could be sitting here in the lounge of the Thunderbird Hotel on The Strip at Las Vegas, with the crap games, roulette, and the constant churn of fruit machines going on only a few yards away.
Basil Daley’s letter had arrived ten days ago, a lifetime, only three days after the interview with the trustees. On reflection Daley said, the trustees would back Douglas Silver, though it had to be made clear that not all the members were happy about what they called ‘the sensationalism which seemed to lie behind Mr Silver’s attitude to some of the proposed productions’.
As far as Douglas was concerned it still constituted a minor miracle. Daley himself was a man to have in your pocket, and Daley seemed to react sharply and favourably to the core of Douglas’s plans.
With the letter came the budget. Again far more than Douglas had dreamed of. Daley obviously had a healthy arm lock on the rest of the Trust and had talked them into opening up the vaults for one last big throw. They were allotting a staggering £500,000 for the first season with a review of the situation in May of the following year. In other words, unless Douglas retrieved about three-quarters of the initial investment of festival funds he would find himself in difficulties for his second season.
Within thirty minutes of receiving the letter, Douglas tele. phoned his acceptance.
An hour later he set up the first meeting with the stage director and the productions’ manager. Both had been at Shireston for two years; both had been on the point of resignation; both were old acquaintances of Douglas. Ronnie Gregor, the stage director, had worked with him in Birmingham; while he had known Art Drays, the productions’ manager, when Drays was an A.S.M. at Stratford.
Within half-an-hour, Douglas had persuaded them to forget about resigning.
‘I don’t wish to be rude, but you’ll never do it,’ said Ronnie. ‘I’m not going to. We are.’ Douglas made it plain from the outset that it would be a team venture.
‘It’ll be one hell of a job fitting up a company around names like Conrad, Maurice and your wife.’ Art was already scratching names and queries on his clip board.
‘Not to mention the incredible world of Joe Thomas,’ grinned Ronnie.
‘We haven’t got any of them yet,’ countered Douglas.
‘And Thomas we’re not likely to get, thank God.’
‘Be patient and let us see.’ Douglas began to set them their first tasks. He would deal with Conrad Catellier, Maurice Kapstein, Carol Evans and Joe Thomas himself. They had two weeks to draw up preliminary casting sheets, check on actors’ availability, set up auditions, where necessary, and provide names for second strings for the most important middle billing players.
‘Whoever we get in the leads,’ Douglas told them, ‘and what ever talent comes to light from the small part people and the walk-ons, remember that our middle men, our Brabantios, Cassios, Roderigos, Tybalts, Friar Lawrences, Lorenzos, Gratianos and Jessicas have got to be more than just good. They’ve got to be very strong and very professional. If we do manage this spectacular lead billing I need men and women around the leads who are absolutely grade one. I’m going all out for an integrated company.’
He realized immediately that Art was going to pick him up on his use of the word ‘integrated’.
‘How integrated?’ asked the productions’ manager. ‘What percentage of coloured actors do we use? All those Capulets are going to be difficult to place in the other plays.’
‘No’ Douglas was firm. ‘They’re not going to be difficult to place. We draw attention to them in Othello and Romeo, but I’m having no sharp divisions in the other two plays. As far as The Merchant and Richard III are concerned it’s to hell whether people are white or black. In those two plays we really drive it home and make the audiences forget about the colour of men’s skins.’
‘What percentage?’ Art again asked with diffidence shadowing his voice.
‘Forty-five per cent coloured. I’d like to make it fifty-fifty, but even I’ve got to be realistic.’
Ronnie was given the additional job of checking around the repertory companies; sitting night after night in the provincial theatres as Shireston’s talent scout: searching for the spark of talent which Douglas might be able to fan and produce a conflagration: a memorable Romeo.
That night, Douglas called his wife. The location work in Mexico was over and she was now back in Los Angeles doing the daily drive to and from the studios, still with four weeks to go before they finished the picture.
On the telephone he held himself back, not daring to tell her ev
erything at once. In the following weeks they would have to find a space, a vacuum into which he could pour his plans and ideas.
She was missing him and edgy about work, but full of joy when he told her of the appointment and naturally inquisitive when he asked her to make no plans for next year.
‘We’re going to work together aren’t we?’ she asked excitedly.
‘I hope so, but I’ve got to talk to you about it first. I may even be seeing you before you think. Oh, and not a word to anyone yet. The whole thing, my appointment, everything’s under wraps until I give the okay.’
He had to get close to Thomas, and fast. Practically the rest of the night was spent in tracking down the coloured entertainer’s manager. He finally found him in Las Vegas where Joe was playing the Thunderbird with his retinue around him.
Sure, why not? He could come out and talk to Joe any time he wanted. Sure Joe remembered him. Joe never forgot anybody. Yes, he would give the matter his personal attention.
‘Call as soon as you arrive, as soon as you get into town, Douglas baby. There’s always a welcome here, Okay?’
Douglas could almost hear the man saying, ‘Some British kook, a theatre producer with a sick idea trying to sell Joe short. Don’t worry Joe, we’ll handle it if he turns up.’
He lunched with Catellier’s agent next day and met Maurice Kapstein’s agent in the afternoon. Both actors were free, except for Maurice’s television commitments next year. There was certainly a chance, but a great deal of negotiating would be needed.
Already he had called Carol’s agent and there was absolutely no problem there. In the evening he met Carol for dinner.
She came into the restaurant late, breathless and full of doubts. ‘You’re having me on, Douglas, I just don’t get that lucky, what’s the catch?’
