Bullets for Macbeth

by Marvin Kaye

  “I’m not sure I should dignify your position by asking, but what do you find wrong with this?”

  Dana tossed her head impatiently. “Do you really think the average newspaper reader has the slightest interest in Elizabethan staging practice?”

  “I suggest,” said Hilary, “that you might have inquired which media people this press release is aimed toward before criticizing, Ms. Wynn. It so happens—”

  “And I suggest,” Dana interrupted, “that in future you show me all press releases before they are mailed.”

  “What for?” Hilary demanded, glancing in Godwin’s direction.

  “For approval.”

  “Really? And who appointed you director?”

  Dana had her mouth open to reply, but she must have seen something in Hilary’s expression, because she suddenly stopped herself, thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her corduroy jeans, and, after a few seconds, spoke in a too-casual manner.

  “I’m only following Mr. Grilis’ instructions. He suggested I review all press materials.”

  “Oh?” Hilary was polite. “I don’t seem to recall any such arrangement in my contract. It expressly stipulates that all dealings will be conducted solely through Mr. Godwin.” She wheeled and placed the release into his hands. “Michael, I’m afraid you’re going to have to arbitrate.”

  He regarded the release for a time as if it were an alien object, then he finally scanned it. Godwin looked up at Dana, and spoke softly. “There’s nothing wrong with this.”

  She said nothing. I saw her swallow once, then twice. A moment passed. He spoke again.

  “Give me the prompt script, Dana.”

  She stared at Hilary in a way which said she’d like to prompt her off the end of a gangplank; then she went and fetched the script.

  Godwin rose, announced to the cast that he wanted to run the banquet scene again, called places, and took over once more. Across the room, several actors smiled.

  The change was dynamic. As he worked out the patterns of movement, Dana walking through Banquo’s part, Godwin was as animated as a dancer. He was immersed in his craft, and if he still felt the sorrow, he subjugated it in sheer energy, moving, moving, reasoning and arguing and cajoling, discussing minutiae of interpretation like a Chasidic rabbi engaged in pilpul. He strode the acting area in large steps, sweeping his arms in circles as he talked and talked, indicating the logic of motion governing the logistics of entry as the shifting mosaic of the great banquet progressed toward that awful moment when Macbeth, unnerved by the news that Fleance has escaped, turns to sit down and sees his chair occupied by the blood-stained specter of Banquo. ...

  Thou canst not say I did it! Never shake

  Thy gory locks at me!

  Hilary and I were transfixed by the ghastly power of the moment. Mills was superb, and the reactions of the rest of the company enhanced the harrowing drama of the scene. We could not tear our eyes away from it. Almost the entire cast was onstage, and Godwin moved on the periphery of the acting area, pacing, pacing like a predatory cat, snapping his fingers to cue actors to pick up the tempo, living within first one character, then another, a shape-stealer darting from breast to breast, pulling the marionette strings, an itinerant dybbuk. ...

  Thus engaged, neither Godwin, Hilary, I, nor the rest of the cast saw her come in. The scene ended, and Hecate (the Witch Queen) and the weird sisters made their entrance.

  Why how now Hecate, you looke angerly?

  There was a murmur from several of the performers. There, taking her place with Hecate and the other two weird sisters was Melanie Godwin. Ellen May Macneice, the Hecate, stared at Melanie as though she wanted to embrace her, but the discipline of maintaining character is difficult for an actor to break, and the woman continued with her lines, berating the witches for prophesying to Macbeth without first consulting her:

  Have I not reason (Beldames) as you are

  Saucy, and over-bold? How did you dare

  To Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth,

  In Riddles, and Affaires of death;

  And I, the Mistress of your Charmes,

  The close contriver of all harmes,

  Was never call’d to beare my part,

  Or shew the glory of our Art?

  After Scene 35 ended, Godwin called Hilary and Melanie aside. I eavesdropped and heard him asking Hilary to take his wife home, where she was supposed to be resting.

  “I want to come back to work,” Melanie stated quietly. Godwin expostulated with her, but she remained adamant. At last, Hilary spoke up.

  “Michael,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, “I think you’d better let Melanie have her way.”

  He tried to argue. “Damn it, Hilary, her health comes first! The show—”

  Hilary interrupted. “If there’s some anodyne to this theater business, as seems likely by your recovery, I think you’d better let Melanie take advantage of it.”

  The director looked from one to the other. Melanie said nothing. At last, he nodded in reluctant agreement.

  “Dana,” he called, “let Mel have the promptbook. She’s taking it over again.”

  Dana looked at him, shocked. “You can’t mean it!”

  He didn’t have to answer. Melanie simply stepped forward and held out her hand.

  Dana did not pick up the script. Staring at Melanie, then at Hilary and Godwin, cheeks flushed with strong emotion, she pivoted suddenly, snatched up her coat, and, flinging it round her shoulders, rushed out of the room and into the wintry night.

  The company was quiet for a few seconds, then everyone began chattering. Melanie rapped for order.

  “Now,” said the director, “let’s see if we can keep the histrionics confined to rehearsal from here on in. We’ve got a show to get ready.”

  The rehearsal continued without further incident, though from time to time I noticed Lady Macbeth regarding the director with ill-concealed loathing.

  5

  THE PROGRAMS WERE READY the afternoon of the last tech run-through, which was also the first dress rehearsal. Though the galleys looked fine, I read the whole thing through just to make sure.

  G &G

  in affiliation with Grilis Entertainment Corporation

  presents

  THE TRAGEDIE OF MACBETH

  By William Shakespeare

  Directed by Michael Godwin

  Produced by Fred Grilis

  Dramatis Personae

  DUNCAN, King of Scotland—OLIN OLVIS OAKES

  His sons

  MALCOLM—SCOTT STARR

  DONALBAIN—RICHARD BAKER

  Generals of the King’s army

  MACBETH—ARMAND MILLS

  BANQUO—MICHAEL GODWIN

  Noblemen of Scotland

  MACDUFF—HARRY WHELΔN

  LENNOX—MICHAEL WORTH

  ROSS—CHARLES STOCKTON

  MENTEITH—ROBERT ELLISON

  ANGUS—JIM STEWART

  CAITHNESS—DONALD WICKES

  FLEANCE, Son to Banquo—TOM MASSON

  SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland, general of the English forces—OLIN OLVIS OAKES

  YOUNG SIWARD, his son—RICHARD BAKER

  SEYTON, A servant attending on Macbeth—WILLIAM EVANS

  BOY, son to Macduff—MANNY WOLFE

  AN ENGLISH DOCTOR—PETE TILGHMAN

  A SCOTCH DOCTOR—DAVID BLUESTONE

  A SERGEANT—DAVID BLUESTONE

  A PORTER—DAVID BLUESTONE

  AN OLD MAN—DAN BARR

  LADY MACBETH—CAREN WYKOFFE-DAVIS

  LADY MACDUFF—LISA KEYES

  GENTLEWOMAN, attending on

  Lady Macbeth—PATRICIA LOWE

  HECATE, Queen of the Witches—ELLEN MAY MACNEICE

  THREE WITCHES—PATRICIA LOWE, SUSAN YOUNGER, MELANIE JEFFRIES

  APPARITIONS, LORDS, GENTLEMEN, OFFICERS, SOLDIERS, MURDERERS, ATTENDANTS, AND MESSENGERS:

  BLAKE PETERS, E. K. CHAMBERS (First and Second Murderers), DAN BARR, WILLIAM EVANS, EVERETT FIE
LDS, NOEL GYLBY, THOMAS HENNESSY, EDWARD JOHNS, TYLER NEFF, PARKE NEWCOMBE, MIKE O’RYAN, SAMUEL SMITH, PETE TILGHMAN, TROY WALKER, DONALD WICKES.

  SCENE: At the end of the Second Act, the scene shifts to England; otherwise, the play takes place in Scotland.

  NOTE: There will be two intermissions of ten minutes each, occurring after First Folio Acts Two and Four.

  For the Producer

  Production Assistant and Coordinator—DANA WYNN

  Assistant to the Director—MELANIE GODWIN

  Stage Manager—NATHANIEL LOSS

  Assistant Stage Manager—BOB DEREK

  Electrician—NED ABBOTT

  Sound—CAROL FASSETT

  Construction and Scenery—HANDLEY OSSAR

  Properties—LUIS MENDOZA

  Costumes—BERTHA KUPFER, SYLVIA HOWARD

  Original music composition and recording—JASON DELLER

  Press representative—HILARY, ULTD.

  Godwin insisted that the order of names be generally according to the First Folio; in other words, instead of listing the most important actors first, or crediting them in the sequence in which they enter, the old custom was followed of starting with kings and nobles at the top of the roster, with women and servants at the bottom of the heap. It somehow reminded me that Shakespeare’s actors all were men, with the youngest (whose voices were not yet cracked in the ring) portraying dames and courtesans. They were lucky, by modern theater repertory standards; where today can a young actor garner such great quantities of lines, lacking the seniority of the veteran company members?

  During the course of interviewing the performers, I’d found out the real names of several and, perusing the program, I was amused by the private knowledge that Scott Starr was really Homer Friggert and Donald Wickes had been born Veryl Roche (pronounced “virile roach”). Melanie, too, used a stage name, the same she’d always acted under, according to Hilary.

  One of the most interesting people in the show was Dave Bluestone, a character actor assigned to no fewer than three small, but excellent, roles—the bleeding sergeant whom Duncan interrogates for news of the war; the doctor who overhears Lady Macbeth trying to scrub the imaginary damned spots of gore from her hands, and the drunken porter who provides the sole humorous respite in the entire play. Bluestone also had an uncredited walk-on in Scene 43 as the English monarch.

  Bluestone was the busiest member of the company. When he wasn’t onstage, he was scuttling to the dressing rooms to slap on a new makeup and don the next costume. No one could keep track of him, and the old Chaney gag was resurrected and adapted by the company: “Don’t step on it—it might be Bluestone!”

  “The trouble with playing multiple roles,” he told me, “is the time between each. The director has to figure it out carefully, so there’s enough time to change makeup and costume. You can’t double-cast just anyone. In fact, if you look at the way Shakespeare’s scenes run, he often has a space of time, maybe a whole scene, between any two appearances of a character. Gives the actor time to change costume, or just catch his breath. Me, I need plenty of leeway to change from the sergeant to the porter. Character parts like those take a lot of gook on the face, and you can’t rush. The sergeant, fortunately, is the first makeup I apply, and he’s bearded; I’d never try hairstuff for the porter, though, because it takes me too long to construct a beard, and once the show starts, you can’t stretch the interval between scenes. The only close apposition of roles I have to worry about is the king in 43 and the doctor in 51, but for the king I’m already made up as the doctor and I just throw on a full-length robe and a crown, make my entrance upstage with my face turned away and stay there for a few seconds, supposedly healing the sick subjects who crowd about me, then scoot, drop the costume, and get ready for the Scotch doc.”

  Bluestone, like everyone else in the cast, had his own ideas about who was secretly cast as the Third Murderer. “It must be the servant,” he asserted. “You know, the one Bill Evans is playing. He actually stands off to one side, waiting, while Macbeth is talking to the first two killers. The way we’re doing it, the same servant is assumed to be Seyton, the attendant who helps Macbeth into his armor in the last act, when the revolution is on its way to the castle. Seyton—hear how it’s pronounced? Isn’t it appropriate that the Third Murderer would have a name that sounds just like the Prince of Darkness?”

  I mentioned Bluestone’s theory to Godwin. He smiled and rooted through his briefcase, extracting several sheets of stapled paper.

  “Here, I culled some quotes for you to use in press releases on the Third Murderer. Wait a minute—let me find it—here!” He poked a finger at the paper, indicating a particular paragraph. “Read this one.”

  The text was attributed to “Ray Walker’s The Time is Free, Andrew Dakers Ltd. (London, 1949)” and read as follows: “These conjectures have one defect in common: they are not integral to the tragedy as a whole. Each depends upon slight textual references and has no vital relation to the main theme. This in itself must call their validity into question, and is a useful warning of the futility of attempting to solve Shakespearean problems piecemeal.”

  Godwin returned the papers to his briefcase. “The thing to remember,” he said, “is that the average spectator isn’t even aware that there is a Third Murderer problem. Do you see what that means?”

  I shook my head.

  “It means, Gene, that Scene 33 must have some significance that ought to be readily apparent to anyone witnessing it. But if the Third Murderer is someone obscure, like a servant or other minor character, the audience will be vastly puzzled as to what motives brought that person to take part in a bloody slaughter.”

  “Whereas, your murderer—?”

  Godwin chuckled. “I feel like Hamlet about to ask Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to play upon the pipes.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you won’t pluck the heart of my mystery that easily. It’s not going to leak to the press.”

  I accused him of being enigmatic, stubborn, and gratuitously puckish.

  Godwin took a bow. “Guilty on all counts.” He grinned. “However, since I’ve already hinted it, I will tell you one thing.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “In this production of Macbeth,” he stated with pride, “even the most ignorant spectator will immediately understand the reason for my choice of Third Murderer, as soon as the actor’s identity is revealed.”

  But that, as it turned out, was the catch.

  The evening of tech/dress run-through arrived.

  All day, the company was busy with last-minute costume adjustments, trying on wigs, retrieving and unpacking freight shipments unloading on the truck dock at the Penn Plaza side of Felt Forum, refocusing and gelling of lights. There were plenty of eleventh-hour cases of jitters, and no one was idle, from Godwin, Melanie, and Dana Wynn down to the stagehands and walk-ons. Grilis himself was omnipresent, getting in everyone’s way and mumbling to himself, over and over, “We’ll never be ready!”

  There were plenty of errands for both Hilary and me. In the afternoon, we each had correspondents to take to lunch and afterward, to meet Godwin and Mills, respectively, for interviews. At four o’clock, I took care of a feature writer from a neighborhood daily who settled for press releases, pix, and an impromptu quote or two from whichever cast member she succeeded in stopping en route to or from the downstairs dressing rooms.

  Somehow, by five-thirty, Hilary and I managed to get free long enough to grab a cab back to the office. The weather was lousy, with an unceasing snowfall making the traffic crawl, and at last we got out at Seventy-third Street and trudged through the slush. We unlocked the front door at twenty after six, sodden and sullen. Hilary riffled through the mail, found nothing of interest, tossed it aside, and took off her shoes.

  “I’m going to change now,” she said, heading down the hall to her room. “We’d better start back early or we’ll never make it on time.”

  I agreed with her. It took me fift
een minutes to shave and change into fresh clothes. At five after seven, I began to worry that Hilary’d fallen asleep. I knocked at her door, calling out the time.

  “I know,” she replied, “I’m hurrying.”

  A minute later, she joined me in the office. She had on a pale-blue satin pants suit with tailored jacket and a silk blouse whose fancy cuffs flared out stylishly from the jacket sleeves. Her hair was piled on her head in an elegant coiffure, and she had on an attractive shade of lip gloss; it was one of the few times I’d ever seen her wear evening makeup. She wore boots to cope with the snow, but carried a pair of high heels.

  I felt tacky in open-collared shirt, gray sweater, and slacks, and told her so. “You, however, look gorgeous—but how come the regalia? It’s only tech/dress.” Meaning, there were no guests invited for us to chaperone.

  She started telling me she wanted to see how hampered her movements would be in the auditorium while wearing heels and evening clothes, but that didn’t explain the lipstick, earrings, or perfume.

  “If you must know,” she sighed, “I’m going to a party afterward.”

  “Oh.” I let it register for a few seconds before asking the inevitable question. “Who with? Harry?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded, then fished out the car keys. “Would you like me to drive the two of you wherever you’re going?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she replied icily.

  “I’d try not to be in the way.”

  “Thanks,” she said, “but I don’t want to take the Opel out in this weather.” Her inflection clearly implied that it was the only reason for turning down my offer.

  I decided to let the subject drop. For the time being.

  The cab trip back to the Forum was faster than the other way, mainly because there was little traffic on West End. We didn’t slow down till about midtown, but it didn’t worry us, since the run-through wasn’t set to begin till 8:30, and Godwin had confided to us that he wasn’t expecting the curtain actually to ascend till 8:45; the extra quarter hour was leeway for the inevitable last-minute problems.

  There was still time, then, for us to eat in the Thirty-fourth Street area. We picked an inexpensive steak and beer place, part of a chain, and ordered cocktails. The next day’s agenda was already well mapped, so we didn’t have any unfinished business to discuss. As a result, when the drinks came, we sipped silently. At last, Hilary put down her glass.