Etiquette and Vitriol (2 page)

Free Will
is an odd play, even for me. I experiment with style quite wildly, careening from farce to Brecht to something else without a pause. I never intend a play to be strange. I simply use whatever tools I have to tell a story. For me, playwriting is an exciting mix of the deliberate and the unconscious. I don't know if the whole thing works. It's not for me to say. It's funny in parts and then jarring, using shifts of theatrical genre to disturb. I think Joe Orton once said you have to shock people sometimes to wake them up—or I may have imagined that to justify things. I will say, looking back, that I am very proud of the monologues that comprise the bulk of Act II. And Philip says some things that every man must have felt at some point. Or is it me? I know it's not me, so don't try to make me feel bad!

After a number of years at the Sanford Meisner I was tired. I was tired of working so hard. I was tired of not getting paid. I was tired of painting sets and buying props and begging for costumes. It was a grind working fifty hours a week at my day job (retail by now) then writing and rehearsing plays at night. Plus, I was frustrated that my so-called career didn't exist. Frankly, no one cared what we did on Eleventh Avenue. I decided
not to do my next play with the Vortex. I'd send it out. If no one wanted to do it, fine. I'd just hold on to it and try again. Imagine my surprise when several theatres expressed interest. You see, by now the literary managers knew who I was, even if the artistic directors didn't.

I'll never forget the reading at Playwrights Horizons. First of all, I am NEVER happy with readings of my plays. Ever. They are too tricky, both emotionally and stylistically, to be served by a reading. As soon as the actors think they know what it is, it changes. Well, at Playwrights I thought the reading went particularly badly. Afterwards I met with some of the artistic staff. They told me how much they liked it AND what was wrong with it and how I might fix it. I listened, growing more petulant with every passing minute, quite sure I was right and they were wrong about everything. But I was so hungry to get a production that I went home and rewrote the whole thing—OVERNIGHT! I showed up the next morning with one hundred and forty-two new pages. Dropping them on the desk, I said, “I think the play was better before, but here's what you asked for.” . . . They never got back to me.

A few months later Doug Aibel called me. How can I ever repay the debt I owe him? Doug is the artistic director of the Vineyard Theatre and such a sweet man. He liked the play and offered to do a workshop, then a production. He didn't need any readings. He didn't suggest I “fix” the play. He showed real courage and committed right there. I began hunting for a director. This was a nightmarish process, a series of meetings, usually over coffee (I don't drink coffee), where we “discussed” the play. “Discussed” is a euphemism for “the director tells me how to fix it and gives me suggestions and copious notes.” For me the most important thing in collaborating with a director is that we see the same basic play in our imaginations. Suggestions like, “I think you should cut the dinosaur,” indicated to me that this wasn't the case. I usually went on an inner journey during these meetings. The second ingredient in a good collaboration is more personal. I need to feel I can yell at and cry in front of my director.
Although I am more apt to do the latter than the former, I like to keep my options open. This criterion for choosing a good director is largely ignored in most graduate courses.

I was in Washington D.C., directing
Free Will
when I called David Warren. Doug Aibel had faxed me his number and his bio. But I'd misplaced the second page, so I approached the phone call having no idea who he was or what he'd done. Our conversation went something like this (notice who never shuts up):

. . .

But he did. And we started a working relationship that I hope goes on until we are both very old and very crabby. David and I have worked together seven times now and it's still a complete pleasure. I learn about
everything
working with David. And I like to think he learns about something working with me.

In any event, the production turned out beautifully. What a wonderful and dedicated cast! They all believed in the project, which was surprising as no one had ever heard of me. We had neither a great deal of money (the sofa was borrowed from Manhattan Theatre Club and I'm convinced it gave Scott Cunningham lice or chiggers or something). We had no big movie star in the lead. But this, my first play to be covered by the
New York Times
, was taken quite seriously. We were treated as something important. Both critics, Ben Brantley in the daily review and David Richards in the Sunday edition, had their complaints. But they both had high praise as well. And, after ten years of putting on plays attended only by my friends, there were audiences! Night after night the theatre was full. And they laughed. And they cried. And we extended. We sold out and life was good. What a victory for the underdogs!

I was speaking at a class recently when a student asked me if
Pterodactyls
is an AIDS play. Well, it is about AIDS. But clearly it's also about family, death, marriage, parents, children, fear, love, class, economics, the end of our species and, of course, denial. Why is there this desire to place plays in narrow little categories? It seems to me that's a job for press agents. But it's not my job. And very few plays are about one thing. I was also asked if I was bitter that
Pterodactyls
didn't transfer to a commercial production. How could I be?

After
Pterodactyls
, I started work on
Raised in Captivity
. I was just beginning really, when I put it aside. I needed to take a
break from the somewhat painful issues I was exploring. After all, let's face it, funny or not, there's a lot of death and dying in
Pterodactyls
. And
Raised in Captivity
explores equally painful turf (alienation, punishment, redemption). I needed to cleanse my palate, as it were. And so, having no lime sherbet on hand, I wrote
The Food Chain
.

I learned a valuable lesson working on the premiere production. I gave the play to the Woolly Mammoth, feeling they certainly deserved it, having produced me when no one else would. I felt very close to that theatre and very protected. I'd had a wonderful time working on
Free Will
the previous year and I was happy to be back. I briefly toyed with the idea of playing Otto, but chickened out and opted instead to direct.

What a miserable experience! It wasn't the cast. They were sweet and very talented. I loved the designers, particularly the set designer, James Kronzer. But for reasons that were none of my business there was a big “shakedown” among the staff at Woolly . . . a WEEK BEFORE WE OPENED! It may or may not have been good for the theatre. I wouldn't know. I only know it was terrible for me. A day before the first preview everything was falling apart. The set wasn't finished. The lights weren't hung. The props weren't even assembled! I'm sure I was very difficult as I stormed about the theatre alternately weeping and shouting. (I paint a very high-strung picture of myself. In reality I possess a calm bordering on the serene and am often mistaken for a religious figure.) On the night of the first preview, I asked the cast if they wanted to cancel. They'd NEVER worked on the set in its completed state! They said no, that they were dying for an audience. And they got one. There was a full house. I made a curtain speech wherein I warned the audience that the set may careen off the stage and kill someone. Then the play began and the audience had, I think, a great time. Audiences, as a rule, love a technical disaster. They love being there the night a light falls down or a turntable breaks. It's an event. If the disaster is huge enough it takes on a mythic quality: “I was at
Sunset
the night the set collapsed, killing sixty and injuring
twelve.” (I actually
was
there the night Barbara Cook got caught in the set of
Carrie
! I was in London and the damn thing nearly decapitated her! But that's another story.) The lesson: It's nice if it's always fun, but ultimately something exciting can come, even out of misery.

The following season it opened in New York. This time, I wasn't directing. And this time it was fun. I had Bob Falls, who'd directed
subUrbia
(you see I learned to know a director's credits). Bob is a terrific director and, my God, what fun to be with. He never lets his sense of personal dignity prevent him from having a good time. Such a healthy attitude! We laughed and ate all day long. Again (am I lucky or what?) I had a great cast. I was a little intimidated by Phyllis Newman the first day and called her Miss Newman. She put a quick stop to that! (Her credentials and talent certainly entitle to her to some diva-esque behavior. But, quite the contrary, Phyllis is a riot.) And I had my beloved Hope Davis, who'd done such wonderful work in
Pterodactyls
. The
New York Times'
Ben Brantley said of Hope, “There is no one quite like her on the stage these days.” He's mostly right—he could've left off “on the stage these days.”

Cripes, I sound like a terribly sweet, cloying mess. So full of love and gratitude. If you met me in real life you'd see none of that. I'd be much more likely to spew venomous gossip about people I hate—and trust me that list is long and growing. But this looks awfully permanent. I do want to put my best foot forward. So call, or corner me at a party for the lowdown on who did me dirt, who's mean, who's talentless, who's ruthless, whom I slept with to get this published and who slept with me to get parts in plays (well no one's ever slept with me to get a part in a play, but I can plant the idea right here). Besides I feel pretty lucky and grateful. It's a rare thing to be able to earn a living doing what you love. And all I ever wanted, after all, was
“a life in the theatre.”

N. Silver
March 1996

Aside from those mentioned in the introduction, I'd also like to thank the following for their help and guidance: George Lane and Mary Meagher (of William Morris, listed, please note, alphabetically), Jon Nakagawa, Barbara Zinn Krieger, Robert V. Straus, James Bart Upchurch III, Tim Sanford, Bruce Whitacre, Nancy Turner Hensley and a battery of psychiatric doctors.

The Food Chain
premiered at the Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company (Howard Shalwitz, Artistic Director) July 15, 1994. The production was directed by the author. The set design was by James Kronzer; costumes were by Howard Vincent Kurtz; lighting was by Martha Mountain; sound was by Gil Thompson; the production stage manager was Anne Theisen. The cast was as follows:

The Food Chain
subsequently opened August 24, 1995 at the Westside Theatre, directed by Robert Falls. It was produced by Robert V. Straus, Randall L. Wreghitt, Annette Niemtzow and Michael Jakowitz, in association with Evangeline Morphos and Nancy Richards. The associate producers were Kathleen O'Grady, Gilford/Freeley Productions, Andrew Barrett, Terrie Adams, Fanny M. Mandelberger, Richard Kornberg and Pope Entertainment Group, Inc. The set design was by Thomas Lynch; the costumes were by William Ivey Long; lighting was by Kenneth Posner; the sound by Duncan Edwards/Ben Rubin; the production stage manager was Allison Sommers. The cast was as follows: