As detailed in my last entry, I played the Prosecutor in Max Frisch’s Count Oederland in the spring of 1988. Walter Learning, who had become Artistic Director of the Charlottetown Festival the year before, saw my performance and offered me a role for that summer, playing a detective in an interactive murder mystery. That show, with the unfortunate title of Dead Air, did not live up to its potential and was canceled with a month to go in the season. By this point I had become good pals with Walter’s son, Warwick, who was in two of the Main Stage offerings that year, but not Anne of Green Gables, which traditionally held the Monday night slot. Since I was now out of a job, Warwick and I agreed to meet that night at his place and view the archival tape that had been done of my show Speed Limit. As far as an archival shoot goes with a single stationary camera, this one was not too bad as I was the only actor on stage so the camera man just followed me. As both Warwick and I had the night off, we were drinking scotch and watching the video when Walter returned home from that night’s performance of Anne. He was not a happy fellow. Boyd Norman, the actor playing Duke in Are You Lonesome Tonight? had, that very night, handed in his two weeks’ notice as he had just scored a recurring role on a TV series that was to begin shooting before the Festival season ended. Walter was unhappy because he did not know how he was going to replace Boyd, both at such short notice and for such a short period of time. I poured Walter a double scotch and he sat with us awhile as we continued to watch Speed Limit. After finishing his scotch, Walter excused himself, saying he was going to bed. Warwick and I finished watching the video and then we went out to a bar.

Early the next morning, I was awakened by a phone call from Walter: he offered me a one month contract to play Duke and the Minister in Anne of Green Gables. Though I had not known it at the time, the viewing of Speed Limit was a very fortuitous event. And it was also one of the easiest auditions I have ever done.

Since Boyd was still doing shows, I had the unique opportunity to observe him in performance (from out front or back stage, it was my choice). I was also required to be in rehearsals during the day. The Minister in Anne of Green Gables is a minor part and mostly other actors pushed me around the stage during rehearsals as being in the right place was the most important thing for this character. One night during a performance of Anne, I was back stage taking notes of whatever Boyd was doing. He was extremely helpful for both roles and was willing to answer even the dumbest of my questions. At one point, Boyd took off his hat and I asked him why he had done that, with my pen poised over the paper. “My head was hot,” he replied and before this had sunk in, I had written: head was hot… But enough about Anne of Green Gables.

Are You Lonesome Tonight? is a fictionalized version of what happened the night Elvis Presley died in 1977. Walter had secured the North American rights to the show, which had been a huge hit on London’s West End. It had played the previous summer in Charlottetown and had out drawn Anne of Green Gables, a rare feat at the Festival. Part of the reason for this was all the controversy Lonesome stirred up. Although Walter had removed much of the profanity, there was still too much for some sensitive (and vocal) locals. This controversy was noted in headlines around the world, with one British paper saying: “What are the colonials up to now?” However, all of this press amounted to what was estimated as seven million dollars of free advertising. There was also another controversy surrounding this show: its existence very much irked the estate of Elvis Presley. Although Graceland could not succeed in shutting the show down, they were slowly eroding it by legally finding means of removing song after song from it.

Are You Lonesome Tonight? was billed as a drama with music. There are two stories being told in the play. The main one has Elvis re-living his life during his last night on earth. There were two actors playing the King. The young Elvis appeared in flashbacks and Frank MacKay played the lead role of the older Elvis. The other story has Duke (a representation of Elvis’ lifelong friend and chief bodyguard, Red West), another henchman and a British writer (played respectively by Bob Aarron and Hank Stinson) in a motel room trying to work out a book deal.The set was divided in to three playing areas. Downstage was the older Elvis’ romper room, where most of the action took place. Upstage was a large, slightly tilted record album where young Elvis did most of his performing. On a raised platform on stage right was where us three conspirators remained for the duration of the play (except the two times I got to leave).

Duke is ostensibly the villain of the piece and, after the older Elvis, had the bulk of the lines. After years of being Elvis’ confidante and protector, Duke has recently been fired. So he is negotiating with the British writer to sell his story. But Duke is conflicted by this. On the one hand, he wants to get back at Elvis for what he sees as betrayal (and he needs the money), but he also feels bad about taking this action. There were a lot of lines to learn, including a shopping list of the many drugs Duke says Elvis was on. Rehearsals are mostly a blur to me now. The one thing I remember was being keenly aware that the other actors were required to give up their time off to be there. So I did my best to keep things moving and to not waste any time. Bob and Hank were both very generous with letting me know what was to be done. This whole process was very interesting because I recognized, although I was still required to act, it was of the utmost importance that I fit myself as seamlessly as possible in to an already living, breathing show.

Frank MacKay had been a singer in a rock ‘n’ roll band in his youth and knew a thing or two about that line of business. But for me the best thing was that he insisted on spending time with me as I scrambled to get the part down. He was a team player and I always admire that. Before each performance, Frank and I would get together in his dressing room to do a quick line run of the eight minute scene we had together near the end of the show. Frank was very generous, both with his time and his knowledge of the show and for that I have always been grateful.

I had grown a beard during the two weeks of rehearsal and greyed it up in the hopes this would add the ten extra years Duke had on me. When it came time for me to actually perform the role of Duke, I felt as ready as I could be. Walter had done a great job in seeing that I received any help I may have requested or needed. This was the first time in my career I had been required to step in to an existing show and so I was delighted to learn I could be an effective quick study. Not all actors can say that. But before I performed Duke on the Tuesday, I felt grateful to play the Minister on Monday. For, you see, this was my first appearance on the Confederation Centre Main Stage, a daunting house of eleven hundred seats… and every one of them was occupied. Then came Tuesday and another full house. I can recall being backstage awaiting the top of the show, where Lionel Doucette as Col. Tom Parker would give an introductory monologue as the rest of the cast, including me, followed Elvis’ coffin across the stage. I paced backstage nervously as the growing audience babble further filled me with dread. Then I saw Elvis’ coffin sitting there… A lump formed in my throat and the audience babble dissolved. I went to the coffin and hesitatingly touched it. There was like a jolt of electricity on contact and at the same instant, I was cloaked in a calm assurance. I knew Duke was there and I was ready. The ASM gave the places call and the other actors arrived, all joking about and loose, most of them having done two seasons and scores of performances of this show. The lights went down, the audience went silent, then the lights came up and we began our procession. I was about to kick ass as Duke.

Beyond that entrance, I cannot recall any specific moments from that first show. I do remember I felt completely in control, completely at home on that stage and in Duke’s skin. I can remember one thing that was a personal ordeal for all three of us in that motel room. Even when the focus was elsewhere, we remained on stage and were hit with spill over light. Walter’s direction was that we were to carry on as if still in conversation, so long as we made no big moves that might distract. One of the things we had to do in these semi blackout situations, was down two bottles of Jack Daniels filled with tea. By intermission, it was a three-way race to the washroom. But before we got to the break -and due to the Graceland removal of songs- we had to endure Frank’s beautiful a capella rendition of Hank Williams’ I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry. I swear each night he dragged that out longer than the one previous until my bladder screamed louder than his pure voice.

On closing night, several of my friends were in the audience, all of whom had already seen the show each of the two seasons it ran. Frank MacKay played Duke the first year. My friends were very kind in telling me I was the best Duke they had seen -even my Outspoken Friend at the Time.

Though I only performed the show four times, it will always be in my memory as one of the highlights of my theatrical career. And I was very pleased not only that I felt I had done well with it, but I never screwed up anything. The show, worn down by the Elvis estate, did not return the next season and, as far as I know, has not been produced again in North America. But I had earned my place at the Charlottetown Festival and would appear there for the next three seasons, two of them playing Mr. Phillips, the somewhat creepy school teacher in Anne of Green Gables. But first Walter Learning had other plans for me.

Next week, George in Peter Colley’s I’ll Be Back Before Midnight.

I first encountered Max Frisch in the mid ’80’s and instantly felt an affinity for the political commentary in his plays. In early 1988, I passed on Count Oederland to Laurel Smyth, who, at the time was putting together a proposal to direct a play for the UPEI Theatre Society in Charlottetown. As there was no theatre department at the university, it would be difficult to acquire all the actors needed there. So I brazenly said I would be in it, but only if I could play the Prosecutor. Fortunately for me, Laurel agreed.

Through his interaction with the suspect in a murder trial, the Prosecutor, a member of the privileged class, has an identity crisis. But he was always so calm and in control -yes, he was boring- that no one, not even his wife, can tell. One night the Prosecutor vanishes. He appears in Oederland (the back country) where he neither knows how he got there nor who he is. All around him he sees the poverty and hardship of the Charcoal Burners (locals). The place is ripe for an uprising, but the Charcoal Burners need a leader. The Prosecutor is thus anointed even though he does not really comprehend the ramifications of what is happening. But he is an empty vessel wanting to be filled, so he goes along with it. And, as being in charge comes naturally to him, he starts to like it. “Splendid are we and free!” echoes across the land and this rag-tag ever swelling army marches on the capital. It is only at the very end the Prosecutor must face the consequences of his new identity: when the President of the nation tells him the Prosecutor is now in control of the government. The Prosecutor has not prepared for this and breaks down, claiming he did not believe any of this adventure was real.

Yeah, this character was a lot of fun to play. It was only a three night run, but we had a long rehearsal period. This allowed for slow percolating thoughts about the character, a luxury often unavailable on a professional production due to the shortened rehearsal time frame. There were two other professionals in the cast and some veteran amateur actors, but most of the company was made up of university students, the bulk of whom were coming in to this without much theatrical training or experience. But Laurel, aside from being a gifted director, is also a marvelous teacher. These young’uns were getting free acting classes. And they loved it. There are times on productions when you know you have something good on your hands. There is an enthusiasm and camaraderie that just smacks of success. This was one of those shows. And that lies mostly due to Laurel. I have seen in any type of workplace, the prevailing tone is set by whoever is in charge. Is it a sullen place, a happy place, a fearful place, a hard-working place? Look to the boss to get the answer why. Laurel, by the nature of who she is, set a tone of warmth, of love and of accomplishment. A happy workplace is a productive workplace. I chipped in, in my way, and mentored a few of the students. It felt good to play the grand old man of the theatre -at age 33- and to show my appreciation at this opportunity, I allowed the young’uns to bask in my glow.

The Prosecutor was a big departure for me. I had predominantly been playing over-the-top characters in recent years, and the Prosecutor allowed me to get cozy with my subtler side. This had long term benefits, I believe. When selling snake oil, one should be able to work both sides of the street. As my Prosecutor was so in control of himself, reactions and expressions were often restricted to the eyes. We performed the play at the two hundred seat Mackenzie Theatre, which is intimate enough to demand subtlety. There is no playing to the gods in that wonderful black box of a space. I suspect this exploration of my subtle side has also aided me in an understanding of film acting, of which I had very little experience at the time.

There were times when the Prosecutor was ecstatic, there were times he was agitated, times of confusion and of being charismatic. Then there was the entire shedding of his calm persona. I was particularly proud of that final scene. The President, who only appears in this scene, was played by Paul Broadbent. He took his eight or ten lines and turned each word in to a fascinating character study. The work he did as an octogenarian, no-nonsense lifelong figurehead was beyond extraordinary. As my Outspoken Friend At The Time said to me: “Paul acted your ass right off that stage.” I agreed with his Outspokeness, but deep down I, like the Prosecutor, knew it was different. My Prosecutor entered the scene with the same calmness he displayed throughout most of the story. But it was not long before Paul’s President had begun to terrify the Prosecutor. At that point, everything became a slow crumble. I envisioned the Prosecutor at the top of a rock slide. As the rocks begin to dislodge underneath him, he was trying to grab the rocks and put them back. Eventually it all had to come down to wailing or sniveling. I chose the latter. The Prosecutor, now the reluctant leader of a country, was once again empty. I had always hoped Max Frisch would write a sequel about how the Prosecutor’s political advisers would fill him up again… oh wait, maybe that was something I was gonna write…

We had full houses for all three performances and overall I was more than satisfied by the response. There were several student actors who stood out in this production and that was very good to see. In researching this entry, I found that UPEI now has a Theatre Studies Minor program. This is not a full-fledged theatre department, but it is a big step beyond what was available when I lived there. This Minor program also has a production wing called Vagabond, which is also a really good thing. The previous Theatre Society had always been run as an ad hoc concept. I am pleased that UPEI has chosen to recognize the importance of theatre, which has a long history on Prince Edward Island.

To sum up, again there are many reasons why the Prosecutor ends up on this top ten list. Aside from the aforementioned aspects of subtlety, character depth and mentorship, there is also one other critical factor involved here. This performance led to the next four years getting steady well-paid seasonal work. All of which I will explain next week, when I spotlight Duke in Alan Bleasdale’s Are You Lonesome Tonight?

I played the dual roles of Cyril, the mailman who drops in on Hillyard’s father with a series of cash on delivery telegrams from the lad, and Lucien, the dimmer and less stable of the two bank robbers. I had played multiple roles in shows before (and since), but there were three things that made Culture Shock unique in my experience. First, there were the two very different and distinct accents to be learned. Then there was the speed with which one had to switch from one character to the other -including full costume changes without the benefit of a dresser. And there was the experience of working with the show’s creator, Lorne, who directed as well as taking on the dual roles of the father and the other bank robber.

Lorne Elliott had forged a successful career in stand-up comedy long before I had met him that spring. Culture Shock reflects this as there are numerous monologues (most notably from Hillyard and Cyril) that sound more like stand-up routines than theatrical speeches. Nevertheless, the man knows funny. And I learned a lot from him about the art of comedy. But I do not feel indebted as Lorne took his payment by stealing a lot of my jokes. I am not bitter -really I am flattered that on occasion he thought I was funny enough to steal my material. Lorne takes his comedy very seriously. Before working with him, I would laugh at something and never ask why. And that is what he showed me: why does that make you laugh? He broke down jokes in to their component parts and analyzed them as if he were some sort of CSI expert. This scientific approach to humour may seem anti-comedic, but Lorne sure made it work.

Now, part of the reason these dual roles end up on this top ten list is that I did this show on three separate occasions. Lorne expanded Culture Shock to a two-act full length piece which we presented as part of the Just for Laughs Festival at the Centaur Theatre in Montreal in 1987. We did the full length version again in 1996 at the Red Barn Theatre in Jackson’s Point, Ontario. This was still the old Red Barn Theatre before there was air conditioning -unless you counted the missing barn boards- and one still had to contend with nightly buzzings from the bats. Anyway, it is always a treat for an actor to re-visit a role, especially after as long a time away as nine years. It is astounding the number of things one has thought about in the mean time that can be directly applied to the role. Another factor that puts these dual roles on this list is that the third member of the cast in all three variations of the show was my good friend -and excellent character actor- Paul Broadbent. Paul and I have worked on at least seven other productions together and it has always been both a treat and a great learning experience. Paul is the kind of actor that can make the simplest gesture in to a marvel of either comedy or tragedy.

As Lorne did not come from a theatrical background, his directing style was not as rigid as most who have come up through some type of formal training. His vision, if one could call it that, is how to get more laughs out of this scene. Therefore, he was very open to input on comedic bits and line changes. If he found something funnier than what he had originally written, he would change it. A lot of our rehearsals were filled with laughter. Lorne has done this show many other times over the years with different actors. And if someone comes up with what he calls comedy gold, he will then direct others to do it that way. One bit I put in way back in 1986, is when the bank robbers are spotted by a TV news crew who then turn the camera on them. The first bank robber pulls down his balaclava to hide his face at the same time I would pull mine up to beam at the camera. It may not sound like much, but there wasn’t an audience in some eighty performances I did of that show that did not howl at that sight gag.

Each audience is its own beast and this is particularly noticeable when doing comedy. Some audiences smile in the dark, but you never hear their response and think, what is wrong with these people? The best is when you get that one person who is not self-conscious, who lets go with a big belly laugh… often. The rest of the audience is put at ease and will also begin to laugh out loud. Mr. (or Ms.) Big Belly Laugh is always welcome at any comedy I do and I will shamelessly try to get them to laugh. If an audience is quiet, then that is the time to keep moving, as pacing is also important in comedy. But with a show like Culture Shock, one did have to be careful about speeding things up too much. If, for example, I decided to fly through one of Cyril’s monologues, I have now reduced the time Paul has back stage to make his quick change. There are many factors to consider on the fly in this type of farce-like show. But this keeps you engaged and generally these nights are over before you know it. There I would be as Cyril, sitting watching TV and I would think, my God, we’re in the last scene already…

The quick changes in this show were intentional because Lorne believed it was more entertaining for an audience to see an actor exit as one character and then re-appear almost instantly as someone else. This required a lot of practice -especially as there was no dresser waiting to help you in to and out of things. I had to teach my body to intuitively know not only which article to remove first but also where and how to place it so that it would be ready for the next change. Often back stage was more hectic than the madcap frenzy that was on stage. But it was a lot of fun and I have benefited from that experience in dealing with costume changes ever since.

The accents were also quite the challenge. Paul is a native Newfoundlander and Lorne lived on the Rock for several years, so I had two very good teachers for that particular accent. As for the Quebecois one, I started with a decent impersonation of Jean Chretien and went from there. However, there were a few lines in French and those terrified me a bit as I have always been hopeless with pronunciation in that language. All the more so as Lucien came from a lower class background and had spent time in prison, so there would be colloquial specifics I had to nail to achieve authenticity -especially in front of those Montreal crowds. Fortunately, I knew several Quebecois in Charlottetown and used to follow them around just to hear them talk.

Cyril was laid back and always took his own sweet time getting to any point. Lucien was hyper and took no time at all jumping to the wrong conclusion. Therefore the way they moved was completely different. This made the transition from one character to the other relatively easy. As soon as the costume was on, the body took on the quirks, ticks and mannerisms of each in some learned automatic response. And, thankfully, the right accent always came out.

I am a staunch believer in the old line, the show must go on. I did a show once where buckets were set up in the wings because most of the cast -not myself thankfully- had food poisoning. I have done shows hung over and shows with the flu. I have done shows on a sprained knee, shows with an infected tooth and shows with an ear infection. I have seen actors take the stage after learning of a death in the family. I have even done a show at the Charlottetown Festival after someone had called in a bomb threat. The show must go on is the code that gets all of us out there on that stage at the specified time, no matter what. But during our Montreal run of Culture Shock, I missed a performance for the first and only time in my life. We all did. We were staying about an hour west of Montreal and that afternoon, the unbearable humidity finally broke with a brutal three hour thunder storm and deluge of Biblical proportions. The rain which had literally come down in a relentless sheet, had stopped by the time we were to depart for the theatre. But the damage had been done and there was wide spread flooding. Underpasses had become underground lakes. The city of Montreal was encircled by water and we could not get through, especially with the resultant traffic chaos of rush hour. This was before everyone had cell phones and we did encounter some difficulty locating a phone on the freeway, but we did and contacted the theatre to let them know we were unable to make it. Although our inability to perform that night was due to an act of God, I have still always felt bad that we missed that show. “The show must go on” runs very deep in to this actor’s soul.

All in all, Culture Shock, though in no way an earth-changing piece of theatre, has nevertheless remained one of my favourite productions to work on. It was always immensely satisfying to hear the laughter and yes, even the odd groan, as we entertained an audience. There was a great camaraderie between Lorne, Paul and myself, where we openly laughed at one another for our mistakes and openly praised one another whenever one of us was particularly brilliant. Comedy is hard, but when all the funny bones are clicking, it is difficult to find anything more rewarding than the immediate feedback of an audience in stitches. And we achieved that many times in Culture Shock.

Next week: the strange case of The Prosecutor in Max Frisch’s Count Oederland.

Laurel Smyth and I formed a company called theatre after all…, and Speed Limit was our first production. To our own brands of genius, we added that of David Bennett as designer. We had no money, but a great deal of energy and inventiveness. Thus we set to work.

Speed Limit was Neal’s nickname amongst Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters, for whom he was the bus driver. I interpreted the reason for this nickname as being Neal represented the actual limit of speed at which a man could talk, fuck, think, drive and do drugs. How could I not be enthralled by playing a character like that? The script was fifty type-written pages and I accomplished something I would never attempt today. For five straight days, I learned ten pages of the monologue at night and we would rehearse these sections the following day. I did this because Laurel, the director, wanted to establish basic blocking as early in the process as possible and I did not want to be encumbered by having the script in hand. Almost all of that first week is but a jumbled blur to me now.

The playing area was a large rectangle, roughly fifteen-by-forty feet, surrounded on all sides by the audience. And we were fortunate to be able to rehearse in the space from day one. The first act is set in a prison cell in San Quentin the night before Neal’s release after serving just over two years for marijuana possession. The set was simple: a cot, under which was a radio, a drinking cup and a California grape box full of props (cigarettes, sheets of paper and a three pound sledge hammer). The cell was nine-by-six feet, marked out on the floor by very sharp lighting. As I did not want to cross beyond the barrier of light, I practiced pacing that cell for hours. I marked the cell’s outline with boards and paced with my eyes closed, so that my body eventually would instinctively know where the barrier was located. Laurel’s direction was very tight in this act, every movement was carefully choreographed.

The entire playing area was incorporated in to the second act. The cot, which was built for this production, became a ramp at one end. This act was set in the desert, by the railroad tracks, outside San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, the night Neal died in 1968. He was just days from his forty-second birthday. In this act, Laurel directed specific movements, but for the most part, I was free to go where and when I would. Part of the intent here was that nothing would be the same night after night. Whenever I chose, I could go right up and yell in the faces of the audience. That was fun. I really delighted in singling out people and delivering lines right to them. Usually, they just stared back at me, unable to move.

Neal was definitely an interesting character. During the Great Depression when he was still a boy, he rode the rails with his father. He ended up in reform school at an early age for stealing cars. He loved cars, almost as much as he loved to talk. It was through Neal’s constant talking, Jack Kerouac would later say, that set Jack on the path to finding his own distinctive writing style. Neal was an unstoppable womanizer and the women, in turn, could not resist his charms. He always had to be on the go and experimented heavily with any and all drugs that came his way. He settled on speed and, of course, acid when he was with the Merry Pranksters. He was the connecting dot between the Beat Generation of the ’50’s and the hippies of the ’60’s. Neal was equally at home with ivory tower philosophers and skid row hobos. And his mind was always moving at super speed; his greatest complaints being neither his writing hand nor his mouth could keep up.

This was a physically demanding role. Thankfully, I was still a young man and in great shape. The play ran two hours, not including the intermission, so the energy expended was immense just by being out there alone for that long. In the first act, I did one-armed push ups, using my left hand as Neal was a southpaw. I spent several hours practicing flipping that sledge hammer, as Neal was known to do, and worked out several different routines I used in both acts. And, I am proud to say, never once did I drop that hammer during a show. In the second act, where I was free to go where I would, I threw myself about the stage in seeming reckless abandon, though I was always in control. Often I fell to the floor, whenever I felt it appropriate to do so. Despite all of this, after each performance I felt energized and was unable to sleep for hours. I got to play the entire gamut of emotions and I did so as I thought Neal would have done, wholeheartedly all the time, often switching from sadness to ecstasy within the same sentence. Many times my Neal burst in to rapid fire speech. Sometimes he worked his way up to it. At one point this rapid fire speech was a laundry list of metaphysical phraseology as he was commenting on the nature of the human soul. It went on for over a minute. Often this rapid fire speech was employed simply as a way to condense the running time of the show. But for me the actor, there was always the thrill of the virtuosity of being able to accomplish it.

After our initial run of six performances, that summer Speed Limit was given a dozen more at a Fringe-style festival called Montage ‘85. That fall we took the show to King’s College in Halifax. And in February 1986, Enterprise Theatre in Fredericton invited us over for a short run at the University of New Brunswick, thus completing what I like to call our Maritime Capital Tour. Alas, despite all of my efforts otherwise, this proved the end of the line for Speed Limit. After twenty-five performances, I would no longer play this character who was hell bent to outrun his own demons. But I have come to realize I was ahead of my time with Speed Limit. The Beat Generation -and hippies too- were not in vogue back in the ’80’s. There has been a resurgence in interest, however, over the past decade and this show would find a much larger audience now. Unfortunately, as I am a tad older, I doubt I could summon forth the energy required to resurrect Neal Cassady today.

There is one performance of Speed Limit I will never forget. It was a midnight show, but I had slept most of the evening so felt well rested. I felt strong. I felt in control and ready for anything. When the lights came up on the first act, I immediately became aware there were only half a dozen in the audience and they were all sitting in a group at one end of the playing area. Though the performance was designed to play to all sides, I quickly made the adjustment to play to the audience as if it was a traditional theatrical set up. And, I said to myself, I am going to give you six the show of my life. And I did, pulling out all of the proverbial stops. But there was no sound from the audience. No laughing, no shuffling of feet, no nothing. In the second act I could see these six were all guys and I determined to get some reaction from them. I did not feel as if I had lost them, as they all stared at me with unwavering intensity. But I wanted some reaction and I was going to get it. I yelled in their faces, I tried new things, I fell down right at their feet and still no response, just the same intense staring. I never did get the response I was looking for and at the end of the performance, I somehow felt cheated. I had just given these six young men what I still consider to be my finest performance of Speed Limit and they had not repaid me with what I had wanted. But this story does not end there. About a week later I was visiting a friend when a knock came at his door. Another visitor came in, one I immediately recognized as being in that audience of six. He, too, recognized me and could not say enough about what an amazing performance I had given. Well, that was something, but I could not help myself. I told him how I had felt that night and how I had tried to elicit some reaction from them. “Oh that,” he said, “we were all on acid.” I guess I should not have been surprised, being as it was a midnight show and the material I was presenting. But, I soon realized I had gotten something more than what I had wanted. Considering the nature of how LSD can make the mind jump around, I had held their attention throughout and that was an accomplishment far more worthy than an audible response.

In the end, there are many reasons why Neal Cassady is one of my favourite roles. This was not only my first one man show, it was also the first play I had written since university. The character of Neal was a wonderful grab bag of the diversity of human emotions. There was a great deal of physicality and endurance in it. Working with Laurel as my director is always a joy. There were numerous challenges, including turning my decidedly Canadian accent in to a Midwestern American one. The satisfaction of being able to accomplish such a feat as Speed Limit and receive recognition for it. But the most important one is that I was a far better actor after having played Neal Cassady.

Next week, the dual roles of Cyril and Lucien in Lorne Elliott’s Culture Shock.

The Rimers of Eldritch is an ensemble piece with seventeen characters, so it is ideally suited for presentation by an acting class. Now, every male in my class wanted to play Skelly, including myself. The character is the town of Eldritch’s outcast, drunkard and scapegoat. He doesn’t speak in a lot of his scenes, but he is a presence all the time. He has a beautifully-written two page monologue that has the power to win the support of the audience, into what otherwise is an enigmatic, creepy and scary character. Before the play was cast, the director, Peter Feldman, had two rehearsals where we read the play and we were encouraged to jump up for a scene and read a character and in the next scene, someone else would do the same. In a sense, this was an audition process and through it, I got the role of Skelly. Right from the start, I knew this character was going to be a challenge. For one thing Skelly was three times my age at this time. Peter started me working right away on bringing more stiffness to my body movements and to make my voice deeper and gruffer. Neither thing would I have to work on now. Skelly was to be drunk through the entire play and Peter told me to successfully play drunk on stage, I would have to play against it. Which I took to mean, I was to pretend to be drunk and then act as if I was not. After my first solo rehearsal where we worked on the monologue, Peter suggested I go to the student pub, get drunk and then wander around the woods at night. Just following direction, I did as he suggested. I was really beginning to like this man’s directing style.

As I was required by the course to keep an actor’s journal, I will let my twenty-one year old self describe my chosen model for Skelly.

“November 27, 1976: I have been using FB mostly as a model for Skelly. He was a drunk that I knew in Owen Sound. Once I met him on the street he tried to sell me a shirt he had obviously stolen for a buck so he could get a cheap bottle of wine. Another time it was during the summer he was talking to me and he was looking for a cigarette. He peeled off his trenchcoat and started drunkenly looking for his cigarettes; he then pulled off two sweaters under that. He finally found his cigarettes after looking in every pocket several times. He then got all dressed again, when he realised he needed a match. He went through the whole process again looking for a match. A couple of times during this performance he forgot what he was looking for. I often saw him huddled down with a bottle of cheap wine behind the liquor store by the railroad tracks. Once he gave me a dime and with tears in his eyes he asked me to phone the Ontario Hospital – Alcoholics Ward and tell them where they could pick him up. It was winter and he was cold, I guess. Before I could phone, another guy came along with a bottle of wine and took FB away. I never saw him again. He died shortly afterwards by the railroad tracks. One night he got all drunked up and passed out -he had frozen during the night. He was sixty-two.”

To further get a feel for Skelly, I hung out in the dives and alleys of St. Catharines, observing the winos in their natural habitat. I recall being mighty impressed when I saw a guy just drop his pants on the street, squat and take a crap on the side walk. I could see Skelly doing that.

As a church congregation figures large in the play, Peter arranged for the entire cast to attend a Sunday morning service. I cannot recall the denomination, but there was a lot of “Amen’s” and “Testify’s” and a lot of jumping up and swaying to the music. I didn’t have to pay attention though, because Skelly was not the church going type. Afterwards, we had a brunch at one of my classmate’s house where everyone was to remain in character. This meant everyone shunned me, but it also meant I could steal food before the womenfolk had finished with their preparations. And I drank wine from a bottle in a paper bag, just as I would do on stage (though this wine was real, the stage version only water). When everyone was getting their food, I walked past Peter with a plate and he said, “If there’s not enough food for everyone, it’s because you took too much.” I realised to Skelly, that’s exactly what would happen. He would get blamed even if it wasn’t his fault.

I was costumed in several layers of stressed clothing. But there was still one thing missing: make up. Now, I knew nothing about make up, so when Peter told me to turn myself into a 63 year old man, I panicked. I begged him to help me. He told me to apply white shoe polish in streaks to my hair and newly grown beard. With several skilled applications Peter turned my face and hands into those of a much older, weathered man. It was very convincing, even close up. I knew I could never replicate what he had done so easily. I told him so, when he suggested I do my own make up after that. I whined and grovelled until, though he was disappointed, he agreed to do my make up for the short three show run. Aside from getting my make up done, I also enjoyed his attention for the time it took and was able to pose many questions to him before each performance. These little interludes I found invaluable in keeping Skelly on track.

We performed the play in a large empty room at a local highschool. The set was in the surround, that is, various playing areas mixed in with various banks of seating for the audience. There was a main, central playing area and I had a riser off to a corner which was my spot. The whole endeavour was over much too fast, as such short runs always are. Though I screwed up my big monologue on opening night and there was something not right with my death scene -which produced a laugh- the other two shows were near perfect from my perspective.

I learned a great deal about the craft of acting working with Peter Feldman on this show. And all these years later, I still consider Skelly Mannor to be one of my finest performances. Occasionally, I encounter someone who saw that production and I have always received favourable feedback. Just that they would remember it all those years later speaks volumes of the character’s impact on them.

Next week: Neal Cassady in Speed Limit.

I was hired with the understanding that I would have a crew of four university students working for me. I made an assumption that these would be theatre students… they were not. They were all bright, eager young’un’s, but most had never even been in a theatre before. I spent a great deal of my time having to explain what I considered to be the most rudimentary of things. I could be up on a ladder, holding on to a set piece, and would ask one of them to go stage right and get me a jack. They might be gone ten minutes before they would come back and ask: “What’s a jack?” Or they would bring me a flat. Or they would ask: “Is stage right my left?” But they were all just so gosh darn happy all the time, I couldn’t get mad at them.

I was also presented with another serious problem. The set designer encountered some personal tragedy and so I ended up designing as well as building the sets for three shows that were to open over the span of ten nights. It seemed an overwhelming task, but I did manage to pull it off. Anyway, my student crew did earn their wages, but still, so much of my time was spent correcting their mistakes, or having to observe them in even the simplest tasks to ensure they were completed in a satisfactory manner. Therefore, just so I could get something done, I used to say, about ten or eleven P.M., that I was tired and calling it a night. I waited until they all had left and then I would return. I worked several all-nighters alone in that theatre.

I had heard from the locals that the King’s Playhouse was haunted. One old timer told me no one had ever claimed to see the ghost, but that it had been heard quite often. He also said some people thought it might be the famous actor, Sarah Bernhardt. I anticipated wailing or ghostly oohs perhaps. Yet, due to my experience at Brock University, I certainly was not about to make light of any ghosts. Being alone after midnight in any theatre is a spooky situation. Sounds become amplified and the imagination -especially if fueled by ghost stories- can get up to all kinds of mischief.

During one of my first all-nighters, I heard a door close backstage. Whenever I was working alone in the theatre, I always made sure the place was locked up so I wouldn’t have to deal with any unwanted visitors. I went back to investigate the door closure. The dressing rooms were on the second and third floors behind the stage. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and again heard a door close somewhere on the floors above me. Clutching a crescent wrench, I started up the stairs, but stopped when I reached the first landing. Someone was coming down the stairs! The building was an old wooden structure and the stairs were very creaky. “Hello,” I called out, but there was no response, just the sound of footsteps descending toward me. I waited as they got closer. The sound of someone walking went right past me and down the stairs. But I saw no one. Although the hairs rose up on the back of my neck, still I felt no sense of malevolence. I shrugged and went back to work. This particular phenomenon of hearing someone pass me on the stairs or in the hall became a common occurrence as the nights went by. Sometimes there was the jingling of a set of keys. Perhaps the ghost was a techie who had died here, or perhaps a caretaker from long ago. It was unlikely to be Sarah Bernhardt for the sound of walking did not include the thumping one would expect from a wooden leg, as she had by the time she came to Georgetown. I asked the cast and crew if they had encountered any ghostly happenings, but none had though all said they had heard the place was haunted. The ghost, it seemed, only liked to stroll about when the place was primarily empty.

The second time I heard the footsteps passing me, I spoke. “I don’t want any trouble,” I said and the sound of footsteps ceased. “I’m just here to do a job and as long as you don’t interfere with that, I don’t mind that you wander about.” A few seconds after I finished speaking, the footsteps continued on down the stairs. Perhaps it was a lack of sleep but often, just before sunrise, I found myself talking to the ghost. I told it what I was working on and why. Somehow I felt less intimidated if I included the ghost in the reason for my presence. And this spirit did not seem inclined to mess about with the lights or set pieces, as had the one at Brock. Other than the occasional jingling of keys, I had no reason to believe the ghost even knew it was in a theatre.

One night, while working on stage, I heard a voice coming from the back of the theatre. As the house lights were not on, this particular area was all in darkness. I could not make out what was being said. It sounded like words but they were unrecognizable. I went to the back of the theatre and though the voice became louder as I approached, it still was unintelligible. And there was no one there. At least not on this side of the veil. I took to saying “good evening” as the ghost and I passed, but never again did I hear what might be considered a voice.

That following fall and winter, the King’s Playhouse was slated for a major renovation, including the digging out of a foundation, something it had never had before. Due to modern by-laws, however, this could only be accomplished if the entire structure was moved back from the road. So the foundation was dug out adjacent to where the theatre stood and the building was shifted over and placed on top. In March 1983, the King’s Playhouse in its new location caught on fire during a blizzard, complete with gale force winds. These conditions made it impossible for fire fighters to conquer the blaze and the King’s Playhouse burnt to the ground. If I remember correctly, the cause of the fire was said to be faulty wiring. But I’ve always wondered if that ghost was unhappy that it’s home had been moved.

Credit must be given to the good people of Georgetown. They produced repertory seasons the next two summers in a tent. They launched a major fund-raising effort and built a new King’s Playhouse on the foundation that had been put in and it was open in time for their 1985 season. I did a few shows in the new theatre and to this day, I have never heard that it is haunted.

Next week I am going to begin a new ten part series recounting the why’s and wherefore’s of my favourite stage roles.

All right, on to the haunted theatre. Press Theatre presented their shows out of Brock University -as it turned out, the only way I could escape my old alma mater was to leave town- in the romantically-named College of Education Theatre. This was a standard proscenium arch space with seating for just over five hundred. It had been built in the early 1970’s, so had only been around for a few years when I started at Press. Therefore, it was an unlikely candidate to be a haunted theatre, most of which are much older buildings. But hauntings are what they are and seem to have little to do with what the living want them to be.

My second season at Press, I was “promoted” to lighting technician. Although I did get a modest pay raise, I still built and assembled sets and worked fifteen hour days. It was during this season I became acquainted on a personal level with the odd things that went on in that space. I had heard the theatre was haunted, but had given it little thought as I had no ghostly encounters in my previous experience. Ghosts were something that existed in bedtime stories to scare children and on late late movies. Perhaps the scariest thing in that space was the lighting board. It was a monstrosity from some decades before. It was called a Davis board -presumably after the manufacturer- and stood about eight feet tall and was at least a dozen feet long. It housed a series of 18 large levers that could be locked off, or unlocked, dependent on the use of 3 sub-master levers. And there was one master lever that could be used for blackouts and at the top of scenes, for when it went, everything that was unlocked went with it. Anyway, the board must have weighed a couple of tons and the rumour was that it had fallen on a worker when it was first being installed. This unknown worker was said to have died and was generally thought to be the resident ghost.

A little more about the operation of this board is required to fully appreciate the first instance of the haunting. Depending on the lighting cue, I could have one foot on a lever, both hands on two others and elbow or chin on a fourth. It took a lot of practice and dexterity to lock and unlock the levers in preparation for the next cue. But from the standpoint of a lighting guy, the most curious aspect of this board was where it was situated. Behind a wall that separated me and it from the stage. I could not see the stage without having to remove my headset and going to the end of the wall for a look. I was totally dependent on the Stage Manager in the booth out front to let me know how the lighting looked, which she did over the headset. One night, during a blackout, the Stage Manager said, there is still light on the stage. I checked the board, but everything was in the off position. I went off headset and peeked around the corner of the wall. I could see the offending light up in the ceiling above the audience and I had a good knowledge of which lever controlled it. I went back to the board and clicked the breaker switch which cut all power to that lever’s lights. The Stage Manager said, it’s still on, but we’ve held this too long already, we have to move to the next cue. I switched the breaker back on and we went to the next scene. In the subsequent blackout, all lights went to dark. So I assumed it had to have been some error on my part. Until the next night. At the same place in the show, the same light remained on after the blackout. This night, however, it stayed on for the remainder of the show, no matter what I did to stop its tom-foolery. But there was nothing I could do. This obviously frustrated the Stage Manager and, no doubt, the actors, who were now making exits and entrances in partial light. Following the performance, I went to the other side of the stage where the power for the board was situated. I turned it off, which then disconnected all power to the lights themselves. The rogue light remained on, though its power had been cut. Now, even the Stage Manager was in agreement that this was getting weird. I went up in to the catwalk in the ceiling above the auditorium and disconnected the light’s plug. The light went off, making that clicking sound they do as they cool down. Before the next night’s show, I plugged the offending light in and ran a few test cues and everything worked fine. We came to the spot in the show where it had remained on- and I was dreading this moment for several actors had demanded I do something about the deplorable lighting- and the light, as it was supposed to, went out, just like all the rest. We did encounter minor lighting glitches from time to time thereafter, but they were all of the explainable variety. And if this one incident was isolated, I would say, this does not a haunting make. But that was only the beginning of my experiences.

One morning I arrived for work, but as I did not have a key, I had to wait for one of the university’s technical assistants to show up to let me in to the theatre. I waited for awhile and then went off to find one of them. On my way to their office -which was in another building- I spotted one of them just pulling in to a small staff parking lot. Now, it is important to note here that I had been the last person to leave the theatre the night before, the door locking behind me at my exit. The technical assistant unlocked the theatre and there we saw the stage was bathed in red light. Now, we were in the process of hanging and cabling the lights for the next show and so we had left nothing plugged in to the board. But there were half a dozen lights scattered across the grid above the auditorium casting this red illumination. We went down and discovered not only was the lighting board turned on, but one cable was connected and it’s appropriate lever was adjusted accordingly. Now, all of this could be explained as some sort of practical joke, but whoever had done it would have had to take a considerable amount of time in its execution. Certainly I never heard anyone take credit for it. By this point, I was willing to accept it as the ghost’s handiwork.

One night shortly after this, myself and the university’s two technical assistants were in the Green Room having a beer after a long day of work. We were talking when suddenly a sound came over the tannoy. This was the internal intercom system that allowed cast and crew to hear what was going on during the show while they were in the dressing room or somewhere else not directly backstage. The sound was of something heavy being dragged across the stage. We knew what was being dragged as we had been constructing several large risers -raised platforms made out of three-quarter inch plywood and two-by-fours. One of the techies said he would go take a look. After he left, the dragging sound continued for a couple of minutes before it stopped. Then the techie’s voice came over the tannoy. He said the theatre was all locked up and there was no one there. He then said he was coming back. About thirty seconds later, the dragging sound commenced once more. When the techie got back to the Green Room, all three of us decided to go have a look. Of course the sound ceased before we got there. We checked out the entire theatre but there was no one there, other than the three of us. I remember making a note of where the risers were positioned on the stage. When I came in to work the next morning, every one of them had been moved by several feet.

Although I tried not to think of it, I was beginning to get a little unnerved by these strange goings-on. Sometimes during a show, I got the odd sensation that I was being watched. My gaze instinctively went up in to the shadowy darkness of the fly gallery above the stage. I imagined I would see a pair of glowing red eyes staring at me… did that shadow move? I never did see anything up there, but that feeling of being watched from the fly gallery never really went away.

Then one day something happened which changed my perception of what I now, as a matter of course, called the ghost. I arrived early for work that morning and so was expecting to wait in the lobby of the theatre for someone to show up with the key. In case someone was already there, I tried the door. It was unlocked. The theatre was dark with the exception of the red exit signs, which were designed to be seen and not cast much light. In the darkness, I was unable to find the house lights, so I ventured down the stairs toward the stage. I could not see anything except the word exit off to both sides of me. When I got to the stage, I crawled up on to it, intent on getting to the switch backstage which would turn on the work lights. But I knew the stage was littered with set pieces, cables, lights and tools from the night before. So I got down on all fours, preferring to crawl slowly rather than trip over something as I would do if I was walking. In this total blackness, I crawled across the stage and back where the switches were and I did not bump in to anything. I turned the work lights on and went back out on stage. The only way I could have crawled across that stage without bumping in to anything was if I had zig-zagged and went back and forth and round about. How could I have known when to turn when I couldn’t see anything? Although I had not felt at the time as if someone -or something- had been guiding me, that is sure how I felt as I saw the route I would have had to take. From that point on, I did not feel the ghost was any sort of threat and, in a way, that was his farewell, as I did not again encounter any more unexplainable events.

I do not know if that theatre is still there, or if it is, if it is still being used. A number of years ago, I heard that the Davis board had been replaced by a more compact computerized one. Which is a shame, despite the wonders of today’s computer wizardry. There was something about the human touch on those levers that enhanced the magic of a performance. As I could not see the stage, I used to adjust my cue timing by hearing how the actor’s performed on any given night. After a particularly powerful scene, I might slow the fade to black just a bit, to add resonance to what the actors had accomplished. Sometimes the Stage Manager would whisper through the headset, “That was beautiful.” I had to take her word for it because I could not see what had transpired on stage. But my old pal the ghost could and I guess he must have liked it because he had stopped his little shenanigans.

Next week a haunted theatre of the more traditional kind, an old building with lots of history.

These next two painful tales are both from 1984 at the Victoria Playhouse in Prince Edward Island. That summer, I was playing John in Frank Gilroy’s The Subject Was Roses. This was quite the challenge for me as the character was aged fifty and I was twenty-nine at the time. Mike Stratton played John’s son, who had just returned from overseas at the end of World War 2. At one point, I was to punch Mike in the face and, due to Mike’s great nervousness about this, we worked hard in rehearsals so he had no reason for concern. It was staged so Mike stood upstage of me so that I could throw my fist and not come closer than a few inches from his face. Due to his reaction, combined with the sound of my other hand slapping my chest, the audience would believe I actually hit him. This all worked beautifully for most of the summer, so much so, Mike not only became comfortable with it, he expressed that it had become one of his favourite moments in the show. Especially those nights when there were audible gasps from the audience. Well, yes, I suppose you already know where this is going: one night I actually did hit him. When I saw Mike’s stunned look, followed by a flash of anger, my character’s subsequent apology was more sincere than it had ever been previous. All of that was helped along by the sight of a trickle of blood at the corner of Mike’s mouth. Now, fortunately he was not seriously hurt and was quite understanding that it had been an accident. For that is what it was -I had no intention of hitting him, something had just gone wrong. I had misjudged the distance or he had moved his face in to my fist. The point being that we had become too blase about the moment and therefore had become lax about safety. After that, I made certain I was never close enough to actually hit him again.

Once again I return to The Lion in Winter, near the end of that same year. And, once again, I am the perpetrator of someone else’s pain. Prince John, played by Corin McFadden, spends much of the play annoying his older brother Richard, played by me. In one scene, we entered on to an upstage platform which had a couple of steps leading down to the stage. John was again annoying hot-headed Richard with whatever he was saying. I was to grab Corin and toss him down the steps in a carefully staged fashion which allowed him to control the pace and balance of his descent. This had always worked exceedingly well, but one night Corin tossed in something new. With his back to me -and facing the audience- he began to wiggle his bum at me. Well, Richard was more than annoyed and I saw the opportunity to try something different. I placed the bottom of my foot on Corin’s butt and launched him in to space. He sailed down stage -he was a ninety pound fifteen year old at the time- and landed beside a table. Desperately trying to maintain his balance, he grasped hold of the table cloth in an attempt to gain his feet. The table cloth, of course, merely came off the table with a clatter of various tin plates, goblets and candle holders. I laughed lustily as was Richard’s way and, besides, it was a funny sight. And then I saw that Corin’s tights were ripped and his knee was bloodied. Corin was not upset by this; in fact, he felt we should do it this way every time. But I had finally learned my lesson. Any physical act on stage -and especially those involving violence- has to be choreographed to such an extent that there is no possibility of anyone getting hurt. Ever.

Before I leave this series, there is one final flub I will recount, which has nothing to do with anyone getting hurt -except perhaps a little bruising around my ego. In 2005, I was in Anthony Furey’s The Molly Murders at the Toronto Fringe Festival. I was sitting at a table in conversation with another stage son of mine. The scene was going extremely well. I, like many others, believe one of the most valuable things an actor can do onstage is listen, really listen, to what other actors are saying. If nothing else, it is the surest guarantee of being unlikely to forget one’s lines. And I was doing a superb job of listening in this scene. So much so, I took a little time to congratulate myself (in my mind) for my extraordinary listening prowess. Oh, I am so good at listening, thought I, and this scene is the proof… There was silence. I looked at my stage son who had the oft-seen expression entitled: “Isn’t it your line?” Well, I said my line but now my mind was preoccupied with a religious fusion of old sayings like, pride goeth before a fall and instant karma. I now try very hard not to think of myself as the world’s greatest listening actor. I have also come to understand through all of my various and sundry flubs, that most have been attributable to a lack of focus in the moment. And that is something that always has to be guarded against. Beyond all that, I can and will continue to learn something new. Which is a pretty good feeling in and of itself.

This now brings me to the end of my series on Stage Flubs. I have had a great time remembering all of these disasters and if anyone would like to either comment on what you have read here or share some flubs of your own, I would be more than happy to receive your offerings. Next week I will present the first of two entries pertaining to haunted theatres in which I have worked.

In 1984, I played Richard the Lionheart in James Goldman’s The Lion in Winter at the Victoria Playhouse in Prince Edward Island. The story of this play is that Henry the Second (played by Bill McFadden) has the family in for a late 12th century Christmas -including his estranged wife, Eleanor, his mistress and my character’s male lover. In the closing scene, Eleanor visits her three sons (Richard, Geoffrey and John) who have been placed in the dungeon by Henry. At one point in the scene, Henry is to make an entrance, thus setting up the climax of the play. But one night he was a no-show. The four of us actors on stage were a little confused as to what to do. But it did afford me the opportunity to borrow a line from Edward Fox in the film version of Ronald Horwood’s The Dresser. Solely for the purpose of buying time -and filling dead air- I walked over and looked off stage. “Methinks I see the king,” I said, but as Bill was not there, I turned back to the others, “no, I was mistook.” I do not know how long this missed entrance played out, but stage time did factor in to it, so it felt very long indeed. Eventually Bill did make his entrance and we were able to finish the show as rehearsed. As to Bill’s whereabouts, I cannot recall his excuse, but more likely than not it involved the bathroom. There was one other notable flub in this production, which again occurred in the play’s final scene. Henry challenges Richard to a fight. Bill then took a broad sword by its tip and threw it across the stage where I would catch it by its handle. We rehearsed this bit a hundred, a thousand times and were able to do it in our sleep. Until closing night, that is. To this day I am uncertain if the fault lay with Bill’s throw, my non-catch or a combination thereof, but the sword hit the deck and skittered away under a nearby table. I had no idea of what to do as I had not seen exactly where the sword had ended up. Fortunately, the actor playing Geoffrey (first name of Travis, cannot recall his surname) was not only quick thinking, but totally within character as he retrieved the sword, slammed it down on the table top, saying, “Here you go, Richard”. I was then easily able to pick up the sword and the scene was completed without further unexpected incident. Looking back, I am thankful the sword had not decided to go in the other direction or I might have had to go in to the audience and remove it from some patron’s chest.

In 2005, I played the villainous Bob Ewell in the stage adaptation of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird at Neptune Theatre in Halifax, Nova Scotia. This was a wonderful production with a great cast, including C. David Johnson as Atticus Finch. Mr. Johnson, unlike the famed Gregory Peck heroic film portrayal, played Atticus as being in possession of a serious flaw with regards to the story line. That is, David’s Atticus was blinded to the threat my character posed by a belief in everyone’s inherent goodness. This has nothing whatsoever to do with a missed entrance, but I just wanted to extend kudos to David for making such a bold choice as it brought a very real and human vulnerability to the character. Anyway, at the top of one of the court room scenes, all of the actors were to enter the stage in a deliberate order. Second last to enter was David from stage right. I was to take my cue from him to then enter from stage left. One night I watched him from across the stage as he just stood there. Seconds ticked by as all of the other actors found their seats and waited. I waved my arms in hopes of snapping David out of whatever reverie he was in. He claimed later he did not see me, but he did stroll on stage and I then made my entrance. Of course, I bugged him about this afterward and he took it with the good grace of which he has an abundance. As I said, there was no real impact on this performance as only a few seconds had passed, but this tale does not end here. No, for karma has a way of playing its hand. A few shows later, we were in the same situation and I was standing stage left waiting for David to make his entrance, which he did on time as he always did except that once. It was my turn now to stare in to space and I remember thinking, why does everyone on stage look so concerned… oops, better get your butt out there, Greg old boy. Again, my temporary lack of concentration at this time did not really impact the performance, but it was certainly my turn to take some post-show ribbing. There was one other flub-worthy moment from that production. At one point I was to spit in David’s face from a distance of a couple of paces. During rehearsals we determined I employ a fine spray of saliva (as opposed to a single glob of it) for, in this way, the lights would still pick it up and there would be little doubt that at least some of my expectorant had found the mark. But one night I could not help myself. I wanted to drill him square in the face with that single glob. I worked up a good mouthful of spit, formed it in to a ball and let loose. And then watched as my saliva projectile sailed over his head in a beautiful arc. Which only rendered David’s next lines and business unnecessary. Thereafter I made certain the spit function was set to spray. There is one other note from this production which is purely a personal curiosity. The judge was played by Bill McFadden (yes, he from The Lion in Winter). In all of the years we were both acting on Prince Edward Island, these two shows were the only times we appeared on stage together -and they were twenty-one years apart. Perhaps we can do a production of The Sunshine Boys in 2026…

Next week is my last entry in this series. I shall recount a couple of flubs that led to people getting physically hurt. So heed this warning and do not try these at home.

Okay, enough background and on to my night of many flubs. Here I was in Halifax on my big experimental opening night. As I had no stage manager, I asked the technician provided by the Fringe for two simple favours. First, to give me a two minute call, letting me know the lights would go down at the end of that time. I would then enter in darkness. The other favour I asked the technician, was to fade to black when I left the stage. There were no lighting or sound cues during the performance itself, which ran about eighty minutes. For me, there was an unparalleled excitement. I was putting myself in front of a possible firing squad as I truly had no idea whatsoever how this piece would be received by an audience. Maybe the entire show was just one big flub… To aid me with my line problems, I had taped to the back of the borrowed chair a list of the dozen habitual trouble spots. As I waited backstage and could hear the twenty or so patrons entering the theatre, I must confess to becoming quite nervous. Doubts and uncertainties began looping through my mind. I lay down and began to breathe very deeply in an effort to regain control. With each intake of stale backstage air, my confidence mounted. Yes, I did have faith in my material. Yes, I did have faith in my acting chops. Yes, I had my previous experience in Speed Limit to remind me I could carry a one man show. And, yes, I had those problem lines taped to the back of the chair. The technician located me lying down backstage and delivered the two minute warning. I got up off the floor and knew there was no turning back now. If all else fails, I thought, just let opening night adrenaline bull you right on through. An eerie calm settled over me, but one with which I was not unfamiliar. This is the transition time when the actor becomes the character. The lights went dark and I entered the stage and proceeded to bump in to the chair. Other than the awkward noise this created, it was not that big of a deal. However, in retrospect, I can identify it as a harbinger of what was to come. As the lights came up, the audience found me seated centre stage with a beer in hand. “Nights like this are great…” I began. The words poured out of me, all of them in the particular graveled tones I had adopted for Jerry Ontario. Things were going swimmingly -at least for the first few minutes. Inevitably, I came to a spot where I had no idea what the next line was supposed to be. Or, of course, what might follow that. Who wrote this crap, I asked myself. But I steadied myself, relying on my experience gained in Speed Limit and I decided to take my time. I meandered upstage and reached down to scratch my leg. I looked at the sheet of paper I had taped to the back of the chair. There was something written there, I could see, but could not at all make out what it was… I had written my problem lines in blue ink and under the stage lights, they had washed out. My lifeline was no more. Panic began to set in. Even if I managed to get through this problem area, there were eleven others waiting for me. I could just leave and he’ll bring the lights down, end of show… I dismissed that thought quickly. I suppose I could have made out what was written on the back of the chair if I had gone right up to it, but I knew if I did that, I would let the audience in on what I was doing. And I knew, as well, that that would mean I would lose them. I straightened up and took a deep breath. And a line came out of my mouth -not the right one, mind you- but at least I was off and running again. The rest of that performance is a bit of a blur of not knowing the next line, but managing to find something to say to keep things moving. And, time and again, I would realize I had missed something and would then go back to fill in the blanks for the audience. This, of course, sometimes screwed me up too. Still, as this crazy, almost improv, performance continued, I gained more confidence. For even if I could not think of any scripted line, I just made stuff up. Eventually one of the written lines would come to me. I realized, that as this was not a known work, there was no way anyone could tell I was screwing up. Or so I thought. At long last, I found my way through blunders, back tracks and misadventures, to the end of the script. “But as the fella says,” said I, with great relief, “what is is what is. Nights like this are great.” I took one last swig of beer -really water in a brown bottle- and I left the stage. The lights came down and the audience, though small, erupted in to large applause. I went out and took my bows and also took the time to look every audience member in the eyes and whispered thank you’s to them. Although I had mangled my own script, I was extremely satisfied that the show had still worked. And, I was fairly certain I had covered all of the main points of the story, though in a most decidedly haphazard and round-about manner.

Backstage I encountered the technician, whom I thanked and then confessed I had lost my way many times. “I know,” he said. “Since I didn’t have any cues, I had nothing better to do than follow the script you gave me. But once you started jumping pages and then going back, I had to give up cause I had no idea where you had gone.” I just grinned and nodded my head. Fortunately for me, my next performance was two days later. I spent that forty-eight hours hammering those misbegotten words in to my head. Thereafter, I only encountered minor glitches with the lines, I am so very happy to report.

I am drawing near the end of this series on Stage Flubs, but two more entries to go. Next week, a smorgasbord of minor flubs, including a type not yet touched upon, the missed entrance. But first, here is a bonus feature, an excerpt from A Man Looking Out a Window.

“Megan comes back in with him and says, ‘Jerry, this is Danny.’ As if I didn’t know who he was. It was Danny the Golden Boy of Summerside, Danny Quinn who blew in to town from the Big Smoke. Oh, he was in trouble all right. He’d sucked money out of everything that moved the last few years, talking about building an under water park for scuba divers. He was always being yapped about on the radio and in the paper. All that money and nothing to show for it. I turned back to the window. Maybe they’d both just go away if I ignored them… When I was a kid, we had one of those gizmos that you inserted a round disc of slides in to and a lever on the side would move to the next picture and you could see them if you held it up to the light. I don’t remember what that thing was called exactly, but somewhere along the line, I started thinking of it as the View Master. So whenever I didn’t like what was going on around me -and this started even when I was a kid- I’d pretend my brain was a View Master and I could flip the lever to the next picture and thereby escape the external bullshit. Which is precisely what I did at this point… I’m ten years old and we moved to a new house. Well, it was only new to us, smaller house really. Smaller house, more kids. The old man lost his job and never did get another one permanent like, so we ended up on the social ass. But at night some times I’d wake up and look at the willow in the back yard. In the winter under a full moon, it was like a black and white photo, or maybe an ink drawing. One time my brothers woke me up and told me to look at the willow. It was whipping back and forth in the wind, swirling round crazy like, with lightning going off. We just sat there and watched seemed like for hours. Don’t think we ever said anything about it, we just watched. Good guys, my brothers. They both moved away years ago… ‘Jerry, are you listening to me?’ Well, it didn’t work, they were both still here. Fucking slut. I tried the View Master in my head again, but I guess it was stuck, cause nothing happened. I hate when it does that. So that’s when the Golden Boy speaks for the first time. ‘Mr. Ontario…’ Jesus, he calls me Mr. Ontario -makes me sound like I’m in a goddamn beauty pageant or something. All my life I got flak for my last name being Ontario. I used to ask dad about our last name and what’s our history and he’d say: ‘Who cares, it’s just our name. As the fella says, what is is what is.’ So I’d go ask mom and she’d say: ‘You don’t wanna know that stuff, you might find out some relative was hung for stealing sheep.’ But that’s the kinda stuff I wanted to know. ‘Besides mom, it’s hanged. Relatives are hanged, horses are hung’. And that’d be when the old man’d give me a cuff up side the head and say: ‘Hey, smart aleck, don’t talk to your mother like that.’”