Etiquette and Vitriol Read online

  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?

  THE FOOD CHAIN

  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

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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

  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:

  AMANDA DOLOR

  Kate Fleming

  BEA

  Cam Magee

  FORD DOLOR

  James Whalen

  SERGE STUBIN

  Christopher Lane

  OTTO WOODNICK

  Rob Leo Roy

  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:

  AMANDA DOLOR

  Hope Davis

  BEA

  Phyllis Newman

  FORD DOLOR

  Rudolf Martin

  SERGE STUBIN

  Patrick Fabian

  OTTO WOODNICK

  Tom McGowan

  CHARACTERS

  AMANDA DOLOR, Early thirties. A very attractive,

  high-strung intellectual. She is mercurial and has a terrific

  verbal capacity. It is important that she be very thin.

  BEA, Mid-fifties. A Jewish matron with a heavy

  Long Island accent. She is abrasive and easily offended.

  FORD DOLOR, Mid-thirties. A strikingly handsome man,

  Ford is a filmmaker and a man of ideas, not words.

  SERGE STUBIN, Thirty. Serge is a sexual being, and as a

  runway model, he must be good-looking, although it is

  possible that he is less attra
ctive than his confidence would

  indicate. Although intellectually out of his league with

  Amanda, Serge is far from stupid.

  OTTO WOODNICK, Mid-thirties. Hugely overweight.

  Otto is flamboyant, Jewish, insecure in the extreme and full

  of rage. He is a verbal tornado, quite out of control.

  TIME AND PLACE

  SCENE 1: Amanda

  The Dolor living room in New York City, late at night.

  SCENE 2: Otto

  Serge’s studio apartment, the same night.

  SCENE 3: Fatty & Skinny Lay in Bed . . .

  The Dolor living room, the next morning.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  In the interest of accuracy, I have included an alternate ending in this edition. This secondary ending was used in the play’s premiere in Washington, D.C. It is my feeling that both endings work, despite one being much darker than the other, and I have decided to include them both.

  SCENE 1

  AMANDA

  The lights come up on the Dolor living room. It is night. The room is decorated in an extremely young, “hip” manner. There is a hallway to the bedroom, a kitchen area, the main entrance and a powder room. Amanda is pacing, smoking a cigarette. She is listening to some sad, sophisticated jazz, wearing a T-shirt and leggings or casual pants. After a moment, she goes to the phone and dials.

  AMANDA (Into the phone): Hello, Bi— . . . Damn. Hello, Binky. This is Amanda. If you’re asleep, don’t get up. If you’re out, don’t call me back.

  (She looks at the phone as if she’s just spoken gibberish and hangs up. She gets a New York Yellow Pages from a bookcase and looks up a number. She turns off the music and returns to the phone. She dials. This done, she presses a button which puts the call on speaker phone. We hear the ringing, and Bea is revealed.)

  BEA: Hello, Contact.

  AMANDA: Yes, hello.

  (Pause.)

  BEA (Irritated): This is Contact. Can I help you?

  AMANDA: Yes. Well, probably not. I mean, I can’t imagine how you could. I just, I wanted someone to talk to and it seemed too late to call anyone—

  BEA: What’s your address?

  AMANDA: Pardon me?

  BEA: What is your address?

  AMANDA: Why do you ask?

  BEA: This is a crisis hotline. I need your address.

  AMANDA: I don’t see how that’s relevant.

  BEA: I am not allowed to talk to you without an address.

  AMANDA: I don’t know that I want you—

  BEA (A threat): I’m hanging up.

  AMANDA: 241 West 21st Street.

  BEA: That was so painful?

  AMANDA: I just don’t see the purpose—

  BEA: Have you swallowed anything?

  AMANDA: I just wanted to talk to someone.

  BEA: What floor are you on?

  AMANDA: Six.

  BEA: Is the window looking more and more inviting?

  AMANDA: I believe you have the wrong idea.

  BEA: You have any firearms?

  AMANDA: Firearms?

  BEA: You know, guns, whatnot.

  AMANDA: Certainly not.

  BEA (Irritated): Are you lying to me? I will not tolerate being lied to!

  AMANDA: I’m not going to do anything drastic.

  BEA: Oh people say that. They always say that. People lie.

  AMANDA: I assure you, I have no intention of—

  BEA: Last week, Tuesday, I think, Tuesday or Wednesday, I can’t remember—I’m on the phone forty-five minutes with this young man, forty-five minutes, and he’s swearing up and down that he has no intention of doing anything—and after all that time, mittin-drinnen, out he sails. Right out the window. Dead.

  AMANDA: Oh my.

  BEA (A fact): People lie.

  AMANDA: What was troubling him?

  BEA: Oh, I can’t remember. Something. Something was wrong with him. Who can keep it straight. But I tell you, I felt VERY betrayed!

  AMANDA: I won’t jump out the window.

  BEA: That’s why I’m on graveyard. I had a perfectly lovely shift: six to ten. After the talk shows and before the news. Now, I’m on graveyard.

  AMANDA: I’m sorry.

  BEA: I felt very betrayed.

  AMANDA: I understand.

  BEA: Right out the window. Splattered. Dead. I heard the whole thing. It was terrible. What can I do for you, darling?

  AMANDA: I just wanted to—talk to someone.

  BEA: You’re lonely?

  AMANDA: Well, I wouldn’t say that.

  BEA: No. You’re calling strangers in the middle of the night, but you’re not lonely.

  AMANDA: Alright, I’m lonely.

  BEA: Well, let me tell you, everyone’s lonely, my dear—what’s your name?

  AMANDA: Amanda.

  BEA: Amanda, loneliness is my oxygen. I breathe loneliness. I’m Bea, and you don’t know what loneliness is until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes. You haven’t tasted loneliness, you haven’t been in the same state with it. I lost my husband several years ago—I don’t want to dwell. Allif a sholem. So what’s the trouble?

  AMANDA: My husband is . . . gone.

  BEA: Gone? You mean dead gone? What do you mean? Be specific.

  AMANDA: No, no. He’s just gone.

  BEA: Is he missing? D’you call the police? Not that they’ll do anything.

  AMANDA: I haven’t called the police. I mean, he’s fine. He called me to say he was fine. He said he needed some time to work.

  BEA: When was that?

  AMANDA: Two weeks ago.

  BEA: How long you been married?

  AMANDA: Three weeks.

  BEA: And he’s been missing?

  AMANDA: Two weeks.

  BEA: I see.

  AMANDA: He’s working on a film. He writes films.

  BEA: Did he write Howard’s End?

  AMANDA (Bewildered): No.

  BEA: Too bad. I loved that picture! That is a beautiful picture. Did you see that picture?

  AMANDA: No.

  BEA: Ya should see it. See it on the big screen if you can. It was a lovely, lovely picture.

  AMANDA (Testy): Well, I didn’t see it.

  BEA: Oh.

  AMANDA: He makes small, independent films.

  BEA: Did you see Enchanted April?

  AMANDA: No.

  BEA: Me neither. I’m dying to.

  AMANDA (Lighting another cigarette): The point is—

  BEA: Are you smoking?

  AMANDA: Why?

  BEA: Oh it’s a terrible habit. You mustn’t smoke. How old are ya darling?

  AMANDA: Thirty.

  BEA: You have your whole life ahead of ya, which, if you stop smoking, could be a long, wonderful adventure.

  AMANDA: I’m not smoking.

  BEA: I heard you.

  AMANDA: I have asthma. I wheeze sometimes.

  BEA: Are you lying to me!?

  AMANDA: No. I’m not. I’m not. I swear.

  BEA: Did you see Room with a View?

  AMANDA (Lying): Yes.

  BEA: Oh was that a wonderful picture? Did you love that picture?

  AMANDA: It was very good.

  BEA: I loved that picture. So let me understand. You’ve been married three weeks and your husband’s been missing for two of them?

  AMANDA: Correct.

  BEA: Did your husband—what’s his name?

  AMANDA: Ford.

  BEA: That’s a beautiful name! I love that name. Did Ford—I love saying it—did Ford tell you where he was going?

  AMANDA: Well, it was a Monday. We’d spent the week on Martha’s Vineyard. You see, it was our honeymoon and Ford has a friend who owns a house on Martha’s Vineyard, which he never uses—

  BEA: What’s his name?

  AMANDA: Who?

  BEA: The friend, the friend with the house.

  AMANDA: Why?

  BEA: Maybe I know him.

  AMANDA: Lillian.

  BEA: His n
ame is Lillian?

  AMANDA: Yes.

  BEA: Go figure.

  AMANDA: In any event, we spent the week at Lillian’s house. It was our honeymoon.

  BEA: How was the sex?

  AMANDA: It was good.

  BEA: When you say “good,” you mean what, exactly?

  AMANDA: I mean it was good.

  BEA: We’ll come back to that. So you’re in the city with Ford— I love that name!

  AMANDA: Yes. We’re back in the city. It’s Monday morning. We had breakfast. And after breakfast, he told me that he wanted to go for a walk. So naturally, I started to put my shoes on. I thought he meant together.—But he said, he wanted to go alone. He was working on an idea for a film, mapping it out in his mind, as it were. I was a little hurt, to be honest. But I understand that the creative process is a very delicate dance. Ford is a genius. I’d seen all of his films before we’d ever even met, and I always found them—searing. Just searing and penetrating in a very powerful way. So, I didn’t want to question his process. It’s very important that an artist be nurtured. . . . So he went out. And I took a shower. This was about noon. After that, I tried to do some writing. I’m a poet—vocationally. That’s what I do. I was working on a new poem: “Untitled 103,” and I was very absorbed in the poem. It’s about wind. Wind as a metaphor for God as a force in our lives. Or the lack thereof. The stillness, the arbitrariness of a random world. And the work was going very well. I was really just vomiting images like spoiled sushi (that may be an ill-considered metaphor, but you get my gist). I was absorbed and productive.

  I’d written—three lines, I think, when I looked at the clock and it was ten-thirty. This happens sometimes, when I’m writing. It’s as if I fall into a hole in the time-space continuum. I am pulled—I’ve strayed.