The Cast

7:07 am, in my office. I've been here since 5:40, catching up on work, thinking about the play. Will 20 rehearsals be enough for the amount of precision work ahead of us? Possibly.

At the end of this production, my theatre company dissolves. I don't mean it won't exist anymore (I have to believe that more people interested in theatre will join the program)...What I mean is that all the people I've worked with for years are leaving -- finishing degrees, moving far away. Leaving.

So: the cast.

Dan as Larry Tarkowsky, the radio station host. At some point, Larry goes fishing (in the fantasy space, naturally -- Larry only travels in his mind). I told Dan I wanted something resembling "the old man and the sea," that kind of an encounter. I wasn't disappointed. When it comes to isolation, to communicable solitude (if that makes sense), a loneliness so palpable it becomes contagious, like a disease, there's no one better than Dan. I said, "go under the fantasy tree, eat a sandwich, think, start fishing, struggle with a giant fish, lose the battle." I've never seen a more tragic battle. And yet it made us all smile, because there's something in Dan's movements reminiscent of the good old days of cinema -- Keaton, Chaplin, the little tramp. Imagine the little tramp losing a battle with a giant fish. Now imagine the little tramp as Magritte's little man whose face is obscured by a huge red apple, standing perfectly still inside his gilded frame. In the Parisian scene (Conni and Seth's visit to the Louvre), Dan plays the little man, correct, anonymous, neat -- Bartleby-ish. Dan as the little tramp, Magritte's everyman, Bartleby. Larry Tarkowsky is all of them and nobody in particular. A solitary man. A freak.

Conni walked into my office in the Spring of 2003 and said, "I've seen your plays and they're beautiful. I haven't seen anything like that before. I want to be in your next production."
It was a matter of instinct that I said yes. It's always a matter of instinct, which is why I never audition people for my plays. What's the point of the audition? To spot talent in the most artificial of circumstances? Ok, so you spot talent. And then rehearsals begin and you realize you haven't the faintest -- you've no idea if you can trust any of the people you've chosen. I'd take a courageous, reliable amateur any day over a talented (professional) jerk. So I don't audition. I'll teach a class, and I'll notice something: body language, or a certain way of speaking, of articulating words, a certain sense of humor, etc, etc, etc. At the end of the semester, when I know I can trust the person I've noticed all those things about, I'll ask: "Do you want to be in a play? It's more work than you can imagine. It will almost kill you and, during rehearsals, I've been known to be unkind. But at the end, the work will be good and the play will be beautiful. What do you say?" For the most part, they say yes. I've never regretted my decisions. And now, all these amazing people, these people I've come to trust completely, are leaving.
Conni plays Dominique Lapierre, actor and freelance journalist, interested in the life of Caryl Chessman, the red light bandit on death row at San Quentin. Dominique Lapierre did exist and he (yes, the real one was a man) was indeed interested in Chessman. I've read his interview and I think he too believed Chessman to be innocent.

Seth is Chessman. The character is slightly problematic. On the one hand, he's the guy whose death triggered the whole death penalty controversy. Norman Mailer and Robert Frost, various political personalities and about three million other people petitioned on his behalf. Chessman maintained his innocence until the end. On the other hand, for my own purposes in the play, Chessman has to be sleek and witty. He is, after all, offered a book deal. He does get to write his autobiography and he is good -- persuasive, smooth, articulate. I show his death at the end, but his death coincides with Larry's redemption, with his leaving the radio station in search of...in search of life, I suppose, so I imagine part of the tragic impact will be lost on people. I'm still negotiating the end. Plus the characters are so stylized that I wonder if Chessman's execution will have any impact at all...I don't know. I don't know yet. I'm not killing Chessman to make a political point or debate the death penalty. I'm eliminating him as one would an obstacle.

Seth is still struggling with his space (the seating is not too comfortable, the angle is a bit off) and with the first sentence of the play, when he announces, in blackout, the existence of Habitat Radio. It's a disembodied voice that has to sound a bit fantastical, "At first there is nothing," not quite biblical, but in a way creating a world. At first there is nothing but the radio station, then, slowly, spaces are traced around it, exist because of it, are justified by its existence. I'm not sure Seth understands the importance of that first sentence. A play's beginning sets the tone for the entire thing. The end image stays with people, long after the curtain falls.
This is Seth's second production and he's still reluctant to let go completely. He is still in control of every gesture, every inflection -- and when I say control I mean restraint, which is not always a good thing on the stage. It's as if he has an image to maintain, and, even as a character, a touch of the ridiculous or a moment of abandon might spoil that image, might dent his masculinity...I have to work on that: convincing Seth to let go. It is, after all, his last play.

Mike plays Jean LaLiberte, vegan and revolutionary (also, possibly contagious), a character plagued by constant fears. Jean believes he has cancer of everything. He thinks he's infected with a deadly virus, he has sinus and stomach problems, insomnia and a touch of paranoia. The character is exaggerated and cartoonish, but underneath there is the idea of danger. He claims to have sponsored revolutions. From time to time, he takes out an entire country (he crosses it out on the map that covers the floor of his apartment) and has complete  access to Chessman although he's not on his visitors' list. Jean LaLiberte is a strange combination of everything I fear (death, disease), everything I despise (personal vanities disguised as righteous political statements), everything I question (history, hypocrisy, hysteria).

Ellie plays Gabe, an uncertain character. Not ambiguous, but unsure. People in plays are so sure all the time, about the outcome of their actions, about their convictions, their rights. I'm generalizing, of course, but even the tortured, nowadays, seem to have a plan (on the stage, at least). I wanted a character that can move between all the other characters, not unnoticed but inconsequential. A normal human being. One of us. She works for Chessman, but when it comes to affection, Chessman prefers Dominique. She's Jean's neighbor, but he cannot comfort her when she knocks on his door. She talks to Larry, tries to establish a relationship, to begin an adventure, but that's where the happy end doesn't work. She has to fail or Larry has to fail -- either way, they don't walk into the sunset at the end. Gabe is also my connection to the audience. At the beginning of the play, she is the one who looks directly at the audience after setting up her space. It's a trick I've learned from the Old Masters -- the group portraits where one of the characters looks "out," towards the space the viewer will eventually occupy. It's an invitation, that look, a dare. This is the make-believe space where anything can happen. Do come in...
At the end of the play Gabe has to do the same thing, look at the audience, unsure of the space she's just left behind (Chessman's execution scene), or the space she's occupying at that moment (the fantasy space where she meets Larry). No happy end, no embrace. Between love and death, Gabe hesitates and the lights should fade on that hesitation. Not because I don't know what to do with the character, but because, in my mind at least, this is a more honest ending. This is realism, this ambiguity, this uncertainty, the empty space that surrounds us everywhere we go.