11.22.09

Geraldine Sue Page, born in Missouri in 1924, discovered her talent for acting in a Sunday school play, knew she was good, moved to the big city of Chicago, and then to New York, where she became, arguably, the greatest actress of her generation. She was my teacher, before, during, and after I studied with her, and Chris Wells asked me to say a few words about her at the Secret City because today is her birthday. I almost called this “10 things about Geraldine Page”—but Geraldine impressed upon her students the power of the more interesting, the unexpected, we hope, choice. She was and is an enigma. So I’m calling this “11 Things I KNOW FOR SURE about Geraldine Page”.

5. She was born November 22nd, 11/22. I don’t know much about numerology, but I’m told that 11 and 22 are major numbers—mystically powerful. Geraldine, her husband, Rip Torn, and their three children, lived on 22nd Street in Chelsea, with a mailbox that said “Torn Page”. She died 22 years ago. Today would be her 85th birthday.

2. Her hands were exquisite—long and expressive. They fluttered to hide her smile in SUMMER AND SMOKE, death-gripped the telephone receiver in SWEET BIRD OF YOUTH, pointed and shook with fury, when words weren’t enough, in AGNES OF GOD. Her hands were so beautiful it was almost unfair. Lee Strasberg made her sit on them.

3. Speaking of Strasberg, she said—and it was such sacrilege she made us promise not to repeat it—that Method Acting meant “the Method that Works for You”. Shhhhhhh.

10. She charged 10 dollars a class. Cash. She threatened to charge you more if you didn’t do a scene, but she never enforced it.

1. She spoke between the lines, onstage and off. Other people might think she was talking about the weather when she was telling You and You Alone some secret of the universe. It was terrifying.

6. She said the greatest single performance she ever saw was by Shelley Berman. I forget the name of the play, but I said, “Shelley Berman, the comedian?” and she shot me a withering stare. “The Actor!" I got my 10 bucks worth that day.

7. She studied acting with Uta Hagen. For eleven (11) years, even after she became an acclaimed actress. After seeing Miss Hagen in MRS WARREN’S PROFESSION, she said, “I wish Uta would practice what she preaches.” Geraldine did not preach.

8. She was nominated for an Academy Award eight times, finally winning for TRIP TO BOUNTIFUL, by Horton Foote. She is unforgettable in so many films, but especially in POPE OF GREENWICH VILLAGE, in which she was onscreen for only eight minutes. (She counted.) And she told us that it’s not the time that matters, it’s what you do with it. Next time you see that film, look at her beautiful hands. She holds a cigarette in one, and a glass of scotch and a ROSARY in the other. The unexpected choice.

9. She told us to look for inspiration, for our strongest, deepest choices and substitutions, in the love, the crushes, the passions we felt in junior high school. When the subject of Rip Torn came up—and it did, often--she looked all of fourteen.

14. The music at her memorial service was Ravel’s Pavan for a Dead Princess, and there was reserved seating for her students up front, near the family. She often said she had been fortunate to have had good teachers, and felt it her responsibility to teach. I can’t tell you how glad I am about that.

Happy birthday, Geraldine. It’s fruitcake weather!

Doobydooby doo

When I first moved to New York in the early 80's, I was pretty miserable. I was subletting a dreary mustard-colored studio on 89th and Second, just around the corner from Elaine's, the restaurant made famous by Woody Allen-- but I was worlds away from the quirky-urban, romance-and-art-filled Manhattan of his films.

One summer night, coming home from my job as an answering service operator--(yes, children, this was before cellphones--even before voicemail)--I saw Mia Farrow and her bespectacled Swain huddled in front of the fabled Elaine's. (See, I still rhyme when I think of how romantic it could have been. Was, for some people.) Woody and Mia looked like little lost waifs who wouldn't have had a clue how to get home if their car hadn't pulled up to the curb. I can't tell you how much I wanted to be them.

That same sticky, un-airconditioned night, sleeping in the "loft" bed (so close to the ceiling it felt like a coffin) became unbearable. I moved to the mustard-colored corduroy daybed instead, tossing and turning and listening to the city through my open window, tortured with guilt.

Why had I ruined a too-early marriage to someone I adored, why had I moved to New York to pursue my Career (WHAT career!?) and my girlish romantic notions: lunch with broodingly handsome playwrights at the Russian Tea Room; champagne cocktails at the Blue Bar bought by lovesick lawyers; the unwanted attentions of Jerzy Kozinski or some other foreigner over martinis at One Fifth Avenue; breaking the hearts of promising stand-up after stand-up at the Improv--you get the picture. Most of those things didn't actually happen, but when they did, they were not at ALL the way I had imagined. I still wasn't Diane Keaton or Mia Farrow. I wasn't even Louise Lasser. I was sweat-soaked me, alone in the heat, stuck to the ugly yellow corduroy daybed, just around the corner from Elaine's. Why didn't I go back to the Midwest? I flipped my pillow to the cooler, dryer side.

From out of the stifling nowhere came the first few notes--slow, sultry, and so lonely they made me laugh out loud--a trumpet, moaning-- "Strangers in the Night"!? I jumped off the daybed, naked. Where was he? Finally! The man of my dreams, a man who could read my mind, behind one of hundreds of open windows, maybe in his own little sublet hell, crazier than I was, blowing his lonely trumpet at 3 am-- I would have married him on the spot. If we ever had met.

We never met.

Of course things are different now. Elaine's is gone, and so are One Fifth and the real Russian Tea Room; Woody Allen gives me the creeps, and Louise Lasser has all but disappeared. Diane Keaton still looks great and still plays quirky, but she seems to have gone off romance completely.

And Mia Farrow? I wonder why it never occurred to me, Little Miss Movie Trivia Freak, that sweltering August:"Strangers in the Night" was released the same year she married Frank Sinatra.

Maybe the most romantic memories we have are our regrets. I bet Mia Farrow thinks that, too.

Real Writers

In the third grade, I spent my whole allowance on a card game called Authors. It was like Go Fish, if I recall correctly, except that the "books" of cards bore pictures of famous writers. Some names I recognized: Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Louisa May Alcott, Edgar Allen Poe--but some were real puzzlers: Joel Chandler Harris (have mercy, of "Uncle Remus" fame); Nathaniel Hawthorne (I was 8, ok?); Robert Louis Stevenson (my uncle was named after him--but I'd never read him); and Cornelia Meigs(who apparently wrote a bio of Alcott). There must have been others--13 of them, right? Was Shakespeare's face on a card? Shaw? The Brontes did not make the cut, of that I am certain. I would have remembered them.

I've never liked playing cards, honestly. But I loved my Authors.

Since cardplaying was frowned upon in my family, I took the pious view that the game of Authors was educational, not at all like the secret pinochle my parents played when my grandmothers weren't around, or the waxy naked-lady cards my uncles hid. Authors served a higher purpose. The scary, stern pictures of the old people on them were proof--they may as well have been Abraham and Sarah.

My purchase of Authors happened to coincide with my discovery of the Biography. I had already fallen in love with libraries (a complicated story involving my father's Air Force career, family literacy, and much more)--but long story blogged, when I was eight years old, I fell for biographies, HARD. They came in little blue or orange-covered books with drawings inside, and there were lots to choose from.

People's real lives made stories! Some of them were cautionary, some were inspiring, some bored the crap out of me but I finished them anyway: Amelia Earhart, Girl Flyer; Dolly Madison, First Lady; and the best of all---Mark Twain.

He was from Missouri; he had RED HAIR; he collected cats; he loved theatre; he played with words; he scandalized people by telling the truth; he was funny, he had a happy marriage, and he loved his daughters until he died, even though he wrote about boys, mostly.

I was so in love with him I read his life story 13 times. I was a real good reader. I was such a good reader I imagined I might be a Real Good Writer, too.

Mark Twain became my imaginary boyfriend, my imaginary father, and very quickly, he became Me. Or the me I wanted to be. I wanted to be the Girl Mark Twain. (I can't type that phrase without imagining my third grade school picture face superimposed with Mark Twain's hair and moustache--maybe a cigar and a little white suit.) That year I read TOM SAWYER, HUCKLEBERRY FINN, and most of his collected short stories.

Did I understand them? Probably not. But just holding the books! The library trusted ME with Mark Twain! Reading his words, knowing he was a real person who was born in the same state as my mother, had her red hair, whose language was the idiom much of my family still spoke, whose values, intelligence, and humor I recognized and wanted for myself--

I gave up the card game. I cheated at it, anyway. I'd only collect the authors I liked, and you can't win the game if that's how you play.

I started writing. In grade school I tried to write novels about orphaned girls in English boarding schools. (Never mind that I'd never been to boarding school, much less England.) I wrote a three-page Christmas play with my friend Connie Markel, "Sovereigns of the Sky". During a particularly religious phase, I kept a daily diary of my sins but unfortunately destroyed it--Real Writers didn't embarrass themselves and probably weren't Baptist, anyway. In junior high I wrote a whimsical book, summer reading, really, about my adventures with the Beatles. Then I convinced myself that Real Writers were Poets. I filled spirals with painful verses of unrequited high school love, mostly in lower case, read by all my closest friends, some of whom declared me the next Emily Dickinson. I even became editor of the high school literary magazine. But I still wasn't a real writer, an Author. It was clear that my face would never be on a playing card.

The Girl Mark Twain went underground for years. Unemployed and bored in Los Angeles, she joined a writing group, started a reading group, and took classes. She followed Somerset Maugham's advice and copied Real Writers' work in her own handwriting until she felt entitled to write--and sometimes she took his other advice and simply wrote her name over and over again: The Girl Mark Twain, The Girl Mark Twain, The Girl Mark Twain--until something almost Real took shape.

Desperately Seeking Buddy Galon!

For the past few years, I have had a Google alert on three things--my own name; whatever project I'm currently obsessed with; and Buddy Galon. So whenever any of the above pop up in cyberspace, Google magically sends me an email to let me know that somebody, somewhere, cares about these things, too--at least in the moment.

Buddy Galon was Lady May Lawford's "as-told-to" and published her autobiography, BITCH!, upon which I based my little play.

Imagine my surprise when Google alerted me on August 21, 2009, with the following (from a Craigslist posting):

"Desperately Seeking Buddy Galon - w4m (Palm Beach, Florida)
Trying to locate Buddy Galon. . . An unscrupulous woman in New York is making a play about his book and giving no credit to him as author. . ."

Of course I answered immediately to say that I am the "unscrupulous woman"(actually, that part of the post kind of thrilled me),that I legally hold the stage rights, that I do fully credit him, and that if this Craigslister finds Mr. Galon, to please get in touch with me, because I really want to talk to him. No response.

Yesterday, Google and Craigslist presented me with:
"Has anyone seen Buddy Galon, the author, who once lived in Palm Beach? He has disappeared without a trace. . ."

And today:
" . . .we are also seeking author Buddy Galon. . . He has left many friends, colleagues, acquaintances and admirers with no forwarding address or contact information. . .We miss him."

What makes this run on Buddy?!

I personally know someone else who is looking for him, found an old phone number, and called it. The result was--well, ask me in person and I'll tell you, because it's an interesting story, not for this forum. Buddy didn't answer the phone, but the person who did is also looking for him, and apparently has been for some time.

The mystery of Lady Lawford, and now the mystery of Buddy Galon?! The conspiracy theorist in me is wild with imaginings, and the part of me that so often wants to disappear into thin air is wild with envy.

If you know where Buddy Galon is--I think his given name is Beauregard--please let me know. He grows more interesting every day.

The Post-Bitch! Post

"Never give up - and even with no talent you'll still make it, because so many people DO give up." --Ruth Gordon, yet again!

Out of the blue another Ruth Gordon fan sent me the above quote, just when I was convincing myself that I shouldn't write any more plays. "Bitch!" was a b*tch.

My father recently reminded me of a dinner table conversation, from years ago. (We'll call it a conversation; mostly we argued, circa 1965-1984). He had been trying to convince me to go to law school, join Civil Service, ANYTHING to fall back on, in case Plan A (to be a working actor and the Girl Mark Twain) didn't work out. Finally, frustrated, he asked me what I'd do if I never "made it"--and I don't remember saying this, but apparently I growled,"I'll outlive everyone until I'm the only actress left. Then they'll have to hire me!"

Ruth Gordon's father, the sea captain, wanted her to be a phys ed teacher. She wrote a play about it.

I'm off to Houston on Monday to play Mrs. Webb in OUR TOWN, the American masterpiece written by (yes, it always comes back to her) Ruth Gordon's dearest friend, Thornton Wilder. I played Mrs. Soames at Hartford Stage about two years ago, with Hal Holbrook (the Boy Mark Twain) as the Stage Manager--a wonderful production,a lesson in Zen, directed by Gregory Boyd. Greg's directing it in Houston, too, and I'm getting a promotion this time because my friend, the estimable Annalee Jeffreys, is rehearsing Horton Foote's Orphans Home cycle, bound for Hartford and NYC. That's how it works.

As a kid, I found OUR TOWN corny--I guess I didn't understand irony then. And my loving, hard-working young mother was still vital and healthy. I hated Emily Webb because I WAS Emily--easy to ridicule, idealistic, bright, and clueless. Now I'll be playing her mother.

When I turned the Big 4-0, to stave off despair, I started collecting autographed photos of women who kept creating beyond the unimaginable age of forty. My first was Ruth Gordon, a framed lobby card of her in DOLL'S HOUSE. Then Shirley Booth, Geraldine Page (of course), Rosemary Clooney, Hedy Lamarr, Doris Day, Uta Hagen, Marian Seldes, Maureen Stapleton, Angela Lansbury, and lots more--my alma maters--doesn't that mean soul mothers? I have to remember to find Shelley Winters! When I studied with her I was too shy--well,afraid of her-- to ask. And I was too young to realize that the opportunity might pass. Now to ask my Aunt Frances and my Great Aunts Mary and Ruth for their autographs, too. They're not actresses, but they're survivors, and they'd look good hanging next to those other ladies.

Another of my heroes, Vanessa Redgrave, once said that her lifetime goal was to be not the world's greatest, but the world's oldest working actress. Now, that's what I call "making it"!

I've got a lot of re-writing to do in Houston.

Don't Be Helpless, Don't Kill Yourself, Don't. . .

"Don't be helpless, don't kill yourself, don't look for trouble. Stuff gets in your way, kick it under the rug. Stay well, stay with it, make it come out. Never, never, never give up."--Ruth Gordon

I'm thinking about Teddy Kennedy and my extreme guilt over having to say the lines I have to say on Friday the 28th--my last Fringe show as Lady Lawford, bashing (gulp)America's favorite First Family. But to dwell on that would be wasting time; Friday will come and I will say Lady L's awful words in spite of my discomfort--and since I'm working hard on becoming more like RG, I'll cut to the chase.

That Friday is the anniversary of Ruth Gordon's death. I still can't believe I never met her.

I used to write letters to her in my head, in the 70's, when I first read her books--she wrote three, in which she encouraged mailing your thoughts and letters of admiration to people you don't know. It had worked for her as a young girl. Her heroes wrote back to her. Would Ruth Gordon actually read my notes and respond? The thought terrified me. What if she thought I was an idiot? Or what if she was so unimpressed she just tossed them? They remained safe in my head. Safety was NOT Ruth Gordon's message to the world.

When she died, in 1985, I started mailing my gushy fan letters, my dumb questions, my admiration, to people I truly admire. Of course I didn't hear back from some of them--but a very famous playwright became my pen pal, I finally got to meet him, and he even let me sit in on rehearsals. It was awkward and embarrassing, until it wasn't.

And when another playwright--Garson Kanin, Ruth Gordon's widower--was casting a revival of his most famous play, BORN YESTERDAY (a play I grew up quoting because of the Judy Holliday movie), I actually met him and got cast. He even wrote ME a few notes--as witty and charming and brilliant as I had hoped he'd be.

Since then, Garson's widow, the amazing Marian Seldes, someone else whose work I admire beyond admiration, has been supportive and kind to me. She is such a trouper she performed once at Cause Celeb!, the comedy show I used to do. I admit I write fan notes to her occasionally because it's great to spread that respect and affection outward to our inspirations--otherwise they may never know their influence. It can't hurt.

And the Estate of Garson Kanin and Ruth Gordon, Martha Wilson, is one of my dearest friends now. She knew them both well, of course, but doesn't gossip about them, which is sometimes frustrating to a girl like I. They stay firmly on my pedestal, and I'm grateful for that.

What does any of this have to do with the journey of my little play, "Bitch!"?

Back to the '70's: I was very young, a newlywed in St. Louis, very depressed, phobic, not doing anything I wanted to be doing, for any number of boring reasons, when I first read MY SIDE, by Ruth Gordon. I turned to my adorable young husband and said,"Do you think I'll be like her when I'm her age?" And he replied,"No. Because you're not like that now."

Unlearning Helplessness 101. I've come a long way from St. Louis. But baby, I've still got a long way to go.


Come see the final show if you can. I'm hoping there'll be a ghost in the audience.

First Night of Bitch!

Twelve or so years ago I did a production of Michael Frayn's "Noises Off" at a lovely, now-defunct theatre in oh-so-bucolic New Hampshire. I played Dotty Otley, the character Dorothy Loudon created on Broadway, and the role Carol Burnett played in the film--a bitch of a part. For theatre people, "Noises Off" is one of the funniest plays ever written: it's about a performance where everything goes wrong.

This past Monday night, at "Bitch!", not EVERYTHING went wrong. There were a couple of dozen friends in the audience, and that was--well, very encouragin', as Ruth Gordon would say. They laughed a lot, mostly appropriately. And Joe Kinosian, pictured above, is not only a devil on the piano, he's an angel of a scene partner. He saved my ample ass more times than I care to admit. When my subconscious told me to cut and skip and omit and forget, he brought me back to the surreality that is the Fringe.

Just as the show started, there was a loud crash! somewhere in the vicinity of the booth. Knowing that our intrepid stage manager Sarah Magno and Melinda Buckley, director, were up there, I didn't worry--until we had no sound cues. None. No music, no doorknocks--except for the frantic by-hand knockings emanating from the booth, followed by some desperate offstage pounding--which made it seem like there were angry ghosts all over the Connelly theatre (a truly ghost-y place, even without the knocks). That's when I knew we had a problem. The crash! had been the board operator knocking everything over, somehow pushing the MUTE button on the sound machine, unable to figure out the problem.

For a fleeting moment, I thought of stopping the show and starting again. Almost never a good idea, but at the Fringe, each show has just 15 minutes to set up ENTIRELY, and 15 minutes to strike, after every performance. Our roller coaster was already well on its way, and since it was the first time we had ever done a full run in the space with costumes, audience, or full tech (well, everything but sound), Joe and I soldiered on, and eventually we not only had knocks, we had telephone rings, we had rhythm, and we were back on track.

Until the scene where Lady Lawford wakes to find she has been burglarized, in her foggy mind, by the Kennedys. That's when the sofa's entire arm came off in my hand. Fortunately Lady Lawford blamed her step-dancing mackerel-snapping in-laws, I hope in character. The audience loved it. Well, except a critic who happened to be there, but really, who cares?

And of course my dress got caught in the wheelchair and I forgot to take the bandage off my head when I should have, and I skipped more pages and my gorgeous 50's ribbon dress was soaked through even though a Lady never sweats--you know, the usual.

My teacher, Geraldine Page (don't you love all this name-dropping?) used to say she lived to be onstage when things went "wrong". And to take care of them. Be in control, make yourself feel that you do have some power, at least for the time you're onstage, and make the audience feel that they have had a purely unique experience that will never happen again.

The sound will never again be so screwed up. (That particular board operator isn't with us anymore.) The sofa arm won't come off--we have a new sofa from New Jersey now. I will take off the bandage next time, beware of the wheelchair, refresh my lines, sweat through another costume, and encounter other ghosts.

We get to do it four more times: August 20, 22, 23, and 28th. Something is bound to go wrong at each performance. Absolute heaven.

August 17th, ready or not~

BITCH!, the Autobiography of Lady Lawford as told to Buddy Galon, (my FringeNYC play), opens tomorrow night at the Connelly Theatre on East 4th Street, ready or not. I am determined to ignore the facts and get lucky, Ruth Gordon-style.

I'm tempted to list the facts I'm ignoring, but anyone who has done Fringe theatre knows what they are. Let's just say that I am too old, too talented, and far too grand to acknowledge them!

The facts I'm NOT ignoring are how terrifically talented my co-workers are; how stalwart; and that August 28th, this particular phase of this particular learning experience will be over. One way or another.

The list of thank yous in the programme is hilariously long. But it's how grateful I am.

Come see the show if you can. For more info and tickets: www.fringenyc.org.

Meanwhile, enjoy the photo of the beautiful Peter Lawford and his houseguest, Marilyn Monroe, poor girl.

More soon.

Barefoot and Toothless

I had a dream last night that I was barefoot and my teeth were falling out. I have a lot of teeth-falling-out dreams, but usually I just suddenly notice that my teeth are crumbling, spit them out, and am amazed to discover they're beautiful, tiny pieces of china or complicated little porcelain sculptures. It's always my molars--my smile still looks normal.

But last night I was barefoot and my front right tooth had something carved in it--a word. I can't remember the word, but it started with a C. And no, I don't wear my nightguard anymore, which explains a lot.

"Dreams about your teeth reflect your anxiety about your appearance and how others perceive you. These dreams stem from fear of your sexual impotence or the consequences of getting old.

Another rationalization for falling teeth dreams may be rooted in your fear of being embarrassed or making a fool of yourself in some specific situation. These dreams are an over-exaggeration of your worries and anxiety.

In the latest research, it has been shown that women in menopause have frequent dreams about teeth. This may be related to getting older and/or feeling unattractive and less feminine."

Sometimes I hate the internet. Too much information, and in this case, too accurate in every single scenario:

"To dream that you are barefoot indicates poverty, lack of mobility, or misunderstanding, low self-esteem and lack confidence in yourself. Or you may be dealing with issues concerning your self-identity."

We're at that point in rehearsals.

Performances are August 17, 20, 22, 23, 28. To book tickets: www.fringenyc.org.

Ignore the Facts: Re-invention

When I moved to LA, it seemed like everyone I knew suggested I re-invent myself. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what they meant. Was I supposed to pretend that everything up to that point hadn't happened? Keep the facts but give them a new interpretation? Were they telling me to lose weight? Or just dye my hair (again), change my name, and hope for the best?

Ruth Gordon is my go-to guru. So I decided to employ Ruth's version of re-invention--"Ignore the Facts". In an address to a Quincy, Massachusetts high school graduating class she once said (this is a paraphrase),"When I was young, if I had accepted the facts-- that I was not pretty, too short, bowlegged, with not enough talent, money, or contacts to be an actress, I never would have won an Academy Award". Something like that. Fill in your own blanks.

Peter Lawford was good at ignoring facts. Hollywood's the perfect place for that, of course--but did you ever wonder why his right hand was hidden in films? Just look at him--it's pretty hard to focus on his hand in this photo--but see, it's hidden in the sand. There are many stories about his hand injury, one being that his staunch determination alone kept him from losing it completely in a childhood accident.

How much determination does re-invention require? In spite of his injury, Lawford became a great left-handed tennis player and surfer. He sang and danced in lavish MGM musicals, though he had almost no natural aptitude for either. And when he married Patricia Kennedy, he didn't let his citizenship or religion or even his birth certificate get in the way--he simply changed them all.

His mother, Lady Lawford, was a master of the survival-by-ignoring-the facts philosophy. A little alcoholism, a little dementia, and a lot of paranoia probably fueled her later years, but before she was Peter's "Bitch!", she managed to survive her first husband's suicide; a disastrous second marriage(also a suicide); and the scandal of an affair with her husband's superior officer, General Lawford. They travelled the world until the gossip died down, the money ran out, and their beautiful son became a successful actor, all the while presenting a smile and a ready wit. Is re-invention just a waiting game?

And my hero, Ruth Gordon--the girl from Quincy who never faced facts?--she dropped her last name (Jones), got kicked out of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in 1914 or so but didn't tell her parents, stayed in New York, and got an acting job without any training. Then she married Gregory Kelly, a matinee idol who died much too young, had an affair with the notorious producer Jed Harris, gave birth out of wedlock when it just wasn't DONE (she went to Paris for awhile), became an unlikely Broadway leading lady, met a boy wonder 16 years her junior, married him, wrote brilliant plays and films, created memorable roles onstage and film, and became a symbol of eternal enthusiasm.

Is re-invention just a matter of luck, or a decision to get lucky? Must it be a conscious act? Could re-invention be the natural result of living through a personal crisis, a change of locale or an everyday epiphany? Is it really self-realization? And can anyone re-invent herself, anywhere, anytime?

I'm still counting on it.

Blind Items

WHICH HOLLYWOOD MOVIE STAR'S MOTHER--
-privately dressed him as a girl until he was 10 or older?
-hated the Kennedys, Frank Sinatra, and Sammy Davis, Jr?
-declared Mahatma Gandhi a "fake"?
-called Mussolini "Musso" for short?
-became pregnant by her husband's superior officer?
-was rumored to have been "dusky" (half-Indian)?
-was an equal-opportunity racist?
-married two men who committed suicide, and two who didn't?
-shot a man dead--and no charges were ever pressed?
-rode an elephant all over Hollywood, with a sign saying "Vote for Nixon"?
-took up with a young man 50 years her junior?
-died under very mysterious circumstances--and had her autobiography serialized in "National Enquirer"?
-was devastatingly charming?
-has a new play based on her autobiography, BITCH!, opening at FringeNYC in August, 5 performances only, at the Connelly Theatre? For tickets: www.fringenyc.org

When I list the rumors and facts like that, it makes me wish I could see a show about her! I guess that's why I started this particular ball rolling in the first place. . .Grrrrr. Back to my re-writes.

PS: WHICH ACTRESS/PLAYWRIGHT WANNA-BE USED TO TELL HER STUDENTS THAT THAT UNPLEASANT SENSATION WAS EXCITEMENT, NOT TERROR?! Oh,Brother!

A View from the Other Side of the Table

One of the reasons I started this project in the first place was to get myself on the other side of the table in the audition room. Originally, I didn't plan to be playing Lady Lawford. I know it's hard to believe, but I don't think I'm ideal for this role--I imagined someone older, British, elegant--maybe even bitchy.

But since I'm primarily an actor, not a "real" writer, it's easier for me to see the strengths and weaknesses of the script from the inside. At least that's the premise I'm working from now--so I'm playing Lady Lawford this time. (performance dates below).

And as the playwright I DID find myself on the other side of the casting table this week, with Melinda Buckley, our director, and Melissa Doyle, our producer, listening to actors play the piano, sing, and act their hearts out. They were terrifically unique: solid performers, some so handsome it hurt to look at them, some wonderful singers, some better pianists, and a couple were stars-in-the-making who just didn't happen to fit into this play. I am grateful to them all.

These auditions confirmed all the corny stuff I used to tell my students--the auditors REALLY want you to be good, to solve their casting problem, to be the ONE. And even if they think they've found the ONE, they want you to show them something even better, even more unique, to re-define who the ONE is. I'll try to practice what I preach next time I audition. It's hard to remember on the actor's side of the table.

SO: Who is the ONE? The adorable, brilliant Joe Kinosian--composer, pianist, singer, musical director, actor--and who knows what else!? He just clicked.

Joe was recommended by Kevin Chamberlin, star of DIRTY BLONDE, SEUSSICAL, CHICAGO, and the upcoming ADDAMS FAMILY on Broadway. Kevin's a friend whom I met almost twenty years ago in an early Doug Wright play called DINOSAURS, at Yale Rep. He played Magic Moses, a Christian wrestler, and I played Candy Faye Kafka, a country singer so changed by plastic surgery her own mother doesn't recognise her. Even back then, Doug Wright was brilliant. (DINOSAURS is a story in itself--one of those shows that form real friendships. I'm still in touch with Kevin, Doug, Marylouise Burke, and Bill Mesnik, all from then.)

So nice that Lady Lawford's Buddy is a friend of a friend!

Our world--the world of theatre--is small and grows smaller every day. Good or bad, I find that more and more reassuring, the older I get.

The Lucky/Shameless/Dragon Part:

Bitch! (The Autobiography of Lady Lawford, as told to Buddy Galon)
The Connelly Theater, 220 East 4th St (Ave. A & B)
MON 8/17 @ 10:00-11:35PM
THUR 8/20 @ 4:45-6:20PM
SAT 8/22 @ 7:00-8:35PM
SUN 8/23 @ 2:30-4:05PM
FRI 8/28 @ 7:00-8:35PM

Ticket info: www.fringenyc.org

BUY THEM IN ADVANCE! WE WILL SELL OUT, AS IT'S ONLY A 99-SEATER! AND SELLING OUT EARLY GIVES BETTER BUZZ--HELP A BITCH OUT, OK?!!

Shameless

Shame (ME,fr OE scamu; akin to OHG scama shame; bef. 12c) 1 a: a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, short-coming, or impropriety b: the susceptibility to such emotion 2 a condition of humiliating disgrace or disrepute : IGNOMINY 3 a: something that brings censure or reproach; also: something to be regretted: PITY "it'd be a ~ if you missed the party" b: a cause of feeling shame

Lately I've been drumming up momentum, interest, and funds for BITCH!, which I guess could be considered Self-Promotion. After all, I wrote it, am re-writing it, and will be in it. But somehow the idea of self-promotion seems incomplete without the adjective "shameless".

I wonder why promoting my play makes me blush--Am I immodest? shameless? bound for hell? Why is it so guilt-inducing?!

Just the word "shame" takes me back to a specific gesture my mother, grandmother, aunts, and uncles used: The Forefinger Rub. When we were very small, and did something BAD, usually fibbing (or "storying", as my family put it), they would accompany the forefinger gesture not with "Shame, shame", but "Shamie, Shamie"--as if giving our shame a nickname made it cute. Even as a kid it made me wanna puke.

So I googled the Shame Gesture, and found:

"It implies a superior position from sender to receiver and is sign of friction, which was derived from pointing. Professor Mark Knapp of the University of Texas says,"the whittling motion of the non-pointing finger indicates friction. Making this gesture toward someone indicates 'you are causing trouble between us!'"

The gesture seems to be fairly recent and is limited almost entirely to North America. They've got a similar gesture in Wales, but they make a sawing motion with the non-pointing finger. And in parts of Mexico, rubbing one index finger across the other is considered obscene! "Shamie-Shamie!", I thought, till I read:

"We all deserve to have this gesture applied to us, because we all fall short of God's standards. Shame and guilt are what we should receive. Now, if you take that shame gesture and stop the stroking down the finger half-way you get a cross shape as your two index fingers overlay each other."

Nun-uh. I think it's a gesture intended to brush something off of ourselves--pointing to another and sloughing something off--maybe unwanted attention, maybe DIS-grace, maybe our own shame. You know, a sort of "I am rubber, you are glue" from adults to children.

But if you're truly shameless, can you still blush? Am I "story-ing" by writing a play? Does that make me shameless? And, ever notice how well the word shameless goes with Bitch?

The "Get Lucky"(Ruth Gordon)/"Be a Dragon" (Geraldine Page) news:

-WE REACHED OUR KICKSTARTER.com GOAL!!--but are gratefully accepting donations online till July 15 and offline thereafter. We still need about $2,000. And we would be proud if you'd spread the word.
-I am re-writing like crazy, and un-re-writing like an even crazier person.
-Casting for Buddy is July 13. Know any young actors who are adorable, incredibly talented 20-somethings, and who play a mean piano?
-Performance dates will be confirmed on July 11, but looks like they'll be between August 17 and 28th, 5 performances only, at the Connelly.
-AND we're putting together the rest of TEAM BITCH! and would welcome volunteers. Check out www.andsoshedid.com---Come join us!

It would be a ~ if you missed the party!

Film by Gillian Farrell, Girl Detective

Last week I went to Woodstock to visit my friend Gillian Farrell for a couple of days, to shake things up, try to get a new perspective on "Bitch!", and to shoot a short film of me as Lady Lawford, directed by Gillian.

She was a young actress in Geraldine Page's class with me all those years ago--lovely, slim, blonde, smart, talented--I wonder we ever became friends at all, but Gillian had the knack of making people--even someone as self-conscious as I was--feel comfortable.

It didn't help that my best male friends from class, John Outlaw and Edward Blanchard, REALLY liked her. The three of them were way cooler than I was. Both guys did scenes with her, and with me, too, but Gillian and I never worked together, probably because I was too intimidated. She was the kind of girl I always wanted to be.

She wore groovy vintage clothes, knew celebrities, had wicker furniture, and lived on the upper West side in a great apartment building owned by a wacky former vaudevillian--just like all those old movies that made me want to move to New York--and her day job was fabulous. She was a detective.

When Gillian's detective agency needed to hire another actress/detective, she recommended me. Five nights a week we'd don blue maid's uniforms and head to a mid-town office building to spy on crooked yuppies who apparently had been ripping off their employers, an investment banking firm, returning after-hours to do whatever it was that warranted hiring two actresses to spy on them. I never did know for sure. We carried photos of the crooks in our uniform pockets, with cans of Pledge and dirty rags as a cover, and pretended to be Yugoslavian cleaning women. Our real cover was a duo of actual Yugoslavian cleaning women who had ratted on the yuppie crooks in the first place. Intrepid, they kept the other maids from reporting us to the Maids Union, or worse, speaking to us in Croatian (neither of us knew a word). It was clear we didn't belong there. But it was a fun job, very Lucy and Ethel.

By day, between auditions, I served subpoenas. Gillian's other assignments as an "op" were more challenging and dangerous, and--well, she was better at it than I was. Braving dicey neighborhoods to hand legal documents to scary people proved too much for me. I was relieved to land a job in a Charles Busch play by night, and an upper East side real estate office by day. My brief stint as a lady detective became just another anecdote: What I Did For Money.

But Gillian's gumshoes really took her places. She met a sexy writer who was working on a detective novel, married him, had children, wrote some detective novels herself, and moved to Woodstock after living abroad, directing, and of course, acting. Now her husband is a respected, well-known writer, her kids are gorgeous, and she looks just the same only better--still acts, writes, does charity and political work, and has become a film-maker.

So twenty-two years later, the actress/detectives once again played dress-up and catch-up, and worked together, alone.

Sadly, our dear friends John and Edward are both gone--John died in 1993 and Edward last September. Gillian and I are unexpected survivors. We have finally created something together, however small, after all these years. I'm looking forward to collaborating with her again before another twenty-odd years pass by. And I hope that John and Edward are smiling.

(Watch the film! It's short and sweet--)

The Update on BITCH! (the play)

As I said before, blogging is embarrassing. More embarrassing than THAT is asking for money for my FringeNYC project, BITCH!, the play based on Lady Lawford's book.

We have a little more than two weeks to raise the rest of $3500--Team Bitch has raised about $2700 of that goal, with more than a little help from our friends. For more info about the fundraising and the really cool rewards for donating, check out www.kickstarter.com/projects/1663327260/lets-kickstart-this-bitch-my-play-i-mean.

My brand new website is up, www.andsoshedid.com, with more info about the play. And in a few days, we'll unveil a short film by Gillian Farrell, with yours truly as Lady Lawford.

Melinda Buckley, our intrepid director, is getting ready to hold auditions for the role of Buddy (know a great young actor in his twenties who's a piano wiz?); Melissa Doyle, our producer, is rounding up rehearsal space and a staff (contact us if you know a great stage mgr or lighting designer--fun guaranteed, but not a lot of $$).

FringeNYC has told us we'll be at the Connelley Theatre on East 4th Street--exact dates TBA next week, but definitely several dates between August 14-30.

SO--everything's in motion--but if we don't meet or exceed the $3500 goal on Kickstarter.com, we don't get any of that money at all. And we actually need more than that to put the play up. Whew. Think good thoughts and spread the word, will you, to anyone you think this may interest or amuse!?

Thanks for your support; we'll see you on the Fringe!

The Audience Loves a Dragon

A million years ago, or, more precisely, twenty-five, I was a student in Geraldine Page's acting class in New York.

I was glued to the seat behind her most weeks, because I was awe-struck and terrified and because Geraldine Page could read my mind. Or, like our best teachers, our mothers, she had convinced me that she could, and I was taking no chances.

I first encountered Geraldine Page onscreen at a military moviehouse on Okinawa. My father, a Sergeant in the Air Force, managed the base theatre, so I saw almost every American film released the two and a half years we lived overseas. I had seen Summer and Smoke, Sweet Bird of Youth, and Toys in the Attic by the time I was ten. Two Tennessee Williams and one Lillian Hellman, our Southern masters. I didn't know they were playwrights. The only plays I had seen were in movies.

Watching those films for the first time was thrilling: characters and language I recognized from my own family background, and this woman who was familiar--she even looked like she could be in my family--except she was on the big screen, sometimes plain, sometimes pretty, only real, acting with movie stars, but not one, transcending reality, doing and saying things I knew I could do. Maybe not as well, not yet, but someday.

I told my mother that I knew what I wanted to do when I grew up. "I want to be like that lady in Summer in Smoke", I said. We were sitting in our beat-up old black Ford, in front of our Quonset hut home. "I think I can do that."

My mother tossed her cigarette out the window and spoke in her can-do voice. "You are every BIT as cute as Pamela Tiffin!", she said.

Hunh. I thought it best to keep my bigger ambitions to myself from then on.

Back to 1984. I had just finished some scene, and was waiting for Geraldine's critique, hoping she wouldn't tell me I reminded her of Pamela Tiffin. She leaned in. I took a breath.

"You're so-- Niiiiice. You want Everyone to-- Liiiiike you." (The smarmiest reading of that you can imagine.) And then in her lower register: "I was a nice girl from the Midwest, too. I loved being a heroine onstage. I didn't want to alienate the audience in Sweet Bird. I didn't want them to hate me. But the moment I realized that the meaner I was the more they loved me, I was Free. Don't apologize. The audience loves a dragon. Be a Dragon."

I'm still finding my Bitch-y shoes. They are not comfortable anyplace but at home. I wasn't wearing them at the reading of my play the other day, and I don't know when I'll break them out in public. Soon, I hope. Maybe if I wear them while I do the re-writes, they'll be broken in just in time for performance. Right now I'm still barefoot.

Drama of the Gifted Peter (Lawford)

While schmoozing at the Book Expo, handing out flyers for BITCH! the play (and for Branden Books, the publisher of Lady Lawford's autobiography), I met a woman who told me that a friend of hers had had an affair with Peter Lawford. "Well, not an affair", she said,"more of a one-night stand". She said she couldn't reveal any details--but that it had been a wild night ("you know how one-night stands are")-- I raised an eyebrow, hoping I looked like I knew.

"You don't have to tell me", I assured her, "but let me tell you about his mother." I've been intimately acquainted with Lady Lawford these past four years; I think I've read everything that has been published about her, most of it uncomplimentary, some of it screamingly funny. I like her. (I have to; I'm playing her.)

I trotted out the titillating stuff: that Lady Lawford pretended to have been married only twice; that two of her husbands committed suicide; that she was disgusted by sex; that she hated the Kennedys; that she dressed Peter as a girl until he was nine or ten or twelve, depending on who you believe--

She gasped. "Well, that explains a lot", she said, "because my friend told me---" and she revealed the sordid details of her friend's one-night-stand with Peter Lawford. And it was reeeeally good gossip, with just enough of the ring of truth. You know what I mean.

Suddenly I felt so guilty, standing in the Javits Center, talking trash about a man I'd never met--a grey-haired dreamboat I had a crush on as a little girl, the "Fella with the Umbrella", that handsome English guy on 60's gameshows, President Kennedy's pal.

Poor Peter Lawford: a beautiful boy born to a wildly narcissistic mother, unsure about his paternity, tossed into stupefyingly adult situations and expected to perform--which he did, all over the world, most notably and successfully in Hollywood. He fit perfectly into the MGM star-making system. Groomed by his mother to be the perfect escort, worthy of royalty--he married into America's first family, forever holding the coat for a starlet or an in-law or a Rat Packer. And he somehow maintained the illusion of savoir-faire and good humor until drugs and alcohol got the best of him.

It's a tricky business, this "as told to" stuff.

There are several fascinating books about Peter Lawford, but by far the best-written, most insightful, is by his son, Christopher Kennedy Lawford. And it's not just about his father--it spans the legacy of the Kennedys and the Lawfords, detailing a chemical predisposition to addiction, and the power of family expectations. It's a story of survival everyone can relate to, SYMPTOMS OF WITHDRAWAL, and it's a hell of a read.

But I beg you---please read it after you see my little play! If you read it before seeing BITCH!, I'm afraid you'll find it almost impossible to laugh.

Encouragement and Enthusiasm

I'm getting used to the word Bitch. I still don't like it, but it IS catchy. Yesterday at the Fringe Town Meeting the title of my play alone got a laugh, and that's very encouragin', as Ruth Gordon said, when she so enthusiastically accepted the Academy Award for "Rosemary's Baby".

I watched that broadcast at the time--1968?--and thought it was cute that an old lady would say something flippant at the Oscars. I was a teenager then--pretty smart, but not smart enough. I didn't know that Ruth Gordon's illustrious career had spanned more than 50 years as a Broadway star, movie actress (NOT star, not yet), playwright, and screenwriting partner with her husband, Garson Kanin. The films they wrote ("Adam's Rib", "Pat and Mike", etc) were some of my favorites, even then, and I knew his name, but I didn't know hers till that night at the Oscars.

As a teen, I could tell her tongue was in her cheek, but I didn't, as they say, know the half of it.

Now I find myself, a veteran actress (what a way to put it!) in "Bitch!", playing a woman whose MUCH younger companion imagines himself Harold to her Maude.

I have since read and re-read Ruth Gordon's memoirs--plural. She lived a long, productive life with a husband 16 years her junior, (eons before Ashton and Demi), and finally became a full-blown movie star when most people are collecting Social Security. We should all be so lucky. And so talented.

Here's a Ruth Gordon quote I carry in my wallet: "To have a career, be lucky. If you're not, GET to be. Never give up, ignore the facts, use everybody, and when it gets impossible, ask God for a windfall".

I'm told that the quality Ruth Gordon most admired in people is enthusiasm. It's a quality her dear friend, Thornton Wilder, also admired. I'm absolutely convinced that enthusiasm must be one of the keys to getting lucky.

This week's Lucky news: the Kickstarter page is up, and it is GREAT, thanks to David di Paolo (videographer) and all the contributions from generous artists--monetary as well as "incentive"-wise. Check it out--www.kickstarter.com.

The delightful and multi-talented Melinda Buckley has signed on as Director, and Melissa Doyle is the Producer of All Things Bitch. Taylor is knocking himself out, getting more incentives and being sounding board and all-round doll; Ann Blackstock donated her massive photographic skills to the mix. And Mike Johnson is going above and beyond the duties of brother-in-law--his graphics are fab. (I'm hoping to unveil me as Lady Lawford on next week's blog).

Fundraisers are being planned: a winetasting party and an evening of cabaret stylings, including some very Bitch-y comedy, TBA. To volunteer for fun, just let me know!

And please forward this to anyone you think it may interest or amuse! Let's get lucky!

Comfort Zone Alert!

Blogging is foreign to me. I'm embarrassed to be writing about mememe, mystuff, MINE, and I have to say I'm even embarrassed to read most blogs. A couple of friends, WONderful writers, really do raise the blog bar, but otherwise--it all seems pretty adolescent.

I mean, REALLY.

That being said: Everything I'm doing lately feels awkward, too young, and undignified. Great big clumsy leaps of faith.

I grew up wildly envious of anyone who moved with fluidity or grace across the dance floor or through life. I love observing confidence. It's mesmerizing--I admire it in others and wonder, voyeuristically, how it must feel. My days in ballet and tap class were excruciating--I preferred imagining myself as Eleanor Powell or Moira Shearer, gorgeous, fearless, and fierce, to watching myself in the mirror, stumbling. My own leaps have always seemed small and lopsided, apologetic.

This week I spent two days at the Book Expo, hanging out at the Branden Books booth with the gracious Adolfo and Maggie Caso, publishers of BITCH, The Autobiography of Lady Lawford, the book I fell in love with and adapted. I passed out flyers and schmoozed strangers--something I'd be terrified and embarrassed to do for money. Since I was promoting my baby, it seemed almost natural. After awhile. Almost.

Yesterday the darling, always graceful, Jenny Mudge donated a poster from Broadway's THE PHILANTHROPIST to use as an "incentive" for $$ pledges on kickstarter.com. I bought a cheap wig that soon will become poor Lady Lawford's head of hair. And today I'll get that cigarette holder, and a wonderful photographer, Ann Blackstock, will take the first photos for "Bitch!" (the play). I hate having my picture taken more than almost anything.

This week I'll re-write some more of my play, internally kicking and screaming. I'll chance a few more of my silly little leaps. And try to practice what I always preached to my students--Out of Your Comfort Zone--That's Where We Grow! . . .Ouch.

I will, said the Cat. I will, said the Pig.

Andsoshedid is the name of my newly-formed production company. And So She Did. As a young child, I loved the way my mother would repeat those words when she told me the story of the Little Red Hen. "Who will help me plant the wheat/harvest the wheat/bake the bread? Not I said the cat/pig/et al--Then I'll do it myself! said the Little Red Hen. And so she did." The Little Red Hen could do it all. That's how I wanted to think of myself.

I am blessed to know wonderful people who have specialities I don't begin to understand and who are generous in sharing their time and talents. My brother-in-law Mike Johnson is donating fancy "Bitch" graphics and setting up the Andsoshedid website; Tom L, a wonderful actor, has offered PR consultation; and a dear, dear openhearted friend gave me the Fringe registration fee ($550)in exchange for a programme mention of her production company! My former student Taylor has made himself available for brainstorming and errands and fundraising and --well, just about everything. A photographer friend has agreed to take photos of me in the Lady L "Bitch" bookcover pose. Several people have shared detailed info about their own Fringe experiences, and others have helped with fundraising info. Three angel actress friends have helped me get "incentives"--autographed stuff--for raising money. A former co-worker has offered to shoot a short video (if his bosses knew he'd be in big trouble) to put on kickstarter.com, and a fabulous friend (a former Geraldine Page acting classmate) has agreed to shoot a short film for youtube. Yet another friend, a phenomenal playwright, has given me so much help with the play itself I'm embarrassed, he's such a better writer than I'll ever be. Several friends have offered to write small checks, "Bitch" unseen. A couple of people have said to just tell them how they can help. Tonight my ex, Shane, brought me basic organizing materials from Staples. I am grateful, humbled, simply knocked out by the amazing people I know.

But as these stunning gifts move Bitch-on-the-Boards closer to reality---I'm freaking out. It needs a re-write, like yesterday, and I'm not sure I'm up to it. I need thousands of dollars to produce the show. (Getting money together has never been my forte.) I need a director and a stage manager and designers: lighting, costume, wig, set, and sound design. I need a company manager. A producer or two. I need a crew that will cheerfully work for almost nothing, and I need a young actor who is open and confident enough to workshop the piece, FAST!

Is it at all possible that the right people with the right talents and compatible temperaments may appear on time, willing and capable, as graciously, as gracefully, as all the lovely people who already have stepped up to help?

Apparently I'm not the Little Red Hen after all. A play can't be shared like bread, can it? I'm hoping it can be. I have wonderful friends who deserve all the credit --and all the bread--I can give them.

BITCH!

What's funny is that it's a word I very rarely, if ever, use, and now it's the title of my play.

About four years ago I read this wacky autobiography by the same name, fell in love with the subject (imagine a woman in her 70's calling her autobiography "Bitch!"?!)--acquired the rights to the book, and wrote a play based on it.

"Bitch! The Autobiography of Lady Lawford, As told to Buddy Galon, with an Introduction by Prince Franz Hohenlohe", published by Branden Books.

It's a fun read. I recommend it. And you can see the play the last two weeks of August 2009, as part of the New York International Fringe Festival (FringeNYC). For info, www.fringenyc.org.

More on "Bitch!" as she develops!!!