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.