Jack in the Box, page 18
Lady of the Diamond didn’t quite deliver, but we had a rather marvelous time, all told, led by the indefatigable Ms. Baranski, who behaved even then like the blueblood star she was destined to become. And with the rest of the cast affable and close, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves up in Buffalo at what was to be the last independent production I would do for decades, as I arrived out in San Diego at the Globe almost immediately after, to take up the reins of that theatre. Over the ensuing years, I would hear from John from time to time. He and his cronies would occasionally get a few beers into them and call “Uncle Jack” over the phone to reminisce and crow. I looked forward to these brief, vulgar interruptions, which let me know that whatever else happened, Goodman continued to think well of me and still considered me something of a pal.
By the nineties, the Globe was producing some of its best and most significant work. We were blessed with an uncommon amount of first-rate character men, and you cannot ever do major classical work unless you have depth in that area. You seriously need eight to ten major actors to even anticipate producing a Julius Caesar or a Troilus. Principal among our roster by that time, of course, was Richard Easton, who had come over from London originally so I could do a production of Uncle Vanya for him, and loving the experience and the familiar lure of sybaritic San Diego, which he remembered fondly from the late sixties, when he played Ellis Rabb’s Macbeth opposite Sada Thompson, he chose to stay for about ten years after the Vanya, becoming the actor mentor to the theatre’s new and excellent Master of Fine Arts program. In addition to Easton, we had available at that time regional stalwarts like Jonathan McMurtry, who played out nearly an entire distinguished career within that single community, and others, like Tom Lacy, a gifted and idiosyncratic comedian, or gouty, grumbling G. Wood, whom I inherited from Le Gallienne’s last abandoned traveling company, or Dakin Matthews, an original member of Juilliard’s remarkable Group 1, which became the basis for the Acting Company, and who doubled as perhaps the best and most astute dramaturge and translator I employed during my tenure in San Diego. Our character cup runneth over, unquestionably, and it was in that light that Richard Easton suggested at one point that I should stage Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Parts One and Two. I balked immediately. With my artistic director’s hat on, I didn’t necessarily consider myself a “director for all seasons.” Give me a musical, give me a comedy, and I felt utterly at home. But this vast history? Wars, brutality, a preponderance of brawling, drinking, sweating, leather-clad machos? I felt fundamentally out of my comfort zone. Surely, there were better-equipped directors for an assignment like this one. “That’s complete bullshit,” Easton insisted. “This is exactly the kind of play at which you excel … full of real drama, marvelous conflict, and damn good scenes, one after another! Read it again!” Also, he hardly needed to add, it contained an eponymous role for which he was superbly suited. He would not take no for an answer—he was to play King Henry, and I was to direct it. And God knows he was right about the play.
Henry IV, Parts One and Two, make for a vast canvas of an epic, reasonably historically valid and, best of all, filled with marvelous characters to the right and to the left. In Part One there are no fewer than forty-one listed speaking roles, so to attempt to stage it on any level whatsoever is challenging, and yet it has proved to be, over the centuries, one of the most popular and oft-produced of the Bard’s output, so companies can certainly bring it off, edited, and double-cast to be sure, and usually with wonderful results. And there, ranked beside the leading roles of Henry, Prince Hal, and Hotspur, stands the monumental creation of Sir John Falstaff, one of the most original and unforgettable stage characters in all of literature. Any actor worth his salt may prefer to fix his sights on parts like Hamlet, Mercutio, Othello, Iago, or Macbeth, but if one is a true character actor, there is no alp higher or more daunting than that of the role of Falstaff, and should the opportunity ever present itself, how could any bona fide professional not leap to try on “the fat suit” and measure himself against the litany of historical suitors? He couldn’t. You can’t.
I felt confidently ahead of the pack, making up a company that could already claim as King Henry, Mr. Easton, and as my partner in dramaturgy, Dakin Matthews, who himself had crafted, over decades of experience and experimenting, a cogent single compilation of both parts into one evening, and, having nearly grown up in the play himself, could now also give me the impossible-to-cast Owen Glendower, the seething Welsh character whose dialect is not only essential but nearly impossible to replicate. Dakin would get me splendidly through the complexities of the spoken text supporting the company, while tossing off a showy role for himself, thus doubling his value to the production. I had decided to bring from New York David Lansbury, the nephew of the celebrated Angela, and son of her brother Edgar, himself a looming figure in Broadway circles. David had recently made a very vivid costar for Stockard Channing in my production of Stoppard’s Hapgood for Lincoln Center a season or so earlier. But who to play Falstaff?
Who, indeed!
Even Dakin, who had acquitted himself as the Fat Knight probably more than once in his lair in Northern California, knew the obvious answer to this one. So, I have no doubt, were they to be asked, did innocent schoolchildren from Fresno, California, to Montpelier, Vermont: “Dan Conner!” you would hear them chorus. “Dan Conner should play Falstaff!” But would he?
I must have approached him directly, considering our history, rather than going through agents. And after the initial badinage, he must have assessed his schedule, his offers, and his interest, because I recall being in Manhattan auditioning when he announced he was in town and eager to meet with me. I was staying at the Mayflower Hotel at the foot of Central Park West, where all the Westminster Kennel Club dogs and their owners used to congregate in the spring prior to the national competition, since the manager at the time was himself in possession of an impressive white standard poodle. At all events, one midmorning in the spring there was a knock at my hotel room door, and when I opened it, there stood John with a friend in tow. He seemed curiously formal with me and, even more amazingly, had shown up dressed in a suit and a tie, impeccably, even elegantly, turned out. I was nonplussed at first, assuming he had other plans for the day, but it turned out it was for this interview that he had dressed himself. I neither recall who his friend was, nor ever understood his purpose in being there, other than as a possible wingman supplying courage, depending on how the interview went. John sat on the very edge of the couch in the hotel room, fidgeting, nervous, and neither the John of our common regional past, nor the self-assured, lazily vulgar persona of charm he represented universally on the small screen. We spoke of the play, of course, and shared something of my initial research, but the final impression, for which I was utterly unprepared, was that of an actor, eager to please, and with the greatest respect possible, hoping against hope that he measured up, and might be permitted this amazing opportunity. There were no ramifications, no interest in special housing, late arrivals, posse actors I would be required to find roles for, perhaps, this silent companion. I found I couldn’t reach across, finally, couldn’t manage to put him completely at his ease. In retrospect, I think he wanted simply to be taken seriously, not as a television stunt but as someone we both knew to be capable and serious about such a commitment. He pretty much accepted on the spot, with nary a word about money or billing. I was fairly speechless. We both were!
All Shakespeare plays, with the possible exception of A Comedy of Errors and, curiously enough, Macbeth, are what we refer to as “a full evening.” You can cut, of course; you are always advised and encouraged to do so. As no less an authority than Sir John Gielgud once said of Shakespeare, in reference to his own extensive cuts, “He wouldn’t mind!,” but we planned to do both Part One and Part Two in the same evening! One of the plays by itself would run close to three hours, properly paced and trimmed, but two of them? And in this case, we were presenting the production on the festival stage at the Globe, outside, adjacent to the famous San Diego Zoo, and under God’s naked stars. We usually found that at the traditional hour of 8:00 p.m., the sun would not have completely set in Southern California, and so we would need to adjust our lighting accordingly, but still, to avoid a conclusion lasting way past midnight, we would begin a full hour earlier—a 7:00 p.m. curtain. What possible kind of opening to an Elizabethan production would that serve?
Wrestling those two huge properties together at an acceptable hour was not, as we were to learn, the toughest assignment we were to face. When it was announced that Goodman was to play Falstaff, the tickets began to disappear, and the show looked to sell out effortlessly. It was a mixed blessing, of course. My business partner, Tom Hall, was delighted with the prospects of a healthy box office, but he also was quick to discern that the eager audiences were not necessarily coming to see Shakespeare’s Henry IV. They were coming to see John Goodman. The play might possibly prove a nice extra … but possibly not!
I needed to come up with a concept that could serve two purposes: beginning in the broad daylight of 7:00 p.m., a production meant to be faithful to the period in which the play is set would be virtually impossible with no stage magic to back it up. How could I present this vast canvas to a basically unfamiliar audience without confusing them, and equally important, what was the best possible way to present John Goodman, not trot him out like a prized pony, or hurl him before the unprotected bafflement of his potentially uncomprehending fans?
I knew only one thing for certain: I was determined to pad John for the part. Although at the time, he was easily tipping toward three hundred pounds, I didn’t want him to think his major qualification for playing one of the world’s great parts was that he was large. For me, he was first and foremost a superbly equipped actor. Was he classically equipped? I had no idea. But I had ample proof of the depth of his talent, his seriousness, and his respect, and ultimately, I have always believed Shakespeare needs no “help.” He needs the blood and soul of the actor to serve what he asks, technique and all. Given those best possible intentions, the Bard will always do the work for the actor. It never occurred to me that John wouldn’t be superb, but given the nature of his popularity, how best to serve him up?
The first scene of Henry IV, Part One, is long and talky, and lays out a considerable amount of information, background, and exposition. Not only does the king realize that he cannot do as he wishes and pursue a crusade to the Holy Land with an insurrection raging on his northern border, but we find out how he sees the differences between his apparently irresponsible son Prince Hal and the rising military star of Hotspur, son of the most obstreperous Lord Norfolk. In other words, with Richard Easton lining out all that narrative, I was confident no audiences would be left behind. I decided to gather the company in rehearsal clothes as if they, too, were “hanging out” and just listening to Richard describe a play about to happen. In this way I could illuminate various named parts as these normal people were listening and responding, and there would be almost a feeling of natural “story theatre” about it all. Best of all, in the mix of the entire company gathering, I could easily protect John Goodman, which I did by having him lie down hidden on a bench and feign sleep, one arm thrown over his head. When, in scene 2, Prince Hal challenges him to speak, David Lansbury could hurl a pillow at the sleeping Falstaff and give John something of an entrance of his own, wearing, as it turned out, a Blues Brothers T-shirt.
I also felt the audience should see what we saw—a beloved star settling easily into this classical role, as he went about proving himself along the way. So in the following highway scene, the third in the sequence, I could show Falstaff and his cronies in the act of becoming period figures, show the actors dressed half in costume, half not, as they too began to immerse themselves in the drama and sink down into their parts. Simultaneously, of course, the light would be fading, and as it did, I would bring on fire and lanterns and artificial elements designed to augment what was slipping away. By the time we reached the powerful tavern scene in act 3, the end of our first of three reconstituted acts, the period feel would be complete, the lights would all be magically appropriate to the fifteenth century, and John would be padded, wigged, and naturally evolved into the Fat Knight as Shakespeare conceived him and as John longed to be. It worked beautifully, and the text, clearly and effortlessly spoken, carried the day, as it is inevitably meant to do. The audience got to acknowledge their star, and to share his unselfconscious journey at the same time. And to understand that even he wasn’t “big enough” by himself to countenance this magical character.
John was a delight from the very beginning of rehearsals. My favorite fight choreographer was always Steve Rankin, and I was thrilled when, because of his long previous friendship with John, he asked to be included in the cast as well. In the role of Poins, Rankin could serve as a wonderful foil for Prince Hal while still keeping a weather eye on the elaborate fights that he had yet to stage. John was modest and attentive and worked extremely hard at the vast amounts of memorization waiting for him. In truth, it had been six or seven years since he’d appeared onstage, and hammering the words into his brain was nearly a physical torment. I’ve rarely seen an actor so hard on himself; any missed cue, any lost word was cause for him to make a fist and literally beat himself about the head. At notes, he would inevitably move off to the side of the company, so as not to draw undue attention, and lie flat on his stomach, peering up at me from the floor as he took his notes. It looked extremely uncomfortable, but must have proved some relief to him not to be supporting his full weight all the time. He perspired constantly, drenched with the sweat of physical and mental effort, and since he was still drinking in those days, I was never certain that wasn’t part of the cause. We didn’t pal around. He was very solitary, very much by himself, and although he was warm and comfortable with Lansbury and Rankin and the others, I don’t remember ever having a meal with him privately, which, for me, was beyond unusual, as I’ve always felt it incumbent on me to entertain as much as possible, and keep the company in my constant sights and true affection. Easton found him fascinating and remarkable, but they more or less observed each other from a comfortable distance, rather than bonding. I recall Easton was always extremely supportive of John’s choices and natural instincts. At one point, John and I were having difficulty with the celebrated speech in praise of sack, the preferred drink of Falstaff in Part Two of the play. It is, in fact, basically a turn, a kind of moment when the character practically steps out of the play to simply revel in the gloriousness of being Falstaff. But there is also a kind of self-consciousness about it all that felt both unpleasant and uncomfortable to John. He didn’t want to confront his audience directly, not that way. He preferred to stay private, inside the character, legitimate, not showboating, as he inevitably knew he was required to do in his commercial career. He continued to struggle with the words, unable to make sense of them, choking on his anger with himself for not being able to just roll it all effortlessly out, as many great performers have done since the play’s inception …
There was one particularly difficult day when it seemed almost as if John didn’t want to conquer the speech, didn’t believe himself worthy of the effort or of the part. He couldn’t find his way through it, and we were stuck. Perhaps it was because this particular soliloquy seems to represent Shakespeare’s own commercial for the glory of drink that the actor found it confusing, so it was in this vein that I suggested we seize the damn thing by the horns, and, since we’d played elegantly by the rules up to this point, by more or less respectfully linking the popular Goodman with the classical Fat Knight, why didn’t John just give the audience what they were waiting for? Step right outside the entire framework of the play, and in the guise of Falstaff, lose himself in celebrating what John at that point as well as Falstaff liked best to do: drink!
Give them the truth, a truth that exists beyond the conventional limits of the stage … Sell the goddamn thing! On occasion, one can observe an actor, any actor, frankly, who for completely personal and unknowable reasons has put a significant block in his or her way. Is it self-defeating? Is it punishment? Is it a fear of facing the unknown? Of being unwilling to accept success? I have no idea, but if one can find some way to displace the focus of that particular bugaboo, occasionally you see the breakthrough you seek, and the world is right once more. The “sack” speech had that effect on John Goodman. I suggested he stop apologizing for the speech and embrace it, give it a little “zhush,” as we say. And he did just that. He stepped from one century into another without moving a hair; I wonder to what degree he himself was fully aware of how he achieved it … but he spoke directly to the audience at hand, what we call breaking the fourth wall, and in doing so, at that moment, was Falstaff.
He did a lot of things right in that production, but I will never forget the end of the great tavern scene, before the first of our two intermissions. The scene contains the classic confrontation between Falstaff and Prince Hal when Falstaff has the effrontery to mock the king and present himself to the prince as if he were his own father. It is a scene of riotous comedy, massive insight, and bravura possibilities, all fueled, obviously, by considerable drinking. At the end of it comes the arrival of the sheriff, a complete surprise, a virtual raid, as it were. “It’s the cops!”
