Just Wrought

Recovering playwright, once won a STRANGER Genius Award for theater. Now writing a bloated novel about… G-d help me! Theatre.

Tag: Scrooge

  • Day 8 / Reason 8: Amy Thone

    Day 8 / Reason 8: Amy Thone

    “Actors I know and love.”

    That is the last line of yesterday’s post. So it’s only fitting that we come now to Amy Thone, who represents, for me, the epitome of that phrase.

    But first, I need to stop and explain how I am mucking up the flow of this series of blogs, and mangling the architecture of its suspense. If I were being clever in how I promoted and distributed these little essays, I would save the best for last, and wait until day 12 to reveal my decisive reason for returning to the theatre, saying something like, “Of course, the real reason I’m going back is… ____.” But I will spare you that trivial grift and tell you right here, right now, good and early, because I remember when I first heard about the possibility and I thought to myself, “Oh crap! If Amy plays Scrooge, I’m going to have break my theatre fast to go see her.”

    Now, full disclosure: ACT’s production of A Christmas Carol features two Scrooges, playing in repertory, because the role is so demanding, and because ACT offers so many performances. (Hey, if you got a cash cow, milk it, right?) This year features the inestimable R. Hamilton Wright, a seasoned veteran in the part, alternating with Amy, a newcomer to the role. Says Ray Tagavilla, who’s playing Bob Cratchit, and is himself one of this city’s finest actors: “Bob Wright and Amy Thone as both Scrooges on different nights are 2 different shows.” Indeed, I am very tempted to go see Bob’s version, too.

    A career in theatre, especially in a town like Seattle, can produce some interesting ironies and some fairly cruel petty twists of fate, because, as long as I have known Amy (since 1991) and as much as I admire her as an artist (profoundly and unequivocally), I have never had the opportunity to work with her as a playwright.

    Ironically (I warned you there would be irony) the very first moment I met her was when Amy auditioned for a part in a play of mine at Annex Theatre. She blew the room away with her monologue, and then again, cold-reading sides from my script. We offered her the part right then and there, but she told us that she was Equity, i.e. a union actor, and could not work at Annex, a non-union shop. She explained that she was auditioning everywhere because she was new to town and wanted folks to be familiar with her work.

    Talk about heartbreak. There’s nothing quite like the disappointment a playwright feels when he knows in his bones he has the perfect person for a role right in front of him, but he can’t cast her because of the arcane rules of theatre. (Reason #373 why I left.)

    Amy and I became friends anyway, and have spent the intervening decades admiring each other’s work from across the unbridgeable gap of show biz circumstance in all its banality.

    Amy Thone playing Scrooge has dragged me back to the theatre, because, beyond her being my friend, and despite my determination to stay away, Dame Thone, as I teasingly style her, is one of those performers who will surprise you every time she walks on stage. You’re prepared for it. You know it’s going to happen, but there she is, surprising you anyway.

    I have seen at least twenty-five different actors perform Scrooge. I have even played him myself as a young man. But I know with a certainty that Amy is going to show me something about this timeless character that I have never known before. And in showing me something new about Scrooge, she will show me something new about myself. How often are we offered such a guarantee?

  • Day 3 / Reason 3 for Going Back to the Theatre: A Christmas Carol as Stage Play

    Day 3 / Reason 3 for Going Back to the Theatre: A Christmas Carol as Stage Play

    Yesterday I mentioned that I got my Equity Card at 19 playing Young Scrooge in an adaptation of A Christmas Carol at Ford’s Theatre in Washington D. C. If the name of that venue sounds familiar, it should: it’s where Lincoln got shot. (I used to nap between matinees and evening performances in the box beneath the one in which he was sitting that fateful night. By long-standing tradition the Presidential Box is never occupied, and is decorated in the same fashion as it was the night Lincoln was assassinated: red, white and blue bunting with a portrait of George Washington.)

    In the copy of A Christmas Carol my sister Maggie gave me just after that production, she said, “I know that the show caused some inner turbulence for you but it is a timeless story that touches everyone’s heart.” It’s been so long since then that I can’t be completely sure which turbulence she’s referring to. There was a lot going on for me at that time. But what leaps out to me even after all these years is that the actor who played “Old Scrooge” hated my guts.

    I don’t remember his name, and if I did, I wouldn’t mention it now. Saying an actor’s name publicly, whether in praise or condemnation, is like offering blood to a vampire. He was British, a bit of a washout over there from what I gathered, and a dedicated drunk over here, but he looked and sounded the part and the crowds loved him. I wasn’t the only actor he hated. He managed to alienate all of the young men in the ensemble, such that by the time we were in actual performance, we used to hiss and moan at him as ghosts at Scrooge’s window, just loud enough, we hoped, for him but not the audience to catch the words: “Scroooooge! You’re my BITCH, Scrooooge! Ima fuck you UP, Scroooooge!”

    “Old Scrooge” never quite forgave us for that, while never fully acknowledging our idiocy either. Somehow he found out that I was aspiring playwright and relished mocking me for it. After one performance—on Christmas Eve, no less—he pulled me aside and scolded me for blowing my blocking. Apparently, I had spun clockwise instead of counter in the dream sequence, and it had throw him off terribly, or so he claimed. He pulled me onto the stage after the house had cleared to the very spot of my transgression and lectured me in his posh flutey British: “Now look here, Paul. It’s important to get these things right. This isn’t David Mamet or Arthur Miller. This is a British play and precision means something.”

    Oh the things I wanted to say. Things like, “Now look here, fuckwit! It’s not a British play, it’s a British book. This stage adaptation is American. (In point of fact, it was newly crafted that year, by the show’s director, and the Ford’s artistic director, David Bell.) So fuck off, you boozy limey bastard, and if you think Miller and Mamet don’t require precision, then I won’t bother wondering why you can’t get work on either side of the pond, besides playing a washed up bitter British wanker, such as yourself.”

    Of course, I said nothing of the sort. Instead, I nodded mutely, and walked away with my face burning. I might have been nineteen but I already had some idea of how the world worked. If I had thrown down on this asshole like he deserved, it would be me shit-canned and blackballed, not him.

    Fact is A Christmas Carol is almost perfectly suited for adaptation into a stage play. The book is divided into five sections, or “staves” as Dickens calls them (since he wants you think of it as a piece of holiday music. Get it?). These five sections match Shakespeare’s five-act structure quite nicely. The story’s action takes place in one night and keeps returning to Scrooge’s apartments, thus satisfying, with a bit of mystical fudgery and flashbackery, the unities of time and place called for in Aristotle’s Poetics. Combine that with characters as crisp as fresh Saltines, and in modern show biz terms, you have a cash-cow you can present on one set, while double and treble-casting the character assignments, and still keep almost all of of the story without losing any of its sense. One could almost accuse Dickens of having the stage in mind when he wrote it, just like Steinbeck did for Of Mice and Men. Heck, the first stage production was mounted just weeks after the publication of the novella by C. Z. Barnett, at the Surrey Theatre in February of1844.

    So yes, it’s a British book (thanks for stating the obvious, my boozy “Old Scrooge”) but it also makes a dandy American play.