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Authors: Linda Barnes
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superb Malcolm-family actress. Never took the name Foley. A Malcolm forever, my mom. You’ve heard of her, I bet?
TB: She died young.
JF: Not the luckiest family in the world, but close-knit, loyal. Played together, ate together, acted together. Lived together at the old place, Cranberry Hill, but it didn’t have a fancy name then, just called it “Old Place”—Shakespearean pun, you know, reference to “New Place,” Shakespeare’s house—and believe me, it was nothing like what it is now. It wasn’t dirt poor, don’t get me wrong, but it was shabby. Every penny was reinvested in the theater. We wore discards from the costume shop.
TB: You and Malcolm are the same age?
JF: You won’t believe it, but I’m younger than he is. Year apart, traded childhood diseases back and forth like tennis balls. When I got chicken pox, he only got two freckles. Mumps, I got easy. He didn’t get it till way later, and then he got it bad, but nobody ever put us to bed or babied us if there was a show that night. We were child actors, soldiers of the eternal theater in the sky. We joined all the crowd scenes, yelled “rhubarb” and “garbage” when the action called for general hubbub. Did you know “rhubarb” and “garbage,” repeated over and over, sounds like crowd noise? That’s the sort of education we got. We were taught never to peer through the curtain, make faces, freeze up, or break character. Garrett learned to direct the same time he learned to walk.
TB: Sounds like a fairly happy childhood.
JF: We had some terrific times, I’ll say that. We didn’t know we were poor. And we weren’t, really, old Ralph wasn’t, not sitting on all that lovely land. If we had sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, it was because they were the fastest thing to make. Baloney and white bread sustained us, but we fed on hot and cold running Shakespeare. I learned to read with the soliloquies; they’re my ABCs, and I can give you chapter and verse for the whole of the canon. The money went for props and costumes, not bicycles or private schools. And there was more pride than money, a sense that we were on a mission to save the Legitimate Theater. I wonder what Garrett’s parents would think if they could see the place today.
TB: It’s beautiful.
JF: Yeah, but …
TB: But?
JF: They weren’t fond of movies and they hated TV. Legitimate stage was the be-all and end-all to them, especially Shakespeare, and it’s not exactly a secret that all the money that went into rebuilding the place, expanding it, came from film and TV work. I mean, Garrett didn’t do any legit stage work for ten years. His father thought TV was demeaning, the lowest of the low, opiate of the masses. I felt that way, too, I’m sorry to say. Had my opportunities to do TV, but I was too high and mighty. Mistook myself for a Malcolm. Something Garrett Malcolm never does.
TB: How so?
JF: I just meant Ralph and Eve, and old Harrison, too, were ultra-conscious of their status on the American stage. They talked about it like that: The American Stage, Seventeen-Seventy-Six and Onward: We Were There. Joseph Jefferson, the big name of his time, was a direct descendant. That bad Booth boy who shot President Lincoln? Practically ruined dear Laura’s comeback in Our American Cousin. And Gene O’Neill. Always Gene, never Eugene. And of course, Shakespeare, glorious Will. They made him an honorary American on the grounds that he would have emigrated to the States if he’d only had the chance. And the rivalry with the Barrymores. Oh, the Malcolms told this great story. They were the chosen ones. Garrett’s a terrific guy, don’t get me wrong. He’s better than any of them. More talented. His dad was a harsh taskmaster, a tyrant. He wanted a whole slew of kids, a whole theatrical troupe. There was a time when—
TB: When?
JF: The old man wanted to adopt me so he could leave more sons. Can you
TB: She died young.
JF: Not the luckiest family in the world, but close-knit, loyal. Played together, ate together, acted together. Lived together at the old place, Cranberry Hill, but it didn’t have a fancy name then, just called it “Old Place”—Shakespearean pun, you know, reference to “New Place,” Shakespeare’s house—and believe me, it was nothing like what it is now. It wasn’t dirt poor, don’t get me wrong, but it was shabby. Every penny was reinvested in the theater. We wore discards from the costume shop.
TB: You and Malcolm are the same age?
JF: You won’t believe it, but I’m younger than he is. Year apart, traded childhood diseases back and forth like tennis balls. When I got chicken pox, he only got two freckles. Mumps, I got easy. He didn’t get it till way later, and then he got it bad, but nobody ever put us to bed or babied us if there was a show that night. We were child actors, soldiers of the eternal theater in the sky. We joined all the crowd scenes, yelled “rhubarb” and “garbage” when the action called for general hubbub. Did you know “rhubarb” and “garbage,” repeated over and over, sounds like crowd noise? That’s the sort of education we got. We were taught never to peer through the curtain, make faces, freeze up, or break character. Garrett learned to direct the same time he learned to walk.
TB: Sounds like a fairly happy childhood.
JF: We had some terrific times, I’ll say that. We didn’t know we were poor. And we weren’t, really, old Ralph wasn’t, not sitting on all that lovely land. If we had sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, it was because they were the fastest thing to make. Baloney and white bread sustained us, but we fed on hot and cold running Shakespeare. I learned to read with the soliloquies; they’re my ABCs, and I can give you chapter and verse for the whole of the canon. The money went for props and costumes, not bicycles or private schools. And there was more pride than money, a sense that we were on a mission to save the Legitimate Theater. I wonder what Garrett’s parents would think if they could see the place today.
TB: It’s beautiful.
JF: Yeah, but …
TB: But?
JF: They weren’t fond of movies and they hated TV. Legitimate stage was the be-all and end-all to them, especially Shakespeare, and it’s not exactly a secret that all the money that went into rebuilding the place, expanding it, came from film and TV work. I mean, Garrett didn’t do any legit stage work for ten years. His father thought TV was demeaning, the lowest of the low, opiate of the masses. I felt that way, too, I’m sorry to say. Had my opportunities to do TV, but I was too high and mighty. Mistook myself for a Malcolm. Something Garrett Malcolm never does.
TB: How so?
JF: I just meant Ralph and Eve, and old Harrison, too, were ultra-conscious of their status on the American stage. They talked about it like that: The American Stage, Seventeen-Seventy-Six and Onward: We Were There. Joseph Jefferson, the big name of his time, was a direct descendant. That bad Booth boy who shot President Lincoln? Practically ruined dear Laura’s comeback in Our American Cousin. And Gene O’Neill. Always Gene, never Eugene. And of course, Shakespeare, glorious Will. They made him an honorary American on the grounds that he would have emigrated to the States if he’d only had the chance. And the rivalry with the Barrymores. Oh, the Malcolms told this great story. They were the chosen ones. Garrett’s a terrific guy, don’t get me wrong. He’s better than any of them. More talented. His dad was a harsh taskmaster, a tyrant. He wanted a whole slew of kids, a whole theatrical troupe. There was a time when—
TB: When?
JF: The old man wanted to adopt me so he could leave more sons. Can you
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