Read Online Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 by Sacred Monster (v1.1) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sacred Monster (v1.1)
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Shakespeare, regional things,
some Moliere, Mosca in a 'Volpone' in St. Louis they're still cackling over, but there's no coherence out there in the provinces, no career.
You're not building anything; you aren't even making a living. Unemployment
insurance—at a certain age, unemployment insurance can begin to seem like a
sign of potential failure, you know what I mean?"
Is
there a ghost of a smile hovering around my ghost of an interviewer's lips?
Have I reached him on a human- to-human level yet again, man-to-man,
soul-to-soul? Christ, what a thought. "Here's the thing of it," I
say. "I had my reviews, I had my comparisons with Booth and Burton , but I wasn't going anywhere. Jack Schullmann was not a man to forgive and
forget—well, few agents are—so every time my career seemed to come to life in
some place like Minneapolis or Miami, he made sure to piss on it all over again
back in New York. And theater is New York , it just is, no matter how much anybody
else tries, anywhere at all. They build these theaters, flies that could fly a
battleship, lightboards God would envy, and it doesn't matter. They could hire
me and love me, weep when I wept, laugh when I laughed, die when I died, but it
didn't matter, because the provinces never hear about each other , except through New York . And back in New York , there was Jack Schullmann, sitting on me,
farting in my face."
"That's
terrible," my interviewer says, whether at the fact or the image I do not
know.
"I
suppose I should have been able to outwait it," I say, "or walk away
from it, but how could I ? Acting was the only thing I had, the
only thing that used me. I'd sell my
soul to act," I say, and hear myself saying it, and laugh: "Well, I
did, didn't I? But not to Jack Schullmann. He wasn't
buying, not then."
"Does
he still feel that way?" my interviewer asks, thereby disclosing not the
depths of his research, but its shallowness. This guy doesn't know diddly about
showbiz.
“Jack
Schullmann died a few years ago," I say, smiling at the memory. "I
sent a pizza to the funeral."
He
stares at me. "You didn't."
"I
did. so long, pal,was spelled out on it, in provolone. By then, of course, we loved each
other; I was too big for him to hate. He had to love me for the sake of clients
I might want to work with. But back in the early days, it was a different
story. And it wasn't just Jack, either. It was his friends, too, and Miriam's
old friends— thee-ah-tah friends, you
know. They wouldn't walk down the block past
a theater I was working in. So it was LA or nothing."
"The
usual story about fine actors, the way I've always heard it," my
interviewer says, rather disconcertingly suggesting that his boringly round
little head might contain ideas of its own after all, "is that the movies
seduce them away from what might have been great stage careers."
"There are no great stage careers, not
anymore," I tell him. "And nobody seduced me into the movies. In
fact, at first, nobody wanted me in
the movies. It wasn't a blacklist out here, it was just indifference. My own,
too. I was worn out, I was losing faith in my talent, I didn't know what to do or how to start all over." I smile reminiscently.
"I owe my stardom to Marcia, really," I say, demonstrating my
world-renowned generosity. "She encouraged me in those darkest
hours."
FLASHBACK 9A
On
her way home from the studio, Marcia picked up her and Jack’s dry cleaning, then continued on up and over Beverly Glen Boulevard out of the Valley and into Westwood to the
furnished rental she now shared with her husband. She thumbed the garage-
opener button as she made the turn into her driveway, and the broad blank door
folded up and back, accepting its daily diet
some Moliere, Mosca in a 'Volpone' in St. Louis they're still cackling over, but there's no coherence out there in the provinces, no career.
You're not building anything; you aren't even making a living. Unemployment
insurance—at a certain age, unemployment insurance can begin to seem like a
sign of potential failure, you know what I mean?"
Is
there a ghost of a smile hovering around my ghost of an interviewer's lips?
Have I reached him on a human- to-human level yet again, man-to-man,
soul-to-soul? Christ, what a thought. "Here's the thing of it," I
say. "I had my reviews, I had my comparisons with Booth and Burton , but I wasn't going anywhere. Jack Schullmann was not a man to forgive and
forget—well, few agents are—so every time my career seemed to come to life in
some place like Minneapolis or Miami, he made sure to piss on it all over again
back in New York. And theater is New York , it just is, no matter how much anybody
else tries, anywhere at all. They build these theaters, flies that could fly a
battleship, lightboards God would envy, and it doesn't matter. They could hire
me and love me, weep when I wept, laugh when I laughed, die when I died, but it
didn't matter, because the provinces never hear about each other , except through New York . And back in New York , there was Jack Schullmann, sitting on me,
farting in my face."
"That's
terrible," my interviewer says, whether at the fact or the image I do not
know.
"I
suppose I should have been able to outwait it," I say, "or walk away
from it, but how could I ? Acting was the only thing I had, the
only thing that used me. I'd sell my
soul to act," I say, and hear myself saying it, and laugh: "Well, I
did, didn't I? But not to Jack Schullmann. He wasn't
buying, not then."
"Does
he still feel that way?" my interviewer asks, thereby disclosing not the
depths of his research, but its shallowness. This guy doesn't know diddly about
showbiz.
“Jack
Schullmann died a few years ago," I say, smiling at the memory. "I
sent a pizza to the funeral."
He
stares at me. "You didn't."
"I
did. so long, pal,was spelled out on it, in provolone. By then, of course, we loved each
other; I was too big for him to hate. He had to love me for the sake of clients
I might want to work with. But back in the early days, it was a different
story. And it wasn't just Jack, either. It was his friends, too, and Miriam's
old friends— thee-ah-tah friends, you
know. They wouldn't walk down the block past
a theater I was working in. So it was LA or nothing."
"The
usual story about fine actors, the way I've always heard it," my
interviewer says, rather disconcertingly suggesting that his boringly round
little head might contain ideas of its own after all, "is that the movies
seduce them away from what might have been great stage careers."
"There are no great stage careers, not
anymore," I tell him. "And nobody seduced me into the movies. In
fact, at first, nobody wanted me in
the movies. It wasn't a blacklist out here, it was just indifference. My own,
too. I was worn out, I was losing faith in my talent, I didn't know what to do or how to start all over." I smile reminiscently.
"I owe my stardom to Marcia, really," I say, demonstrating my
world-renowned generosity. "She encouraged me in those darkest
hours."
FLASHBACK 9A
On
her way home from the studio, Marcia picked up her and Jack’s dry cleaning, then continued on up and over Beverly Glen Boulevard out of the Valley and into Westwood to the
furnished rental she now shared with her husband. She thumbed the garage-
opener button as she made the turn into her driveway, and the broad blank door
folded up and back, accepting its daily diet
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