Opening Night

February 16, 2008

Dark of the morning, I, miraculously, not hungover. The other miracle is that none of the issues that tormented me about the production ended up having any consequence. The actors triumphed over all adversity. I maintain they shouldn’t have had to triumph over adversity, that we could have made it easier for them with better planning, but to go on about this is to devalue the amending spirit which hovers, sometimes, over theater. Everyone is a more upright acolyte at that altar than I am, and I must learn faith.

Last night’s Edward the King at the Arts Center was a triumph. It was a triumph for every single element of the production. The set had a rough, punky, urban feel which fit, in the end, beautifully; tech was perfect; the actors, to a person, had never been better, or as good. Cody stepped back from the over-the-topness of dress rehearsal and was cunning, dangerous, beautiful, heartbreaking. Adam–in many ways Cody’s opposite as an actor, rising from the depths as Cody settles down from the heights– was the support and foundation of the show. Anne-Marie had a new wickedness about her–a wickedness compounded by how great she looked in her dresses–which made the audience gasp. Darren has, almost from the first, been flawless, and for the first time everyone was on his level. Bill’s bishop looked sorrowful for the evil he was doing with outward glee, and that is better than any direction he was ever given. The playwright is the last person to ask about the play on opening night, and, if the truth be told, I’m a little sick of it, and will have to build new enthusiasm for New York, BUT, not once did I cringe or wish I’d written a passage otherwise. Some people said, "This is the best play I’ve ever seen in Asheville." I hope those people were frequent theater-goers. It might have been. What little objectivity I could muster suggested it was damn good.

A couple did walk out, the man saying loudly, "I’ve had enough of this!" when Edward and Gaveston kissed in the first scene. I’d seen them come in, though, and saw in the man’s eyes that he was there to do just what he did, to make a statement, to demand his money back and stomp out, momentarily destroying other people’s enjoyment, if possible. I followed them into the foyer so the ticket girl didn’t have to bear the brunt of it. The man, who knew from my pre-show speech that I was the playwright, said, "This is disgusting. I want my money back." I gave it to him. The wife was crying. She was mortified, and reached out and touched my arm with her hand. I suppose I’ve done the same sort of thing, attended some function or other just so I could make a scene. I don’t remember it. I hope I didn’t look quite so ridiculous.

Mickey is the tide upon which all this rose. I watched her attending to the details-- thinking of everything, doing everything-- with an emotion of amazement and gratitude. I remembered myself doing the same in the past, but I think that time is gone. I am a playwright now, or an actor, but the production end of things has settled, I think, permanently on other shoulders. I’ve stopped seeing the details which must be attended to. I say too often, "Oh, just let it pass. Do something simpler." I see the play and think the play is words, and, whether it is or not, that now must be my purlieu. Mickey and I quarreled briefly in the midst of the tension before curtain, and she said, "I want you to know that every bit of effort by everybody on this show has been for you." At that moment, things were going so determinedly against my desire that I couldn’t see how it could be true, but what if, in a larger sense, it was the case? Then no gratitude would be enough. One would cripple oneself going around whispering, "but why?"

Party at the Usual afterward. I was happy.