The Loves of Mr Lincoln

July 15, 2009

It’s 4 in the morning. Not only is my jet-lag in effect, but I crawled into bed before 10 last night, exhausted, a disgrace to Times Square. My old self might be getting back to the room just now. I went to Pilobolus at the Joyce last night, and not only did I doze fitfully through the second act, but I staggered back up 8th Ave, passing enticement after enticement, hardly able to keep my legs moving under me. It was not a bad sensation at all, for I was worn out with good things and positive emotions.

The reading of The Loves of Mr Lincoln happened yesterday afternoon at the Ripley Grier Studios, a vast warren of little spaces on several floors in an 8th Ave skyscraper, given over to rehearsal rooms and studios and audition areas. I’d never imagined such a place. What an industry entertainment is in this city! Meg McQuillan read Mary. It was excellent to see Meg again, to encounter a familiar face. Of course she read beautifully. There was also a man there who had sent scripts to Black Swan, and whose name, at least, I recognized. Also assembled were the Sunny Spot regulars, plus Jim Bassi, singing the Foster songs with the voice of an angel. I had never heard the play before, not with any voice but my own. Relief came page by page. The accolades at the end were astonishing. Everyone loved it. I don’t know if it is a local custom to praise work at the moment, then rip it apart in private afterward, but I suspect not, for that would make later calls for revision puzzling. The praise was particular, various, extensive, gratifying, and confirmed what my own ears had heard. Bruce handed me a check, so if I suspected insincerity, that set the record straight.

Two days, two triumphs: I could get used to this. It almost makes me forget the hundred days, a hundred disappointments, which is the usual order of things.

Meg and the man playing Tobias were right for the parts. The rest were not, but I assume this was a reading and not an audition. The man reading Lincoln was no taller than I. He also bore a tender resemblance, in speech and manner, to Charlie Pratt.

The question is, where now? It is only a few blocks between our audition space and Broadway, but I expect time and immense effort will be necessary to get us there. The contract calls for exclusive access to the script until 2012. I don’t know whom to ask if that’s right or not, but I will sign and let fly.

Reading Peacock’s Nightmare Abbey, which I got from the Oxfam in Dublin.