New York Thursday

June 6, 2013

It is a dim, calm, very early morning on Manhattan. Horns honk in the distance. Figures scurry on 8th Avenue. I feel more at home here than I ever have before. The normality of my surroundings, the casualness of my reactions to them– this is new. Rose not particularly early and had a breakfast of watermelon and cappuccino, which I recommend. Walked to MOMA, where I saw the sights, loving them better than I have sometimes in the past. Claes Oldenburg’s yard sale–apparently- is presented in a structure shaped like Mickey Mouse. In the line to the Rain Room I met Brian the wine-guy-my student from Asheville- who shouted my name in that way that is so gratifying in a distant place.  Left the line to the Rain Room in impatience and napped before tech of The Loves of Mr. Lincoln.

The June Havoc Theater is a little disappointing in terms of size and – well, upkeep– but part of the impression came from the lumber and materiale strewn about the room for final tech. It was hard to find a place to sit. What was very thrilling was to see eight or ten grown-up people fussing and bothering (and getting paid for it) over the details of your play. I was introduced to this person and that person, all of whom referred to me as “the genius,” which I would have taken as irony had they not been so exhausted and sincere. This is the first time in my life when I can be called a genius, and believe it, a little, without its making a difference in the plan. I have to note, since it was a tech rehearsal, that the technical aspects were pretty disastrous. Scene changes were endless, and lights would come up on earnest stagehands still dragging something into place. (There is one little stagehand so like Frank Meadows I had to smile every time he appeared.) Sidney introduced slides to illustrate the place where the scene takes places, and that is a brilliant idea, except that the big guy in the seat in front of me kept moaning, “It’s the wrong slide” Heads bobbed through the projection, bodies were visible moving backstage, props did not appear, expensive borrowed furniture was manhandled. What I was noting in my mind is that the play is expressly written so it can be done on a bare stage, with only one bed, one table and a few chairs. I’d also put in the songs deliberately to cover scene and costume changes, but all this was rethought and rearranged. “Tech,” people kept saying, implying that tomorrow night all will be perfection, as it well may be. I must say that tech alone is not yet presentable, and tech alone was a contradiction of what I had written in the play. It may turn out to be gorgeous, though the same thing happened on Edward the King, where the set overpowered the stage and worked against the actors rather than with them. But, all judgment lies in abeyance.

The costumes are absolutely gorgeous. Even if you hated the play you could revel in Mary’s gowns.

For the rest of it, something different. It was magnificent, overpowering. The cast is perfect. Mary Todd in particular is so good she revised the role in my head. You weep for her. You understand why her heart is broken. Lincoln is perfect. McClellan/Grant was perfect from before, so he was no surprise. Speed takes some getting used to, but turns out to be perfect, too. The former Tobias was an operatic baritone, thrilling and masculine. The new one is a sweet tenor, a gentle boy, and I think this works even better. My emotions while watching are truly inexpressible. I tried to imagine what haters would find to hate on, and it kept coming back, mostly, to tech, which will be healed. The overwhelming thing was that the play is completely independent of me. It is like a grown-up child. I remember conceiving it, but what it is doing now is a complete surprise. I think it is very, very good. I thought that of Edward, but the one miscast role dragged it askew. Here nothing is miscast, I disagreed with the interpretation of not one line. I was truly dazed when I walked back into the street. I had no idea what to think. I was glad, but over what and to what degree? Horns of victory are lifted to the mouths of the trumpeters, but are not yet blowing. I came back to the hotel and drank vodka and ate a pork chop. The emotions wait to be informed.