“Oh for a Muse of Fire!”

(second entry)

  Back in February, my second week at U.C.L.A., Dr. Walden P. Boyle stops me outside Royce Hall 169, as in 1944, the room still serves as temporary H.Q. for Campus Theatre.  Wally hasn’t changed a bit in five years, the same square-jawed, complacent, circumspect, detached Walden P. Boyle. Chewing words carefully modulated, he says, “I’m directing the White Steed, and you weren’t at tryouts, so what are your plans? You must participate to get your credits in the department. We rehearse mostly at night.”

  “Right now I live at home in Highland Park, but I’m going to move closer to school.”

  “You’ll have to work something out.”

  “Sure—yes, sure I will.”

  “Well, I know your work,” and he retreats into 169. Interview over.

  Several days later, casting for all four spring season productions are posted on a bulleting outside 169. “The White Steed” – the Great Unknown cast as Dennis Dillon.

  “The White Steed” opens in March running for two weeks in Royce Hall 170. “Theatre in the Round.” Breaking away from proscenium stages originated at the University of Washington in Seattle, Ralph Freud tells us. Royce Hall’s large proscenium stage continued as venue for the department’s one “big” production each semester.

  Wally Boyle’s direction is uninspired—after blocking, he reads a newspaper as we rehears, until we are off the book, lines memorized. He offers little, if anything as to interpretation. His musical ear, however is inspired—“Jupiter” from Gustav Holst’s “Planets,” lush grandeur, music fit for a coronation. Hearing the music today brings a rush, taking me back to Dennis Dillon’s humble digs in 170’s arena:

  Little do they know that I can rock the rafters with Rabelais and drink whiskey with Boccaccio! encouraging heroine Nora Fintry who has defied the village’s “Moral Vigilance Committee,” to goad him into climbing up with her on her White Steed joining her rebellion against the new wave of priests, “those little black men from Rome,” priests who are ignorant of Irish history and legends. Dennis trembling with Nora through Act Two’s finale, throwing cups into an imaginary fireplace, shattering so close to the audience, women in the front row of tiered seats gasp. Dennis Dillon’s ringing declaration becoming my own call to arms, imbedded infinitely, echoing through the years:

  Oh God, it’s wonderful. I feel as if I have the taste of blood in me mouth, the taste of the blood of me enemies, the taste of the blood of the men who taught me to love their laws and hate life. I that have warm blood and the laugh of a giant!

  Dennis and Nora embrace hysterically. Lights fade to black.

  The morning after opening night, as Anne and I  rush out of “Movement for Theatre” class in Royce Hall 220, William Donald Curtis makes his entrance, elegantly intense, El Greco painting—gaunt and bony St. Sebastian pierced with arrows, a character from Medieval Miracle Play, not much hair, arched black brows drawn over even blacker eyes, yet strangely warm and receptive.

  “How ja do,” deep, rumbling voice, extending two fingers as I try to curl all of mine around his meager offering.  Anne scowls from the sidelines.

  Dean Hoffmann invades the scene, exploding out of dance class, shouting over his shoulder as he hurries off, “Hail and farewell everyone, can’t stop now—matinee with Pumpkin.” I am not yet close enough to Dean for him to reveal his secrets—is Pumpkin girl or boy? When Dean comes out to us, we learn his Thursday afternoon lover, “Pumpkin,” is the handsome young actor George Nader, appearing in minor roles in films, his career taking off with the infamous sci-fi picture, “Robert Monster” in 1953.

  Nader would become life-long friend of Rock Hudson, but never his lover. His lifetime partner (need I say, not Dean Hoffmann) was Mark  Miller who was personal secretary to Rock Hudson for thirteen years. When George agreed to be outed by Confidential Magazine to protect his friend Rock Hudson, he was consigned to B movie list. “We lived in fear of an exposé, or even one small remark, a veiled suggestion that someone was homosexual. Such a remark would have caused an earthquake at the studio. Every month, when Confidential came out, our stomachs began to turn. Which of us would be it? In 1978 his novel “Chrome” broke new ground, the first gay themed sci-fi novel—gay robots!

  Curtis studies me, seeming to be on the verge of retreating into an intensely private world, his look, not mocking, but curious. Had I possessed an ounce of wisdom at the time, I would’ve realized Curtis constructed this detached air to hide vulnerability, but then, and ever so, I’m willing to accept all eccentricities without question. I was fascinated and anxious to know him better.

  “Let’s go to Tip’s,” Curtis says, and to Anne, “Are you coming with us?”

  Anne snaps back with a soon-to-become familiar sarcastic edge in her voice, “How else are you going to get there? Are you going to walk?”

  It’s obvious Curtis has put her up to arranging this, goading her to seek me out at the first reading of “The White Steed” to discover what makes this upstart tick, who has snagged the plumb male juvenile role of the spring season.

  Tip’s (“Thick Steaks and Thin Pancakes”) has changed little since the days and nights there in 1943-44 drinking coffee and bolting down whatever I could afford with Campus Theatre “greats,” straining to be accepted.

  “Who’s your favorite composer?” Curtis asks, fork capturing a bite of a thin Tip’s pancake submerged in butter and maple syrup, Anne studying him closely.

  A moment’s hesitation, then responding, “Tchai . . . Mozart.”

  “You almost said Tchaikovsky, didn’t you?”

  “No—well, maybe. I like Tchaikovsky.”

  “So do I. Which Mozart?”

  “Eine Kleine Nacht Musik, piano concertos—number twenty-two,” a recording Mickey Feay gave me as a Christmas present. I was a long way from familiarity with any other Mozart piano concertos.

  Now recalling those lonely days listening to recordings in the shack attached to the garage at home on Joy Street. “Also, Wanda Landowska on the harpsichord playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations—I love the harpsichord since when I saw Wuthering Heights, and lots of other music—I’m trying to build up a collection, but it’s expensive.”

  Knee-jerk laugh from Anne, placing her coffee cup carefully on the table, gracing me with a smile. The Curtis Fortress has been compromised.

  He recovers. “Wuthering Heights—it was Alice Ehlers on the harpsichord banging out the rondo. She teaches music at U.S.C., you know.”

  “I didn’t know, that’s interesting.”

  Curtis repressing a smile, eyes opening wide as I skip through thoughts disconnected, “It’s a great score—Alfred Newman—I mean for Wuthering Heights. Music makes a film.”

  “Yes, so it often does,” slurping another slab of pancake in gooey syrup. Before it reaches his mouth, I start humming the intense, shattering opening of “King’s Row.”

  “That’s from King’s Row,” he says.

  “The greatest film score ever!” showing off now—“Erich Wolfgang Korngold.”

  “Yes—well maybe not the greatest.”

  Anne, quietly amused, no longer scowling. Curtis says, “Anne should’ve played Nora Fintry in The White Steed. As for you, well, I would’ve—when you make your final exit from the Canon’s study—I would’ve hesitated, paused for a second—unsure, head bowed perhaps, instead of that stiff upper lip, striding out to find Nora on her White Steed.”

  “Interesting,” again my usual response to cover all bets. I don’t agree with him. I’m more for the glory build-up—heroism and victory, incurable optimism, avoiding all encounters of melancholy and depression. Chest up! Head held high! Gung ho!

  “It would’ve been more Irish,” Curtis says, “poetic uncertainty—leaving us with a sense that Dennis Dillon will never change—never get up on Nora’s White Steed and ride off into the sunset and glory.”

  I manage a faint smile, Anne is scowling again.

NEXT – Careers in the making . . . Dreams and reality.