The Dangerous Animals Club Page 17

  One day David asked me how I felt about nudity. I told him I do it every day, briefly. He said he wanted to write a scene where I have sex in a bathtub with a prostitute at the Bella Union. “Why not,” I said. I had only tried sex in a bathtub once in real life. It was not to be recommended, just for the sheer mop-up factor afterward. But this was fiction.

  In one of many heartwarming father-and-daughter stories in Hollywood, Powers’s daughter, Parisse, was playing a prostitute who worked for him. David chose Parisse to be the lucky girl to join me in the tub.

  The irony was that Powers and I went to school together at SMU thirtysome-odd years before. Back in the old days I had spent some wonderful evenings with Powers and his wife, Pam, and their new baby, Parisse. One evening, after Powers had passed out, I was talking to Pam about horses and stained-glass windows. Pam went to get a couple more beers and asked me if I would diaper Parisse for her, who was a few months old at the time.

  So in an unlikely turn of events, I was going to have simulated sex in a bubble bath with a woman I had diapered in my past. For those who believe in a universe of probability, the odds of this one have to be lesser than finding sushi in South Dakota.

  Any day on Deadwood could be your last. We were shooting the first episode of season three. It was over a hundred degrees. We were behind schedule. We were shooting a street scene with two hundred townsfolk, children, dogs, and a runaway stagecoach. After a few rehearsals we were about to roll cameras when one of the extras apparently dropped dead.

  They called for an ambulance. The filming stopped until help arrived and the man was put onto a stretcher and taken away. One of our assistant directors made an inspirational speech:

  “Everybody, I know we’re all in shock over what happened to”—the AD turned to his assistant who whispered, “Dan,” in his ear—“Dan. Our old buddy Dan. I know he didn’t regain consciousness and that’s got us all worried. But we all know that Dan was a real fighter. And I have no doubt he is going to fight this heart attack thing with everything he’s got. He’s just that kind of guy. The good news is that the ambulance is already on the way with him to the trauma center. It’s very close. They’ll call us when Dan gets there. So . . . I would like to take ten seconds of silence for us all to pray for Dan.” (He lowered his head for eight and a half seconds.) “And finally, I know the one thing Dan really loved was this show. Deadwood was his second home. And there’s one thing Dan would want us to do if he were here right now. He would want us to finish this scene! SO EVERYBODY BACK TO PLACES. READY. ROLL CAMERAS.”

  It was cold.

  If David didn’t like the way a scene was coming together, he would just rewrite and reshoot it. This methodology did not thrill the money people at HBO. It led to exploding budgets and eventually the premature cancellation of the series.

  But there was a moment during season three when I was shooting a scene with Gerald McRaney. We were on the rooftop of a building on Main Street at two a.m. There were no guardrails to prevent us from falling three stories into the night. We began the scene. In the background, on the street below, twenty horsemen rode in procession with burning torches. It was so beautiful it was almost holy. In the middle of one of Mac’s speeches, we were hit by the sound of surprise. There was a screech and a family of white barn owls dove between us. Mac stopped midsentence. The birds flew around us and swooped down over the heads of the riders below. Mac looked back at me, raised his eyebrows, and said, “Well, that was something.”

  And it was.

  Deadwood exemplified the temporary nature of the extraordinary. In that insignificant moment, in a make-believe town, I felt transported. I left my body behind for another time and another place. All I was really experiencing was the power of poetry, coming close to a thing of beauty without falling into the blackness.

  15.

  CONFERENCE HOUR

  EVERY TUESDAY AND Thursday in the drama department at Southern Methodist University they had what was called Conference Hour. All of the drama students could come to the Margo Jones Theatre and hear someone speak. It could be a former student who made it good, such as Sharon Ullrick, who was in The Last Picture Show and then headed off to New York. It could be famous makeup artist Richard Corson talking about his new book. At this particular Conference Hour, the head of the acting curriculum, Professor Jack Clay, spoke on what all actors needed to know to be a success.

  Mr. Clay was a distinguished man in his late forties. He was very formal. Very formidable. A solemn duke from a Grimm’s fairy tale. He spoke seriously about the proper education of the modern theater student and how “woefully inadequate” it was. To be an actor, he said, one must be expert in five things: comedy, Shakespeare, singing, dancing, and fencing.

  All of us took Mr. Clay’s word as gospel. I signed up for singing and dancing lessons, tap and jazz. My friend Jim McLure and I took fencing with Hungarian champion Emeric DeGall. We were not allowed to take Shakespeare or comedy classes. We were only sophomores. Those classes were part of what was called the Professional Acting Program, reserved for juniors, seniors, and graduate students accepted into the theater department’s advanced acting curriculum.

  At that Conference Hour we were also introduced to a new acting professor. Her name was Joan Potter. We were all excited to meet her. She was special. Unlike most acting teachers, she was no academic. She had been a real actress at the famous Actors Studio in New York. She studied under Lee Strasberg. She had been in his world-famous production of Chekhov’s The Three Sisters. She was in a movie with Richard Burton. She was as close as any of us had come to learning from a real professional actor.

  At the conclusion of that first Conference Hour, my faculty advisor came running up to me. Burnet Hobgood, known affectionately to everyone as Hob, was not an acting teacher. He was the head of the entire theater department. If you subscribe to the theory that we freeze our appearance to the period in our life we were the hottest, you would have to think Hob must have been one hot beatnik. He had a little goatee. He always wore a beret adjusted at a sporty angle on his bald head. He smoked cigarettes from Europe. You would bet he had a set of bongo drums in his closet at home.

  Very few students had Hob as their advisor. The reason for this was that, unlike Miss Potter, Hob was a true academic and consequently no one could understand what he was talking about.

  He came up to me and whispered, “Tobo. Freshman auditions are at the end of the week. All of the new students are doing their pieces for Joan. Maybe it would be a good idea for you to do a piece to liven things up.” He winked at me and elbowed me in the side.

  In hindsight, I realize the wisdom of Hob’s advice. He wanted me to audition with the freshmen to properly introduce myself as an actor to Joan Potter and all of the new directing students. However, I was a moron. I interpreted his wink and nudge and request to “liven things up” as my cue to do a “novelty piece.”

  I winked back at Hob and told him to count me in! I decided to do my old Shakespeare audition, a monologue of Orlando’s from As You Like It, but with a twist. I would do it as a striptease. That Friday evening I came out onstage. I announced my piece. The audience settled in. I started taking off. Gasps. Shrieks. Shrieks of laughter. Stomping and hooting. I ended the monologue wearing nothing but boxer shorts. I turned around and revealed I had written “Hi Hob” on my butt. For the finale, I bent over, saluted the audience, and danced offstage.

  I recognize that this was probably an error in judgment. It was in terrible taste. But it was novel. Beth was in the audience. She was not yet my girlfriend. Years later, she told me she was in shock watching my audition. She said she couldn’t believe anyone would do something so crass. I thought it was harmless. It wasn’t the first time I sold my soul for a laugh. I knew my audience and I figured this would work.

  My initial assessment appeared to be right. The directing students and faculty were on the floor. Hob was laughing so hard I thought he would have to be carried out on a stretcher. I think the
one person not amused was Joan Potter.

  That semester Joan taught a beginning scene study class for the sophomores. I was doing an adapted scene from the novel The Catcher in the Rye. It went well. Joan was crying at the end. She asked for an essay on how we worked on our roles. I turned in a four-page paper that I’m sure was inarticulate. I had no methodology on acting at that point in time.

  The next day Joan returned the papers. She gave me an F. An F! My heart stopped. It was the first F I had ever gotten in my life. It was the only F I had ever gotten. She said she wanted to see me after class. I met with her. She shook with fury. What did I think I was doing? she asked. Was I making fun of the process? I was terrified. I said, “No. No, ma’am. I don’t know enough about the process to make fun of it.” I told her I would redo the paper. Which I did. I turned in a new essay the next day. She took it and never gave it back.

  The next morning after Theater History, Hob ran up to me in the hallway. He pulled me into the men’s room and asked me, “What did you do to Joan?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know,” I stammered.

  “Well, she’s furious. She said you have a bad attitude.”

  I felt as though I had fallen into a world where people spoke a different language. I had always been a good student. I had always been likable and agreeable to most teachers. Because I was tall they asked me to put books on high shelves. Because I was easygoing they paired me up with the new kids. Now I had become one of those kids that smoked cigarettes out by the woodshop.

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Hob. “Something different. Whatever you are doing, do the opposite. Just stay off of her bad side.”

  I took Hob’s advice to heart. I did the opposite. I didn’t make any jokes. I didn’t try to stand out in any way. I followed the Taoist principle that “the ax falls on the tallest tree.” I tried to be the smallest tree in the forest. The semester went on. Joan was not overtly hostile to me. Nor was she friendly. I felt like I had distanced myself from my earlier missteps.

  Then something extraordinary happened. Near the end of the term the department announced that for the first time in SMU theater history they were going to present the work of our acting classes to the public. Each acting teacher could select two scenes from his or her class. The theater department would sell tickets for the showcase as the final production of the year.

  Joan asked me if I would do my Butterflies Are Free scene. I played a blind songwriter meeting a girl for a first date. It was sweet and romantic. I played guitar and sang, which made the scene a little different from anything else on the program. I was so flattered. I told Joan how thrilled I was, and that I would love to do the scene.

  Joan stepped close to me and lowered her voice. She told me she wanted to rehearse with me privately for a couple of hours. There were some little things she wanted to fix. “Absolutely,” I said. “Whatever you want.” She smiled at me and said, “Your work in this role is really extraordinary.”

  Victory. I felt like I had won Joan over. The bitterness from the beginning of the year was gone. Joan asked, “How about Thursday at three in the Margo Jones?” That was a problem. I told her I couldn’t be there at three because I was part of the stage crew dismantling the King Lear set. I could be there at five. Joan looked concerned and told me that wouldn’t work. She said she would write a personal note to the head of the crew and get permission for me to rehearse. I shrugged and said, “Sure.”

  The next day Joan told me it was done. She wrote the note. I was cleared to rehearse. They had more than enough help to tear down the set. I met her Thursday at three and we worked for a couple of hours alone. She was attentive and happy with the changes we made to the scene. I felt ready to perform.

  The next morning Hob was waiting for me after first-period Theater History. He pulled me into the men’s room and screamed, “Where were you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Yesterday. Crew call. You missed crew call.”

  I relaxed. “Oh, that. Joan wanted me to rehearse for the show we’re doing in the Margo Jones. It’s all right. She wrote a note. She got me out of crew call.”

  Hob turned red. “There was no note! And it doesn’t matter if there was! The bylaws of the theater department stipulate that a student can never miss a crew call. Under any circumstance. It’s an automatic Unsatisfactory Critique. It goes on your permanent record! Two Unsatisfactories and you are expelled from the department.”

  The blood drained from my head. I couldn’t understand what had happened. I showed up Friday for the opening night of our scene show. Joan never made eye contact with me. She didn’t speak to me. I focused on the scene. I thought if the scene went well for the faculty, and the public, and Joan, this whole episode would go away. The evening was a success. We got a standing ovation. Joan never talked to me after the show.

  The following Monday they posted a list on the bulletin board of students accepted into the Professional Acting Program. If they put your name on the list, you could return to the theater department for your junior year. It didn’t really concern me. Everyone was automatically asked back. I wandered up to the board for a look. My roommate Jim McLure was looking over the list. He turned to me and raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, man.” I looked. My name wasn’t on the list.

  I ran to Hob’s office. I was on fire. I walked past his secretary, Edna, who was asking me to wait while she checked to see if Hob was available. I blew past her into the inner sanctum. Hob was behind his desk. I could tell he already knew. He asked me to sit down. He said that it was wrong. He wrote on my file, “Hob does not approve.” But all of the teachers had to vote “yes” for a student to be accepted in the Professional Acting Program. It was five to one. Joan voted me down. She had ammunition with the Unsatisfactory Critique.

  “This is nuts. I didn’t do anything. Have you looked at that list? There are people being accepted in the program that haven’t shown up for half of the classes because they were too busy smoking pot and listening to Abbey Road. You saw the scene I did the other day. We closed the show. We got a standing ovation.”

  “I know, I know,” said Hob. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. But my hands are tied. You need to calm down. We have to look at what you can do. Transferring to another school won’t be a realistic option. With the Unsatisfactory on your record, no good school would take you.” Hob leaned back in his chair. He appeared to be deep in thought as he played with his package of cigarettes on his desk. “The only real option would be to leave the department. Pick a different major. You can still take general theater courses. Theater History. Dramatic Literature. You can still audition for the plays. It’s just the acting program and all the acting classes that are off-limits.”

  I didn’t say a word. I left Hob’s office. I headed back to my little room off campus. A sudden storm blew in and I walked through the freezing Texas wind. I didn’t feel a thing. I burned with a mixture of fury and failure. It’s a bad mix.

  In that fifteen-minute walk I saw the end of all my dreams. Not to graduate, not to be an actor, shamed in front of all my friends, shamed in front of my new girlfriend, Beth. What would she think? I knew my parents would be sympathetic, but they weren’t advocates. They never wanted me to be an actor. They wanted me to be a lawyer.

  I got to my room and closed the door. I sat on my bed. Outside, the sun began to set. In the gathering darkness, I had the first real Conference Hour of my life. A Conference Hour with myself. I looked at all of my strengths and weaknesses. Truthfully. It was a Conference Hour with no answers, but no excuses either.

  And in the silence, I remembered a phrase from religious school that I always thought was catchy. It was from the great Jewish teacher Hillel, who lived roughly at the same time Jesus did. He said:

  If I am not for myself, who is?

  If I am for myself alone, what am I?

  And if not now, when?

  I never knew what that last line meant.
“If not now, when?” I realized Joan Potter had just taught me the meaning of those words. She didn’t know it, but she gave me the gift of “when.” When was now.

  I devised a plan. A plan that was so outrageous it had no chance of working. I went to the registrar’s office in the morning and enrolled for the next year. I signed up for all of the Professional Acting courses I wanted in spite of being thrown out of the department.

  WHEN I WALKED into Joan Potter’s intermediate scene study class the first day of my junior year, she almost had a stroke. She refused to look at me. She gave out scene assignments, omitting me. When she asked if there were any questions, I raised my hand. She ignored me and dismissed the class.

  I got strange looks from the entire faculty for the rest of the day. Some were concerned. Some were confused. They double-checked their rosters. The next morning as I was leaving Theater History, the one class that was happy to have me, Hob came bustling up to me.

  “I need to see you in my office. Now,” he said. Hob walked off, looking shaken. I followed him. We entered his office in silence. I sat down. He closed the door and sat across from me. He cleared his throat and tried to find the right words. “Stephen. The Professional Acting Program is not an option for you. It’s not what I want, but we can’t allow you in those classes. You have to understand that if we let you in after being removed from the program, we have no control over who gets admitted in the future. That’s the way it is. I’m sorry.”

  I stared at Hob. I felt his pronouncement settle in the room like mustard gas on a World War I battlefield. I searched for the right words.

  “Hob, I’m sorry. But your problems are of no concern to me. Who gets in or doesn’t get in to your program is none of my business. The way I see it, I pay you. You accepted my tuition money, so I pay your salary, and Joan Potter’s salary, and Jack Clay’s salary. So I will be in class. You have rules, but this is my life. I always wanted to be an actor. You people aren’t going to stop me.” I got up and stopped at the doorway. “Again, Hob. I’m sorry.”