Chet Williamson: Reign

The paintings and bas-reliefs clinging to the canvas of the lobby's curved and segmented ceiling were a hodge-podge of mythological and historical themes. Here a Babylonian war chariot raced toward a covey of cherubim, their piggish little mouths open in some hymn to… was it Apollo floating there? Yes, Dennis thought. It must be – there was the lyre…

“… liar, that's all you are, all anyone is who thinks that way."

He drew his attention back to the gray-haired woman whose black, shining dress seemed to be sprayed on her whip-thin body. "I'm sorry, Sybil? Think what way?"

"There! Concentration! Or the lack of it – that's the problem with all of you technical actors. Staring at the goddamned ceiling when you should be listening and martialing your resources."

"But it's a beautiful ceiling."

"Oh God, Dennis, how like you. It's the coward's way out, changing the subject like that."

"Now I'm a coward instead of a liar?"

"You've been both in your performances throughout your whole life."

"The critics seem to have liked my performances. And I won't mention the public."

"Why not?" Sybil said. "They're one and the same, aren't they? Both easily fooled. But not me, Dennis. You have always been an outward actor, never inward. And it is only the inward actor, the one who creates his performance from within, who gives a true performance."

"Using your own past experiences isn't creating, Sybil, it's interpreting. To me, real creativity is forming a character out of whole cloth." He shrugged. "And anyway, it doesn't matter whether a performance is true or not, as you put it. What matters is the impact it has on the audience."

"That's fraudulent."

"It's not fraudulent. You're an elitist, Sybil – you think that the only valid style of acting is when you use your own memories and responses. But how can you call any actor who touches an audience – who makes them laugh or cry or just, for Christ's sake, feel – fraudulent?"

"What else can you call someone who wears a mask? Honest?"

"What do you mean, a mask? That's a character, Sybil. The character takes over. That's where the creative act comes in."

"But in letting the character take over, you deny the reality of yourself.”

“Oh Christ…”

"Are you denying that, Dennis? You've done it all your life, you know, protected yourself from the truth about yourself. You're the most consistent mask-wearer I know."

"And what is the truth about myself, Sybil?"

"I don't know. Because you're so damned good at protecting it."

"Bullshit."

"Why are you so afraid to allow your real emotions to show through – your emotions, not the emotions of a character?"

"Sybil, you've baited me like this ever since I walked out of your acting class twenty years ago because I didn't want to be a tree."

Sybil's nostrils flared, and her mouth became a thin line as she bit off each word. "You would have learned a hell of a lot about acting from trying to be a tree, to use what was inside you to do it -"

"And blow in the wind like the rest of those pretentious little twits? 'Oooh, I feel the birds nesting in my branches…' Wonderful," he finished dryly.

"Jesus, what's this?" said Sidney Harper, coming up to the squabbling pair and placing a hand on Dennis's shoulder. "Our traditional battle royal?"

"Oh, go to hell, Sid," Dennis snapped, then grinned at the man.

"There," Sybil said. The words spilled out, not giving Dennis a chance to interrupt. "There you are, that's precisely what I mean, that grin. You really are angry at Sid. You really mean to tell him to go to hell, and you do, but then you cover up your anger with a false smile."

"It's a real smile," Dennis said, putting his arm around Sid. "I love Sid.”

“Yassah," Sid said, nodding crookedly. "Massah Dennis love this po' ol' white boy, cuz Sid, he wuk so hand fo' Massah Dennis."

"Can the crap, Sid." Sybil lit a cigarette, and blew a shaft of smoke in Sid's direction. "You're just as bad as Dennis. You hide what you feel with bullshit. But you were never as good at bullshitting as Dennis, and that's why you got out of acting."

"Whoo." Sid shook his head. "Isn't it awfully early in the evening to get so viperous, Sybil?"

"Excuse me," Dennis said, still smiling, "but this conversation's made me dry as hell. I need another drink." He walked away, toward the bar.

~* ~

Sid set his drink on the wide balcony rail and crossed his well-muscled arms. He had to look up at Sybil, but the disparity in height didn't bother him. Sid could hold his own. "Why do you do that, Sybil?" he asked with a sigh.

"Do what?"

"You know – try and bust his hump like that."

"I couldn't have a few years ago. He would have argued with me for hours, or, more likely, called me a silly bitch. What's wrong with him?"

"Wrong?"

"He's not the same man, Sid. There's a weakness in him. He was always so imperial before, you couldn't tell the difference between him and the Emperor. But now…" She trailed off with a shrug.

"Yeah, he's changed, but I don't necessarily think it's for the worst," Sid said, leaning on the railing. "I like to think he's just mellowing. Easing out. The show's had a lot to do with it. I think he's been bored the last few years."

"His performances would indicate that."

"Come on, Sybil -"

"You know I'm right, Sid. Most people didn't notice it. The great unwashed who make up his audience, and of course the critics. But there's been a flatness to it.”

“Except…" Sid paused.

"What?"

"Well, basically I think you're right. And I think that Dennis realizes it too. But I saw almost every damn performance, and every once in a while, in the past year or so, he gave one that was just electric. A real killer, better than I'd ever seen him, even when it was all fresh and new in the sixties. And afterwards he would be just drained, totally exhausted." Sid's face grew thoughtful. "Sometimes he said…"

"What? What did he say?"

He looked at Sybil and found her too interested, too expectant, found himself on the verge of divulging things that Dennis would consider secret. "Nothing. Nothing important. Excuse me, Sybil."

Sid Harper took his glass from the balcony rail and walked into the oak-paneled men's lounge, where he sat alone on one of the renaissance-styled chairs and finished his drink. He thought about Dennis Hamilton, the man who had been his employer and friend for over twenty years, and thought about how glad he was that Dennis had left A Private Empire behind him. The show had made Dennis a fortune, it was true, but it had also cost him much.

There had been, first and foremost, the problem of identity. To the world at large, Dennis Hamilton was the Emperor Frederick, and vice versa, from the time he was nineteen years old, the star of A Private Empire and the newest enfant terrible of Broadway. The show had run on the street for five years, and Dennis had been with it for every performance, except for a five-month hiatus in 1968 in which he went to Hollywood to star in the film version. After the show closed, he accepted a number of movie offers, but the films, unlike the cinematic A Private Empire, were less than huge successes, both critically and at the box offices.

Dennis Hamilton was Emperor Frederick as surely as George Reeves had been Superman and Bela Lugosi Dracula, and neither his private detective in The Crystal. 45, his beleaguered deputy in The Battle for Tombstone, nor his baffled college student in Up Against It won him attention. Only the rock musical, Sparks, made any money, and that was because Dennis's co-star was Bette Barton, whose rock album went platinum just before the film's release. Most of the critics observed rightly that Dennis's trained lyric baritone wasn't right for the role, and his vocal coach's attempts to turn him into an R amp;B belter were strained at best, laughable at worst.