J. Donleavy - Schultz

“But that’s not what Mr. Schultz is charged with. Please stand down madam if you weren’t a witness to the charge. Now Mr. Schultz. I’m quite sure a man in your position momentarily lost control. So I’m not going to have you bound over to keep the peace. Fined ten pounds.”

Schultz nearly saluting from the dock. This pleasantly commanding figure calling for the next case. As Schultz ducking away, now ran rushing out into Bow Street and diving into a taxi. My god all this happening right across the road from the Royal Opera House where tonight they’re performing the ballet.

“Taxi. Stop. I’ll only be a second.”

Schultz emerging from the Opera House with tickets. Popped back in the taxi catching his breath. Till he charged in the door and along the shadowy hall of this familiar office of Sperm Productions. The door opened into the smoky chairman’s office. Rebecca cuting out reviews from a stack of newspapers. Binky with a cigar held out in one hand and pressing down with the other a whole page spread of newsprint. A massive picture of Magillacurdy and the Debutant.

“Ah my dear Schultz, you have arrived.”

“Yeah I have arrived. I want to see these reviews. Where’s his Lordship.”

“His Royal Grace Schultz is in his knickerbockers as you Americans risquély call them, and is I believe with the little wife going for a tramp up in his heather.”

“Holy shit. He should be here.”

“Ah. But we have chatted. At length. By telephone. And decided on the proper course. Be seated, Schultz. While we map out the funeral route. Pop right down there then on our trustworthy chaise longue.”

“I’m standing. And what the fuck do you mean funeral.”

“Pray tell, these, Schultz, the orations. Here for all to see. And this. Especially this. Perhaps the most devastating review ever written about any show in the history of London theatre. Headlined across three columns. Take a look yourself.”

MISS IT, DON’T SEE IT, IT’S TOO AWFUL

Last night saw what this reviewer must regard as the greatest load of rubbish ever disported on a London stage. In attending the opening of a show entitled “Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot,” one was of course forewarned. But the en suing pyrotechnics consisting of lyrics grossly insulting to the intelligence, music so vulgar and brash crashing upon the ears, plus garish costuming and sets, the latter which trembled or ripped at a breath, made for an evening of headache inspiring proportions.

The chorus were frequently off key singing, as they were out of step dancing and who, en masse, seem to have been rounded up from some housewifely amateur group from Sidcup or Surbiton. However, they did at least, by their appalling display, help distract from other terrible matters. Only that a member of the audience became stuck in her seat which gave one the release of laughter at the intervals made the evening tolerable. It was little wonder that one noticed a player’s name changed and the director’s name blacked out in the program.

However there was one exception, embodied in the two star players, who handled such horror with grace, dignity and poise. Genius is a word one uses sparingly but it would have to be applied in the case of Mr. Magillacurdy whose powerful yet sweet voice charmed and at times profoundly awed and moved his listeners. The rendering of his final aria was a tour de force. And indeed this hardened reviewer admits to a tear in the eye and a lump in the throat. He and his spectacularly beautiful co star, whose shimmering, exquisite balletic limbs and dulcet voice equally captivated the audience, did by their performances redeem what would have been an otherwise theatrically totally ruinous event.

To those of you who are still reading this, unless you feel you want to witness a little stage history being made by the debut of two young splendidly promising stars, my advice is a repeat of my sentiments heading this column. Miss It. Don’t See It, It’s Too Awful.

“Well Schultz. The other reviews are no better. No clearer case has there ever been for one to throw in the towel. Wipe our hands clean of the embarrassing matter. His Royal Grace on the phone, agrees.”

Schultz with a left hand holding up the newspaper suddenly sending his fist whistling through the air and crashing through the review like a pane of glass.

“My goodness Schultz whatever did you do that for to a perfectly good newspaper.”

“Because never never is that show going to close. Over my dead body.”

“I do believe his Royal Grace can find room for you in one of his cemeteries Schultz. Even in those most strange shoes. A grace and favour grave so to speak. And as a respected director of this firm, Sperm Productions will gladly accord you a most dignified funeral and foot the bill.”

Schultz pacing the floor shaking a clenched fist up and down. Rebecca leaving the room with a folder full of clippings instructed to check on the stars to see if there were any suicides. Schultz suddenly tripping on the carpet. An instant smile on Binky’s face. Schultz turning and leaning forward over the chairman’s desk.

“I don’t give a shit what the reviewers say. I’m going to beat the fuckers. That show has got balls.”

“Dear me Schultz you are in a tizzy.”

“That’s right.”

“Well in spite of such testicular hope Schultz, the box office phones have been practically dead all morning. There is simply no advance booking. The reviews are unanimous that the show is atrocious. That little newspaper you’ve just put your fist through is read by about five million people.”

“I don’t care how many read it. They can wipe their asses with it, piss in it, but that show stays on.”

“And Schultz we understand from Mr. Gayboy, to whom I must confess I sold half my share of the show, that you could have sold the whole production to one of Broadway’s biggest producers last night where it would be ensured to find a suitably gauche audience.”

“That’s right.”

“And you didn’t.”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t even entertain the thought.”

“No I didn’t Binky.”

“Ah because you thought it would be so nice to keep your sterling reputation intact as a producer of resounding flops in which you have consistently guaranteed that the entire investment is always lost.”

“Fuck you Binky. You thought even before it opened it was going to be a flop. Selling half your share. Well I’m not selling anything and I’m not closing this show.”

Rebecca quietly stepping in. Solemn faced whispering to Schultz that Magillacurdy was not at Claridge’s all last night. And handing over the afternoon editions of the evening newspapers. Two more panning reviews. A headline next to one of them.

SOCK HER DON’T KISS HER

SHE’S YOUR WIFE

Sigmund Franz Schultz the impresario, and producer of “Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot,” was fined ten pounds this morning at Bow Street Magistrates Court for causing actual bodily harm to his wife whom he punched following last night’s performance at the Regent Theatre.

“O dear Schultz, here we go again. Same old headline. Sperm Productions, that innocent company dragged yet again into another Schultz intempestivity. With Gayboy already in a state. Raging that the show is giving the theatre such a bad name that it could ruin business for years to come. And dear me this little news item will promptly blow his hemorrhoids clean out of his backside. Forgive me Rebecca.”

“Bullshit. That’s a fucking headline everybody’s going to read. Mentioning the show, the theatre. I know in my bones this fucking thing is going to work. Shit, months, months of my life are not going to be buried suddenly by a fucking bunch of nincompoops who don’t know their ass from their elbows. You heard the laughing and cheering.”