William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

But this was Christmas and all was well. Two days before the feast itself, vacation began, and the seminarians returned to their homes and, only slightly less importantly, to their home parishes. Monsignor George Cronyn forcefully urged all his wards to report to their respective pastors, who, presumably, had an abiding interest in their potentially future priests. More often than not, starry-eyed seminarians were rudely dashed back to earth when their pastors couldn’t for the life of them remember the students.

That surely was the case with Groendal and Koesler. Both were from Holy Redeemer parish, which was staffed by priests of the Redemptorist Order. Through a set of particular circumstances, Groendal and Koesler had not followed the vast majority of their peers to the Redemptorist seminary in Kirkwood, Missouri, but had gone instead to the local diocesan seminary.

Had they become Redemptorists, they could have been assigned to any Redemptorist mission in the world, or, equally likely, they would have developed a series of sermons that they would have delivered from one parish mission to the next. As diocesan priests, they would serve in whichever Detroit parish or position the bishop chose for them.

This Christmas of 1949, both Groendal and Koesler had gone through the formalities with their forgetful Redemptorist pastor. Then, as a kind of sop to their status as seminarians—even if in the wrong seminary—they were invited to serve the glorious Mass of Christmas Eve.

Several days after Christmas, Koesler proposed to Groendal that they take in a movie. The Stratford, their neighborhood theater, was showing Adam’s Rib, a film about which Koesler had heard good things. Groendal agreed enthusiastically. He was becoming a dedicated devotee of the arts and had read a number of lavishly favorable reviews of Adam’s Rib. It was set: That night they would meet at the Stratford at 6:45, in plenty of time for the seven o’clock showing.

They met at the appointed time, bought their tickets and hurried in out of the snow. They eschewed the popcorn concession. Groendal considered munching refreshments beneath the serious student of the art. Koesler concurred most reluctantly; paraphrasing the dictum on wine with a meal, he thought no movie complete without popcorn.

As they handed their tickets to the usherette, something happened. Koesler was not sure what, but something happened. In a later era, it would be referred to as “chemistry.” In any case, for no explicable reason, Groendal lingered just a little longer than necessary at the door. He said nothing to the usherette, whose tag identified her as Jane Condon, and she said nothing to him. But something happened.

The theater was only partially filled. They selected seats on the right, on the aisle, about midway down.

Koesler was still trying to comprehend what chimerical sort of magic had happened at the entry a few moments ago. With his brain idling, he barely restrained himself from genuflecting before entering the row.

It wouldn’t have been the first time he had slipped into that Catholic ritual in a theater. He had also once made the sign of the cross at the end of a movie, before realizing he was not in church and this was not the end of a religious ceremony. By these mindless modes of ritual could Catholics be picked out of a crowd.

Slowly the lights dimmed and everyone settled back to be entertained. There were coming attractions, followed by a newsreel, followed by a cartoon. At last Adam’s Rib began.

Koesler was one who chuckled aloud when amused, Groendal was not. The silent amusement of his companion, contrasted with his own laughter, made Koesler more conscious of Groendal’s presence. And his awareness of Groendal led to Koesler’s heightened awareness of Jane Condon.

Ordinarily, Koesler would have been oblivious to an usher or usherette who made frequent trips up and down the aisle, especially while being absorbed in a good film. But because of the contrast between his and Groendal’s outward reaction to a very humorous movie, Koesler became acutely aware of his companion. And Groendal was very much aware of the peripatetic Jane Condon. Each time she passed, going up or down the aisle, Groendal’s head turned. For Koesler, it was like watching two performances, one on the big screen, the other in the next seat. It was distracting, yet interesting.

When the movie ended and lights came up, Koesler felt satisfied in having witnessed a deathless comedy. He also felt somewhat disturbed by Groendal’s reaction to the usherette. Disturbed because Koesler was unsure what this reaction might bode. He looked about, but could not see the usherette, only patrons smiling at the movie they had seen and struggling into their outer winter clothing.

It was not yet 10:00 P.M. , so Koesler and Groendal decided to stop at a nearby drugstore for a snack and a rehash of the movie.

“Who was that blonde, the defendant in the trial?” Koesler asked.

“Judy Holliday.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”

Groendal shook his head while swallowing some ice cream. “Neither have I. This is her first film. She was terrific, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah, very funny. Which reminds me: Outside of Tracy and Hepburn, I didn’t recognize any of the other principals.”

“You’re right. Most of the others were stage actors until now, like David Wayne, Tom Ewell, and Jean Hagen.” Groendal seemed to be feeding on his own enthusiasm. “It just shows you how great these legitimate actors are. You know, in the beginning, particularly in the beginning of the talkies, they were pulling people off the stages in New York and shipping them out to Hollywood for the movies. A film like this really makes me proud of the stage.”

Koesler sipped his piping hot coffee. He had enjoyed the movie and he had read about it since vacation had begun. But he was amazed at Groendal’s familiarity with it. “How did you ever find out so much about this film? I thought I’d read a lot about it. But I didn’t find half of what you’re talking about. How did you do it? We’ve been on vacation only a few days. You been spending all your time in the library or something?”

“Tell you a secret,” Groendal said.

Not another secret!

“I get reviews smuggled into the seminary.”

“You do?”

“My mother, God bless her. She cuts out clippings of reviews of books, stage plays, and concerts. Once in a while she includes reviews of special movies.”

“How does she get the clippings to you?”

“In letters. She folds them inside her letters.”

“And they never censor your mail?”

“From my mother!”

It was beyond Koesler. While he enjoyed reading reviews, it would never occur to him to go to such an extreme measure to get them. But he wanted to get back to this postmortem. “How about the writing!” he enthused. “Wasn’t it good?”

“Especially good. The credit was to Mrs. Garson Kanin. But that really is the actress Ruth Gordon. How’s that for talent!”

“Who’s Ruth Gordon? No, wait . . . wait! I remember: She’s been in a million movies.”

“Right. And she came from the stage, too!”

All this talk about the stage brought to Koesler’s mind another person who idolized the stage, more, even than Groendal—Carroll Mitchell.

Funny, now that he thought of it, Koesler had never heard Groendal refer to either Mitchell or Dave Palmer after they had passed out of his life. It was as if they had never existed. Or more as if they had been merely stepping stones in Groendal’s development. They had been used and then discarded.

Actually, Koesler himself had had considerable difficulty in continuing his friendship with Groendal, particularly after Mitchell’s expulsion. Of course, Koesler did not approve of what Groendal had done, especially in informing on Mitch. But Robert Koesler from an early age had always been extremely nonjudgmental, a trait he had inherited from his Bavarian father.