William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“And best of all, it’s an act that lives. You make a movie and it’s in a can—or these days in a videocassette. But it’s like a body in a casket: It may deteriorate, but it isn’t going to change. Ever been in a movie house after a particularly good picture ends and the audience applauds?”

Koesler nodded.

“Well, what for?” Mitchell continued. “The applause is instinctive. It’s also futile. Nobody who had anything to do with making the movie is there to receive the audience’s appreciation. The writer, the producer, the director, the actors, the technicians; they’re nothing now but credits on the screen. The audience’s reaction—good or bad—has no effect on the performance. It’s all in the can. It can’t change. It’ll be the same performance yesterday, today, and forever.”

“I think I see what you mean,” Koesler said.

“Sure you do. On the stage, everything is just the opposite. It’s why actors can get up there and play the same role day after day and scarcely ever get tired of it. Each audience is different. Each night is like opening night. The audience and the actors derive nourishment from each other. If the actors are tired or not giving everything, the audience senses that and reacts. It works every which way. An especially enthusiastic audience can inspire the actors. And the playwright—the playwright can know that every time the work is performed, a little unpredictable magic can happen.”

“Not unlike a sermon,” Koesler observed. “You give a lot and the congregation responds. Within the first few minutes, you know whether you’ve got them or not.”

“Exactly! A live performance. A living thing.”

“So,” Koesler paused, “then, what happened? It’s so obvious—just as I expected—that you’re in love with the stage. What goes?”

Mitchell opened his hands on the tabletop. “A funny thing happened on the way to the theater.”

“He has written plays, Father,” Lynn said. “He’s written excellent plays. It’s just . . .”

“It’s just that they haven’t gone anywhere.” Mitchell completed her sentence.

“Nowhere?”

“He means, Father, that none of them have made it to Broadway. Not even to Off-Broadway.”

“Is Broadway that important?”

Since the previous move had proven a false departure, Lynn went for more coffee.

“It’s heaven. Bob,” Mitchell explained. “I’ve been in limbo, sometimes purgatory. But not heaven. Some of my stuff has been put on here—Wayne State, the Institute of Arts, U. M., M.S.U., places like that.”

“I’m going to have to pay closer attention.”

“Not your fault, Bob. Very low-budget stagings. Little quality publicity . . . with even less mention of the author.

“I’ve even gotten as far as some of the better places—outside of Manhattan, of course. Like the Long Wharf, the Studio Arena in Buffalo; Yale and the Goodman, and Steppenwolf in Chicago. But they barely get there. And when they do, they close quite promptly. Usually due to, or partially due to, poor to extremely bad notices.”

“And they absolutely do not deserve those bad reviews.” Lynn was back with coffee. “It all comes down to the Actors Theatre of Louisville!”

Mitchell snorted. “Lynn’s got this thing—”

“Because it’s true!”

“Well,” Mitchell said, “we had been wondering over the years. You know, nothing was making any sense. Here I was with a successful, if rather anonymous, career doing screenplays. I mean, I guess that indicated I had some talent for writing . . . you know what I’m getting at?”

“I think so,” Koesler said. “It isn’t as if you were merely an aspiring writer. Good Lord, I’ve known so many of them. Some defensive, some aggressive—all out to prove that they can write. And some write very well. But they need somebody to affirm it for them. They need to be published. And with all those screenplays behind you, you don’t need anybody to tell you you can write. You make a good living. You’re a pro.”

“Exactly. I’ve known all along I could write. Even in school—and stage writing is not all that different from screenwriting. I mean, it’s virtually all dialogue—almost nothing but dialogue—stage or camera directions, no narrative.

“So, the question that’s been hounding us is: If I’m as successful as I am with screenwriting, what’s happening to playwriting?”

“And the answer, Father, was at the Humana Festival in Louisville!” It was evident that Lynn felt very keenly about this.

“I don’t understand,” Koesler confessed. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with this . . . Humana Festival?”

“It’s the new mecca for an entree to the theater,” Mitchell explained. “It’s run by Victor Jory’s son . . . you remember Victor Jory, the character actor?”

Koesler nodded.

“The festival is just a little more than ten years old, but it’s big, Bob. About eight hundred people attend—a good part of them critics and producers. The producers especially are looking for another Agnes of God or Crimes of the Heart or The Gin Game. And the critics are sharpening their stilettos. For the playwrights—none of them untried or unrepresented amateurs—it could be the start of something big.

“Well, last spring I entered the festival for the first time. You see, I’ve grown kind of content with life the way it’s worked out. I’m satisfied to earn my living with screenplays and just dabble with the stage.”

“I ask you, Father,” Lynn protested, “isn’t that a crime? This man normally couldn’t care less about Hollywood. He lives for the stage. And he’s talking about it as if it were an avocation. I mean!”

Mitchell smiled at his wife. “Anyway, my agent talked me into it—to enter a play I wrote last year. It’s been staged a few places—one of the new requirements of the Humana. I didn’t really expect that much from it. But, on the other hand, there’s always hope.”

“What he didn’t expect, Father, was to be screwed!”

“Now . . .”

“What do you mean, Lynn?” Koesler asked. “What happened?”

“One of the critics there,” Mitchell clarified, “was Ridley Groendal.”

“Ridley!” Things suddenly began to get a lot clearer for Koesler.

“Yeah, Ridley. Lynn came up with a scenario that I’m afraid is stranger than fiction.”

“It is not my imagination! That Groendal did everything he could to destroy you at that festival. And from what I learned, he’s been doing the same thing for years, every chance he gets.”

“Lynn . . .”

“It’s true! I was the one who went around to the various producers, after I found out what he was up to in Louisville. Face it, Mitch, it hasn’t been you all these years. It’s been Ridley Groendal. Your plays have been good. It’s been Groendal working hard and wielding all of his clout.”

“I can’t believe that, Lynn. Could you believe it, Bob? You know Ridley; hell, the three of us were classmates once!”

Koesler hesitated. “I don’t know, Mitch.”

“I can’t bring myself to believe such a thing,” Mitchell said, “To me, the biggest argument against it is motive: Rid would have absolutely no reason to do anything like this . . . I mean, what reason could he have? I’ve never done anything to him. If anything, on the surface at least, I owe him: After all, he got me booted out of the seminary.”

Koesler betrayed a surprised look.

Mitchell laughed. “Oh, it’s all right, Bob. I told Lynn all about my most daring escapade in the sem. In fact, when things are glum, we laugh about it.

“But I don’t even hold a grudge about that anymore. Hell, I ought to be grateful to Rid, the way it worked out. If I hadn’t been booted and told never to darken the seminary’s door again, I would have missed out on Lynn and the kids and the grandchildren. And I owe all this to Rid and his scheming mind.