I started reading the news this morning and it was so depressing, I decided to skip it and go straight to music. Swinging on a start sounds like a good choice, don’t you think? This is the Frank Sinatra version. It was the best reproduction I could find.
It’s a cheerful song. Nothing to do with the news and that’s just fine with me. Less is definitely more!
In 1987 I saw a play at the Manhattan Theater Club in New York City that stayed with me for over 30 years. It affected me so deeply that when it returned to Broadway this year, I felt compelled to see it again. It was called Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune, was written by Terrance McNally and in 1987 it starred Kathy Bates and F. Murray Abraham.
The current production on Broadway stars Audra McDonald and Michael Shannon and it lived up to my glorified memories. It’s an artfully written character piece involving a waitress, Frankie, on a one-night stand/first date with Johnny, the new short-order cook at her low-end restaurant.
Everything about the play is simple and sparse – just two people in Frankie’s small, shabby and depressing apartment in New York City. The costumes are also minimal – a nondescript robe, a plain white shirt.
The play is a study of contrasts. The characters begin the play physically exposed but emotionally unconnected and end the play clothed but emotionally exposed and beginning to connect. The actors are magnificent in their portrayal of these lonely people and their gradual movement toward each other.
Frankie starts out closed off and defensive, pathologically afraid of commitment and forcefully pushing Johnny away. Yet McDonald manages to make you understand her and even like her, despite the walls she puts up to protect herself. Johnny is a bull in a china shop, openly expressing his need for closeness, crashing into her emotional barriers in his clumsy but persistent and sincere attempts to break them down.
He wears his neediness on his sleeve and she is all resistance and rejection. He desperately and poignantly wants to connect with her and she is terrified, fighting tooth and nail against opening up to him.
The piece is beautifully constructed as a will she or won’t she mystery – will she eventually let him in? The first act ends with the audience wondering, along with Frankie, whether or not Johnny is a deranged stalker. By the end of the play, Johnny’s acknowledgment of loneliness and his desire not to be, seem more ‘normal’ than Frankie’s insistence that she’s not lonely and doesn’t need people in her life.
The emotional dance is accompanied by a well-timed, musical dance of words, often laugh out loud funny. At one point, my husband whispered to me that he didn’t realize that this was a comedy. McNally writes so skillfully that even while the audience is laughing, it is also emotionally engaged. It’s one of the few plays I’ve seen that I also want to read so I can savor the language and the verbal sparring.
Everything about this production meshed beautifully. It was one of the most all-around enjoyable and gratifying experiences I’ve had in the theater in a long time.
One of the perks of being a retired TV news reporter are invitations for speaking to various groups, small and large. I enjoy them. It gets me “out” and I meet new and old friends. I must admit these invites do wonders for my ego. As Marilyn frequently says, “Garry never met a mic or camera he didn’t like.”
It’s my wife’s not so sly reminder that I’m a ham. I plead guilty.
Recently, I was invited to speak to the Mens’ Club of Sharon, Massachusetts. No heavy lifting, I was assured. I like it that way. It means no great expectations and minimal pressure for the speaker.
I didn’t drink tea at the morning gathering. I just wanted to use that phrase, playing off one of my favorite movies, “Tea And Sympathy.” Hey, remind me to tell you my Deborah Kerr story – another time.
I was pleasantly surprised to see the large gathering at the Mens’ Club. Sometimes you puff yourself up for a big audience and only a handful of people show up. It’s happened to many people, including the guy in the Oval Office. I was a little anxious because heavy rain and rush hour traffic made early arrival difficult with the clock ticking.
I surveyed the gathering as I was introduced. For once, I wasn’t the oldest person in the room. Nice. Very nice. Obviously, in a gathering like that, my reputation preceded me. I wore a USMC sweater to give myself more legitimacy in an audience which included many veterans.
I began by pointing out my cochlear implant and talked about dealing with hearing impairment for most of my life. People are always surprised when I say poor hearing has been a bigger obstacle for me than the racism which is the runnerup hurdle in my life. I scanned the audience and saw heads shake in acknowledgment about hearing woes.
I tried to spot who was wearing hearing aids. I shared a few anecdotes about my uphill battle with hearing. It prompted me to get judges to give me advantageous seating for trials and advise attorneys to speak loudly and clearly. Some counselors didn’t appreciate being told to “speak up and scuttle the show biz asides.” The Sharon men nodded and laughed.
Yes, too much mumbling from high-priced lawyers and doctors. Everyone could relate to that.
I segued from the courtroom back to my short stint in the Marine Corps. I shared a few stories about life at Parris Island in 1959. I saw more smiles in the audience. Later, there would be shared stories from fellow gyrenes who made it through the rigors of basic training. We laughed about how we provoked the patience of steely-eyed Drill Instructors. I “killed it” when I told about laughing in the face of a “DI” who was trying to scare the bejeezus out of we motley recruits. There would be stories from the other Marines of a certain age. Lots of smiles and laughter.
I backed into my bag of war stories about favorite interviews over the years. My John Wayne story always brings smiles. The recollection works because it’s more about me behaving like a fanboy than getting the Duke’s interview. Almost 50 years later, I’m still elated over meeting Duke Wayne. Hey, he shook MY hand. My hand!
There were anecdotes about coverage of the volatile school desegregation years in Boston. I could see the concern – then disbelief as I recalled my confrontation with anti-busing activists who threatened my crew and targeted me with racial epithets. It was a surreal moment as I silenced the angry crowd, assuring them, “Hey — hold on! I’m not a “ni__er — no, I’m a SAMOAN!”
It was a pre-Mel Brooks moment as the crowd dispersed, murmuring, “Wow, He’s a Samoan, he’s not a ni__er.” Belly laughs from the men of Sharon! I assured them the story was true if hard to believe.
I wrapped my talk with a few anecdotes about the downside of being the famous “blizzard reporter.” People always remember seeing me in lousy weather at dawn’s early light. They smile when I tell them about close calls with nature when I was beckoned for yet another live shot about the weather. They appreciate the kindness of strangers letting me in to use their bathroom and then calling friends to boast that I was sitting in their throne room. Very descriptive, boastful calls.
My voice was turning into a whisper, a clue for me to wrap it up. There was a comment from the audience that I‘d forgotten over the years, “You always looked bigger on TV..”
It was the “Alan Ladd” syndrome. For over 3 decades, many people thought I was at least a 6-footer in my TV appearances. In reality, I’m always the shortest man in the room.
The men of Sharon loved it. I enjoyed my time with them. It was good to see people my own age out and about and interested. We move slowly, but we still move!
I recently had a unique, rich and rewarding experience. I wrote and helped put together a multimedia theatrical production about a horrific pogrom in 1919 that wiped out over half of the 1200 inhabitants of a Ukrainian town called Felshtin. We performed it on April 14, 2019, in New York City to a very appreciative audience. Let me describe the long road that led to that wonderful afternoon.
I’ve been working for over a year on this project for my audio theater group, Voicescapes Audio Theater. Usually, Tom and I write a short script, either comedy or drama, and then we edit it, cast it and rehearse it. Recorded sound effects and music are added and in a few months, we have a new piece in our repertoire.
This time we were commissioned to write an hour-long dramatic presentation to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the 1919 pogrom. A pogrom is an organized massacre of a particular ethnic group, usually Jews in eastern Europe and Russia. However, the word massacre is too polite and sanitary to convey the havoc, destruction, brutality, and butchery visited on the towns subjected to pogroms.
The group that hired us, The Felshtin Society, is an American organization made up of descendants of people who lived in Felshtin throughout its history (it disappeared after World War II). Many of these descendants are related to survivors of the 1919 pogrom so this piece would have personal meaning for them.
In 1937, the society got many of the survivors to write personal accounts of their and their family’s experiences in the pogrom. These stories were turned into a book in Yiddish, Russian and other local dialects. This was translated into English painstakingly, over nineteen years.
My script was based on the survivor’s words in this book.
There were the stories of people who hid in attics and basements, pigsties. and haystacks to avoid the clutches of the Russian marauders. Many Felshtiners escaped into the neighboring fields where they huddled together for days, freezing and starving, without shoes or coats. Many were lucky and could bribe the Russian soldiers to let them live. But many more witnessed family members and friends being tortured and sadistically butchered.
Even the survivors were shells of their former selves when this nightmare was over.
In the book, the survivors wrote about the thriving town that existed before 1919, including a synagogue with a treasury of rare books and a rabbi who attracted scholars from all over the region. The survivors then talked about the husk of a town that limped back into a meager existence after the pogrom.
There were organized efforts, locally and in the United States, to raise money, food. and clothing for the bereft, impoverished and frequently homeless inhabitants. Money also went to establishing an orphanage for the more than 50 orphans in the town.
The Felshtin Relief Committee was the American organization founded to help the town recover. It was a subcommittee of the Felshtin Society. This committee managed to help numerous survivors emigrate to other countries, especially to America, where relatives welcomed them. This was fortunate because the people left in Felshtin in 1941 were wiped out by the Nazis.
I spent several months reading through these searing and heart-rending accounts. This was difficult and depressing for me. I had to then turn these random stories into a short, theatrical script.
I picked out the most well-written and poignant accounts. I put these segments into an order which would make them roughly chronological.
I divided the script into sections like “Before the Pogrom,” “Accounts of the Pogrom,” and “Aftermath of the Pogrom.” This last section included burying hundreds of bodies, treatment of the wounded, feeding the starving population. and rehabilitating the town and people.
The Pogrom section was further divided into the different types of experiences people had. One group was about those who hid in the fields or town, those who went to local gentiles for help, those who successfully bribed their tormentors, and those who lived through grenades or fires set throughout the town.
To tie everything together, I added narration to the words of the survivors.
My original script was two hours long, but we were limited to one hour. I had to cut the script in half. This was painful. I had grown attached to the people and the stories I’d chosen.
It was heartbreaking to edit them down and in some cases, to cut them entirely. I went through seven edits to finally get a tight, dramatic script. It was important to do these stories justice, to give them the emotional gravitas they deserved.
Tom said when he first read it that it took him days to shake the sense of horror and tragedy.
Once we had a script, we hired a musician to compose music to accompany parts of the script, a Jewish man who was well versed in the Klezmer music of Ukraine. We hired a young, local violinist to play the music live on stage.
We usually record music for our pieces, but we felt a living musician would add a level of intimacy and intensity to the piece. We also recorded sound effects to use when needed.
We collected photos from before and after the Felshtin pogrom. We found photos of memorials to the pogrom and created a power point presentation to be projected on a large screen behind the actors on stage.
The melding of actors, sound effects, violinist and photos created a powerful piece of theater.
It took a lot of time and effort to coördinate these elements into a cohesive whole. We rehearsed each element separately, then together. I was worried that with so many moving parts, we wouldn’t have enough time to seamlessly pull everything together.
I was wrong.
Rehearsal at the venue
Violinist rehearsing at the venue
working to pull things together at the venue
I was onstage for the performance, turning the pages of the script for the violinist so he could see when to play and pause. I’m usually in the audience for our performances so this was a new experience for me.
On the other hand, Tom is usually onstage acting for an ordinary Voicescapes show, but this time he was in the audience with the director. He ran the power point presentation as well as being in charge of the many technical aspects of the show. Tom and I switched places and it worked.
It was amazing to feel the positive energy on stage from the actors and the audience. You can actually feel the rapt attention and involvement of the audience.
From the audience perspective, Tom said this was a fantastic experience.
When we took our bows, I saw people getting up from their seats and assumed they were getting ready to leave. But, no!
They were giving us a standing ovation!
A hundred people were standing up and applauding for our show! It was exhilarating. Tom says the smile that spread across my face was priceless.
After the show, there was a wine and cheese reception which gave us the chance to mingle with the members of the audience. People came up to us and raved about our beautiful production and complimented us on how magnificently it was all put together.
We were told we had to perform this piece in other venues and that it should be seen by a wider audience.
Most moving, descendants of people we quoted told us how meaningful and emotional it was for them to hear their ancestor’s words in this context. This added another level to our experience of the afternoon.
The next day, we got an email from one of the pogrom descendants who was in the audience. What she wrote made us all so proud and happy. She said that in the pogrom, her family had to watch as her great-grandfather was slaughtered. She thanked us for the care, kindness, and talent with which we distilled and recreated what her ancestors had suffered. She said that we captured the hearts of the audience and that there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. She went on to say that bringing the victims’ voices to life was a priceless gift and she thanked us for this gift.
The 25-year-old violinist said that he was honored to be part of our production. This job was special to him because it hit him in a really deep place. The technician from the Center for Jewish History, where we performed, said he was deeply moved by our show and was thrilled to be even a small part of our production.
All heady stuff! I went home floating on a cloud of praise and gratification. But mixed in with this elation was a sense of sadness and loss.
Felshtin had been part of my life for over a year and I would miss it. The last few months were filled with feverish work, including rehearsals, meetings, and endless phone calls. The camaraderie was invaluable and I will miss being part of such a significant enterprise. Everyday life will seem a bit more ordinary.
It will be a long time before I have something like this in my life again. But for now, thanks for the memories!
It’s heading toward the end of April and the Sox, last year’s series winners, are having a hard time. While not in last place, they’ve lost more than often than they’ve won. Many of the teams who were supposed to be leading their division are not doing well.
It’s early yet. If they are still tanking by the end of May, we’ll have to get serious about worrying. Garry would normally be obsessively glued to the television, but when his team isn’t playing well, he’s afraid to watch. He thinks watching is a jinx.
The sportscasters were talking about somebody getting stuck with an error because he couldn’t catch a ball on a bad bounce and how hard it is to catch them when they take an unpredictable bounce.
This got me thinking about stickball.
These professional players get gazillions of dollars to play professional baseball. They have parks with groundskeepers, bases, uniforms, baseballs, and even bats! How would they do without all that fancy stuff, huh?
We didn’t have any of that. No siree. We played that old-time American favorite, stickball. We hit with old broomsticks using a pink rubber Spalding ball — which might or might not be round.
The broomsticks were worn out. If it was any good, your mother was using it, so before you got to play, it had to be pretty beat up.
The ball? Half the time, they weren’t even round anymore. They had lumps of pink rubber which had — long in the past — been balls with bounce.
In hometown stickball, assuming you actually hit whatever was thrown (dubious), you had no way to predict where it would go. All bounces were bad. An old, not-round Spalding rubber ball could go anywhere.
The bases were “the red car over there” and “the big maple tree in front of Bobby’s house.” Everyone agreed the manhole cover was home because it was more or less in the middle of the road. Third base was the drainage grate over the sewer. Watch your feet and DON’T let the ball go down the drain.
It left the game wide open for serious disputes about fair versus foul. The team who was most vigorous in pursuing fairness or foulness got the call, especially since we were our own umpires and decisions were voted on and the bigger team (by numbers or just physically bigger) always won.
If those super highly paid athletes had to play stickball, how well do you think they’d do? I’d like to see those tough major leaguers playing stickball with a worn-out broomstick and an old pink Spalding ball bouncing wildly all over the place.
The proper definition of pantomime follows, but in my life, what it really is how you try to communicate what you want to say when you’ve forgotten the word for it.
Garry, for some reason, never seems to be able to make sense of my arm waving and occasionally throwing out what I think might be a related word. Usually, before my show is over, I remember the word. Sometimes, I don’t.
For that, there is Google. If Google doesn’t work (but it almost always does), I forget about it. It will then pop up at the most unlikely moment.
I think more people are afraid of mimes than clowns — and that’s saying something.
noun: pantomime; plural noun: pantomimes
1 – A dramatic entertainment, originating in Roman mime, in which performers express meaning through gestures accompanied by music.
2 – British – A theatrical entertainment, mainly for children, that involves music, topical jokes, and slapstick comedy and is based on a fairy tale or nursery story, usually produced around Christmas.
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