My Real Memoir
Monday. Everyone wanted to know the name of “the lady from Brooklyn” who’d hijacked the opening of my play the previous weekend. She’d pulled a prop door over on herself. Screamed. Run out of the theatre. And then run back in, warning the audience, “We’re trapped!” Bob Cohen, our Drama department head, asked if she was my mom. “No!” I said. “She was a complete stranger, I swear!” The Graduate Directing class refused to believe me.
My production was “inventive” and “wild,” they agreed. “A little too wild,” Bob added. “Never put your audience at risk!” An understandable response, since he’d been hit square in the face by an exploding orange!
A few days later, I told him my master’s thesis concept: “I want to direct an environmental production of Shakespeare’s The Tempest! I’ll completely immerse my audience in the experience,” I said. “The opening storm will be in total darkness. My crew will shake the seating platforms, rattle metal thunder sheets, and spray water in the audience’s faces—”
“No!” Bob replied (undoubtedly picturing that nefarious orange grenade), “Shakespeare requires more actors and rehearsal time than student productions have.” He offered to let me act my master’s thesis, instead, in his upcoming musical Guys and Dolls. I’d avoided performing since my meltdown last spring. And ironically, Guys and Dolls was the one other play I’d had a previous similar experience with.
Then I remembered The Apple Tree by the creators of Fiddler on the Roof, which featured three short romantic comedies. I’d always loved the first (and longest), based on Mark Twain’s The Diaries of Adam and Eve. “So, what if I expanded that into its own full-length musical?” I said. I promised to keep the action onstage, and the audience safe.
Bob grinned. “OK, but I still want you in Guys and Dolls.” I ended up in a fun, hammy cameo role that got me a big round of applause, and helped lessen my stage phobia. But not my ongoing existential crisis.
Adam and Eve turned out to be a winsome little gem with: Three new tunes. Additional dialogue involving Adam’s naming of the animals (“swimmers, flyers, hoppers”). And Eve’s renaming of them (“fishes, birds, kangaroos…because that’s what they look like”). I also added a dance character, Time, whose solos marked the passing seasons. And a heartbreaking scene with the Snake doubling as Cain. Snake and Cain’s bitter renunciations of God (“You Are Not Real”) in contrast to Adam and Eve’s quiet understanding, reflected my own spiritual vacillations.
Ultimately, though, it was the play’s message of abiding love that drew me to it. And that impacted the audience most deeply as well. I’d found a verse, “But love covereth all sins” in my Grandma’s Bible, and printed it in the program. Could love heal the darkness in me?
I’d developed a crush on my leading lady. But she, a homespun choirgirl, confessed to being in love with a married alcoholic. Reminded of my high school sweetheart’s similar doomed affair, I warned her that it would end in anguish. And it did.
Was abiding love even possible? Each of my three big loves had come to an end. It seemed that impermanence was the only reality. I’d been confident—now I was riddled with anxiety. I’d been loved—now I was not. Yet I couldn’t stop looking for a love “that can never be broken, an impossible love that couldn’t exist.” These words would eventually make their way into…
My most autobiographical song.
My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.
I really enjoy your backstage memoirs Mitch:)
Aw, thank you, Karima.
I wish you could make that Tempest production. Your description sounded amazing. Sorry that I cannot put the play’s title in italics. Grrrrrrr, I have a fond distaste of comment boxes.
I understand, Isabella. I sometimes use single quote marks to indicate a title, e.g. ‘The Tempest.’
I attended a performance of “The Apple Tree” on Broadway in the late 60s, with Alan Alda in the lead. I didn’t think too much of his singing. Carl Reiner was in the audience that night, and he autographed the play’s program for me. Afterward we followed Alda to a nearby restaurant where we had a late supper, and where I interrupted his dinner for another signature.
I just found the program, and I’d like to send you photos of it it and pictures of a very young Alan Alda, circa 1967. If you go to my site and email me your email address, I’d be happy to send them to you.. Justbobf.com/contact
as for year circa ’61
How cool is that, Bob? I don’t think I’ve ever heard Alda sing, but I know he was a big Broadway star back in his pre-Mash days.
Sort of one of those theaters at a theme park that shake and spray water, you were ahead of the times.
;>) In a sense, yes, Pete.
Expanding Twain’s “Adam and Eve” was a clever idea for a musical. Finally, something went right for budding producer/director/actor Teemley. Well, except for the romance part. 🙂
All in due time. Thanks, Nancy.
I really enjoyed the song. Some day I hope to see the movie.
I hope so! And thank you, Venus.
Wonderful! And thankfully, your chosen tags only almost say it all. 😊🌷
Thank you, Carol!
I enjoyed reading this. Word press is so annoying… only to me….
I have too many times written comments and the disappear, so I hope this one will.
I am also unable to “like” but just know, that I do.
Good to know, Rosemary. At least your comment came through, and it wasn’t assigned to “Anonymous!”
I’ve not read Twain’s “Adam and Eve” for years but remember his humorous take on their experiences. As if that wasn’t enough fun, I can only imagine the Teemley Touch on top of that, once you completed your script! No wonder it was well-received. And I love how God used the story of The First Couple to draw you a little closer to him.
<3
Your posts are always intriguing, thanks for sharing
My pleasure, L.G.
*like … my button is also not working. 🙁
Argghh. Good old WordPress. Anyway, thank you, Ren.
Very beautiful 👌💯
Your story reads like a beautiful storm — chaotic, vulnerable, full of searching, but deeply honest. I loved the contrast between theatrical spectacle and personal stillness, especially how you wove your inner journey into your art.
“Love that can never be broken” — that line stayed with me. Perhaps the act of creating, of daring to feel and share, is the kind of love that endures.
Thank you for this courageous, resonant piece. It touched something deep.
Thank you so much, my friend. (I’m afraid I don’t know your name.)
Beautiful!!
Thank you, Daisy.
Super 💯
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