"I Wish Marlan Could Be Here": The way we were.

Time it was and what a time it was.
It was...a time of innocence...a time of confidences.*

The Crucible with Gus Kaikkonen as John Proctor. Curtain Call--Marlan Warren (L) Gus (C) Martha Perry (L)

FOR GUS ON HIS BIRTHDAY
Events herein are true as remembered by this storyteller.

SUMMARY:

First things first, in 2018 the play Gus Kaikkonen directed at The Mint Theater in New York has been nominated for a Drama Desk Award. Congratulations!

Background:

Gus entered Fort Myers High in our junior year. He came with Detroit Theater cred, and I was his willing accomplice. At the time, I'd been acting in the adult little theater productions since I was 12. The story of how theater literally saved my life is best told elsewhere. Ditto the tale of how Gus and I--with the help of my good friend from another school, Martha Perry--came to form an independent theater company ("The Company") that would mount a production of The Crucible and feature a large percentage of our fellow students. Gus was a godsend. A genius-type who could produce, direct, build sets, and act. I believe his mother helmed the costume committee.

After graduation, I kept our friendship alive with my typical tenacity. Gus went to Georgetown in D.C. on a National Merit Scholarship, and I opted for FSU (Theater major). Gus never graduated with his Psych degree, and I dropped out in my junior year. His reason for dropping out? Starring role in the original "Equus" on Broadway. My reason? I didn't think a Theater degree would qualify me to actually make a living, but I continued to study acting and directing--performing in theaters in Boston, Canada, and Chicago. Eventually I began writing and producing my plays in San Diego, before returning to college (USC Film School) in '84, and embarking on a film career.

I saw Gus on two occasions in NYC. The first was before he was cast on Broadway. The next time is the reason for the publication of this journal entry.

Note: In the years that followed college, we would meet occasionally in Chicago when he was visiting, performing at The Goodman. He would ask me for directing notes. The last time I saw him was in 1979, before I moved to San Diego, California. His play Time Steps was being performed at the Boarshead Theater in Michigan. I came up from Chicago. We stayed with his hosts. The last thing I heard him say as I boarded the train was: 

"Write me!"

I came across these journal entries recently. They mention an idea he had for a play (about returning to our old school) that I hope he writes someday.

March 22, 1979
I was just a small town girl living in a lonely world when I met Gus in high school, a transfer student from Detroit. At the time of this writing, I had already been to NYC several times, visiting relatives, and Gus and I would see each other then. I was now doing theater in Chicago, and had come to NYC on holiday. The bad news: Gus was not home. The good news: When I called, he asked me to visit him upstate so I could give him directing notes for the summer rep play, which he was rehearsing in Cohoes, NY.

The Train

On this train ride to Cohoes, I have unintentionally brought the right equipment for this visit to Gus: a yellow legal pad. Although I'm only an hour from the heart of New York City, already a vast, peaceful water flows beside the train. Framed on its horizon by the dark, pointed silhouettes of hills.

Gone are the elbow-to-elbow frantic, searching people. Gone are the steep skyscrapers that cast long shadows over what should have been a beautiful day. Gone is the horror of the women's hotel with its threadbare carpets, rotten bedspreads and welfare residents.

For the first time I have viewed the city from the side of the underprivileged and the struggling. This could be me. My Chicago friends who are now here all sing in one encouraging chorus:

"Come here. Come here. Come here." At least try it.

It is a city of young, energetic people. Not to mention the seemingly billions of artists. My impression, though, is that they do not encourage or support each other in a way that would lend security or pleasure in an uncertain world. Rather, they seem a part of that filmed marathon race (They Shoot Horses Don't They?) Necks straining forward, teeth bared, eyes on the finish line, arms and legs pumping, pumping, pumping. They all want to make it. And they all scorn those who don't. What has this spitting, puking, farting city to do with me? Well, it has things to offer.

There are people who are searching the way that I have been searching.
There is inspiration everywhere I turn. As much inspiration as there is depression.
There is the challenge of survival and success. And education facilities galore.
Millinery shops, restaurants, theaters, department stores, dance centers, museums, shopping plazas, apartment complexes are squeezed together—an accordion town.

March 24, 1979

No More Becky Cornwells

I have a feeling, as if waking from a dream, that unless I write down the events and thoughts of the past two days, I will forget them. Some sort of realization about time: the Past, Present, and Future has happened to me. Although I am not focused on what it is exactly.

What I Saw. What We Did.

Gus at the train station, meeting me in tweed jacket and dark sweater, looking more like the playwright than the actor with his aviator glasses. The inside of a shabbily elegant-expensive restaurant where we ate dinner. Gus saying:

"A week and a half ago, I was feeling lost and miserable about the way I'm doing this part. I thought, I wish Marlan could be here to help me."

"And then I called and said I'm in New York."

"That's right."

I am looking lovely in a paisley crepe dress, and I'm enjoying the hell out of being a lady.

When we are in the car again, his eyes appraise me in that swift, open way he has. I may be wrong, but I felt I'd passed inspection. We roll back to Cohoes via a turnpike that shows off Albany to its best advantage. I feel at eye level with Gus at last, and also (alas) more grown up than ever, as I listen to his story about going back to high school: Ft. Myers Senior High:

"I saw Mr. Riley, Mr. Seagraves, Mr. Hayford, and Mrs. Farrar. I was sure Mr. Hayford and Mrs. Farrar wouldn't remember me. But Mr. Riley and Mr. Seagraves I thought would.

Mr. Hayford, the physics teacher was the first one to see me. I passed him in the hall, and he said: "Gus?" I said yes. He said: "Tell me something. Has anything I ever taught you been useful to you in any way whatsoever?" And I had to say: "Mr. Hayford, I'm an actor and I'm afraid that I never use any physics doing it. But your teaching me physics helped me feel less alienated from the world.

Then I stopped in the doorway of Mr. Seagraves' room and he said: "May I help you?" And I said, "Yes, I was a student of yours." He couldn't remember me at all.

Next, I went to see Mr. Riley. He's had a heart attack, and he looks like a skeleton. It was Yearbook Period, so people were pretty free—young girls were all around him, teasing and talking. They were all in jeans and pants, and I said to Mr. Riley:

'No more Becky Cornwells?'

And he shook his head sadly and said: "No, they don't make them like Becky Cornwell anymore. Becky Cornwell is dead."

Seeing my horrified look, Gus explained:

"Oh, she's not really dead. It's just that type is dead."

I know Gus felt melancholy over the passing of that particular stereotype. Gus, who always makes me feel fragile, looked after, simple. Gus, who opens doors for me, carries my bags, minds my health, helps me off with my coat, and walks next to me on the outside of the sidewalk by the curb. Gus, who loves being tender, affectionate, playful, and protective with women. Becky Cornwell was on his pedestal ten years ago. She was a vision of Southern loveliness. Indeed, she came the closest to looking more like a true angel than any other woman I have ever met. A dancer, she was slender and graceful with a peaches and cream complexion, crystal clear blue eyes that radiated innocence and straight light brown hair that fell to her shoulders. To look at her was to feel cool and cleansed. In her fashionable dresses of pastels, prints and dotted swiss, there never seemed to be a suspicious or angry thought in her head. Instead, she'd always smile sweetly and shower you with modesty.

Our senior year, Becky was engaged to marry an older guy named Bill.

Gus idolized her. I hated her. I hated the envy she caused in me. So. Becky Cornwell is dead. And Gus marks her grave somewhere in his heart.

Gus continued:

"Mr. Riley said he did, but I could tell he didn't know who I was. He seemed old and getting senile. This man who had so much influence on me! It was because of him I went to Georgetown. He said it was a good school. And now he didn't even remember me.

The next teacher was Mrs. Farrar, and I really didn't think she'd remember at all. But when I came to her door, she said:

'Class, stop. Stop! I want you to meet someone.' Then she introduced me to the class and took me aside to talk. When I told her what I was doing, she said:

'You got out. I can't believe it. Someone finally got out.'

And I said, "You can get out, too." But she said no, there's just no way.

One time I was in her class, and I'd just finished doing some kind of skit when some guy made some kind of derogatory remark like 'the ones who are always on stage...or something...and Mrs. Farrar said, 'You'd better watch out, because he's a big, tough guy.' And this guy shut right up. I never had to say a word in my defense. From then on, I had a reputation as a 'big, tough guy.' I had just come to Ft. Myers and I didn't know a soul. She really helped me out that day. I never forgot it.

Mr. Seagraves, Mr. Hayford, Mrs. Farrar all looked 10 pounds heavier. Mr. Riley looked 10 pounds thinner."

Those three could not have afforded those 10 pounds, and Mr. Riley never had an ounce of fat when he was our teacher.

"I say," Gus says suddenly. "Do you think there's the makings of a play in this?" He visualizes a high school class. Then it's 10 years later—the second act. "About a boy and his teachers..."

Note: When I made a documentary about my high school reunion, Becky Cornwell was there with her husband Bill, looking more delicately beautiful than ever in a raw silk dress. Just as sweet and humble as she ever was. She won the Person Who Changed The Least Award.

Look Back in Anger

Gus Kaikkonen: "Look Back in Anger"

The Cohoes Music Hall is over 100 years old. Small, intimate. Curving like an amphitheater before the stage. The set is wonderful. A mixture of realism and fantasy. The set walls are made of taut strings, like a harp, that slant and crisscross, allowing the light to play eerie shadows.

The director-owner is a slight, fey man given to open shirts and medallions. There are three stage managers: two large women, and one fey man given to open shirts and medallions.

The play is Look Back in Anger. For two nights, and one afternoon, I watched actors quarreling, screaming, crying, baring souls, kissing, and engaging in passionate traumas of "Life" on stage.

The rest of the time I spent giving a voracious Gus his notes (there were five pages the first night!); fighting my oncoming cold; laughing with the two women he lives with that are in the show, sightseeing, and being with Gus. Life as an actor in Cohoes is rather strange. You spend most of your time rehearsing, eating, sleeping, reading or performing. Performances are six times per week. Cohoes is a tiny New England town that looks like an English factory town with brick, gabled mills that have been deserted long ago, and quaint row houses with slanted, pointy roofs that are lined up one into the other, flush against the sidewalk with steps leading up to their tiny porches.

I did not see any bookstores or health food stores. But I did see three Woolworth's, one small department store, a few restaurants, and a laundromat.

A tall, lanky actor named Brooks has a theory that Cohoes was long ago invaded by "Pod People" like in The Body Snatchers, and is inhabited by emotionless creatures from Outer Space. Judging from the dull-faced teenage girls I saw pushing huge baby carriages, and all the broken windows and arson evidence...I'm inclined to agree. At any rate, Brooks claimed that actors who stay in Cohoes gradually become more and more lethargic, until all they can do is sleep. Anyway, this is true in his case.

However, there is a gym that's free for the actors of the Music Hall. So that is one oasis for them.

Gus' roommates are two actresses named Janet and Mary Pat. Gus described Janet as having a "fragile nervousness." She tends to be full of nervous energy, tightly wired; but she's also friendly and laughs easily. Her prettiness comes partly from upper-class WASP DNA and the rest from hard work. She recently lost 10 lbs. and continues to eat healthy, eliminating sugar and honey, while regularly working out. She's been in two other Music Hall productions and a movie.

Janet and Brooks attended Julliard in 1970 where Brooks nicknamed her "Janet McPlaid" because the first day of class she'd worn a plaid suit. Janet laughs, remembering:

"The first day of class, I wore that suit. The second day, I wore powder blue pinstriped corduroys, powder blue socks, a shirt with pink and blue plaid, and pink lipstick to pick up the pink in the shirt! Julliard tried hard to knock that out of me, and pretty soon I was going home in jeans that had holes in them, and my parents were flipping out saying: 'Oh my God, you look terrible!' But then I'd go back and say to my teachers: 'Look! I've got on my father's size 18 shirt!' and they'd pat me on the head and say, 'Good girl'!"
 Both Janet and Mary Pat are Erno Laszlo (skin care) devotees.

Gus wakes up in the morning and goes through all of his lines before rising from his bed. For an hour and a half, he lies in bed going over each of his lines to check for letter perfection.

At breakfast, the actors gather around the kitchen table. Motivations and play analysis are discussed. Will the audience recognize the subtext? Is the subtext being played perhaps too broadly? Does this line sound phony?

"Last night I woke up four times," says Janet (a pretty blonde actress with a slender ingenue body). "Each time I'd look at my script and then go back to sleep."

Mary Pat reminded me of myself. Heavier than they say an actress ought to be (she has breasts and a stomach). An interesting face--almost homely but saved by high cheekbones and electric brown eyes that are always animated. Prominent nose...pointed chin...thin lips. An abundance of thick, black curly hair.

She has a way with dry humor. Hurling one wisecrack after another until someone has to give in and laugh. She smokes, listens carefully to jazz, and loves books (particularly Steinbeck and Faulkner)--hoping to someday read Gravity's Rainbow.

Although Mary Pat and I share a lot, I have a feeling she's reserving an opinion on me.

In the theater, during rehearsals, I sit far away from the director scrawling notes on my pad. It's difficult to take these notes "in secret." I'm hiding in plain sight, for crying out loud. The director often sits behind me or to the side of me. On my second day, while the actors rehearse the second act, he comes over and sits next to me. Puts his hand on my arm.

"Does the pace seem too fast to you?" he asks.

"No," I say. "It seems just right. It was so slow yesterday, it was almost boring in places."

"Well, sometimes it's too slow and sometimes too fast, and today I'm losing his words in some areas."

"Yes...in a couple of places," I agree.

"The 'Pusilanimous Speech'?" he looks delighted. I nod.

"That's what I thought but I've seen it so many times, I've lost my perspective," says the director (whose name is Lewis). "I needed an outside reference. Thanks."

He goes back to his seat.

Gus makes his stage exit. Sits in the audience opposite and far away from where I am sitting. Obviously on pins and needles.

"What did he ask you?" he asks me at the intermission point. When I told him, he looked at me in disbelief.

"I thought he was going to ask me if I'm taking directing notes!" We laugh.
"So did I," Gus says.

The day before I leave, I pile into the company station wagon with the actors and head for a health food store ten miles away. It's a rare, exquisitely warm spring day and everyone is exclaiming how good the wind feels rushing in through the open windows. Suddenly, something flies in my eye and I have to take out my contact lens. In response, everyone rolls up their window. Except Mary Pat, who is seated in front of me.

"I'll roll up the window," Mary Pat offers.
"No don't!" I yelp, afraid to lose the rush of breezes we've all been praising.
"Yes do!" says Brooks (who is next to me).
"No don't!" I insist. Brooks tries to reason with me until Mary Pat cuts in with:

"I'm not playing!" (rolling up her window)

Gus asks: "Not playing what? What do you mean?"
"Whatever this game is, I'm not playing."

I felt like a silly nit.

Mary Pat must realize the harshness of her judgment, because she finds me in the corner of the health food store taking the same contact out after being bothered again.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked, voice full of apology. Of course not, but I do appreciate it.

Note: Reading this now, I wonder about the subtext of what might have really been going on with the dynamics of this crew. Could there have been jealousy or competition or crushes? They were awfully generous to accept my stranger's intrusion so close to the opening of the show. Gus must have told them that he trusted my director's eye and what he called my "honesty." When I asked Brooks in the car that day if his cologne was called "Evening In A Brothel," he howled: "Yes, she's painfully honest!" (It was Paco Rabanne.)

My last day. I'm at the theater with my bag packed. The actors' line run-through is over. Mary Pat comes to say goodbye to me. I'm waiting for the car that will take me to the station. We both agree it was fun meeting each other. Then she asks me for my "viewpoint" on her character. And I gave it.

I was careful during my stay to never give any actors (besides Gus) my opinions on the play or their performances. I was there to help Gus because he takes my direction so beautifully. And because he wanted it so badly. And because...he's my friend.

This is all I have recorded. I remember Gus calling me to tell me how he was able to incorporate my notes into his character. Very pleased at how he was able to amplify and then tone down the emotional force, which he was eventually able to modulate.

I made a decision to move to NYC after that visit, but shortly thereafter a violent mugging in Chicago changed my mind, and direction, as I opted for a "safer" environment--San Diego where my aunt had retired from Manhattan. Gus does not probably recall that it was his suggestion--California. But it was where I needed to be.

That time I recorded was void of cellphones, youtube, AIDS. I had not yet lost anyone close to me. Theater enabled me to escape a traumatic childhood and tumultuous adolescence. Gus was very much a part of all that. He had a grace and innocence that I needed in a friend, in addition to a shared love of theater. And he gave me courage to believe I in myself as an artist. For that, I thank him. 




*Verse by Paul Simon (above)