“What I can’t quite understand,” Koesler said, “is why with all your screenplays, I haven’t seen your name in the papers more often?”
Mitchell shook his head. “That’s something else, Bob. For one thing, a lot of the scripts I work on never see the light of day. I’m given the assignment to work up something original, maybe adapt something from a book somebody else wrote. So I do the job and nothing happens. Maybe they run out of money before or during shooting. Or maybe they get the whole thing in the can and can’t find a distributor. Lots of things can happen.”
He shook his head. “I know. I know. You thought every movie made gets shown. But no: Lots of times it stays in the can on the shelf of some producer’s home or in some studio.”
Afternoon drive-time rush hour was approaching. Koesler wanted to start for his suburb before the majority of downtown workers joined him. Too, he sensed that Mitch and Lynn had other things planned besides talking to him. He crumpled his paper napkin and dropped it in his empty cup. The others caught the signal and began preparations for leaving.
“Oh, by the way,” Koesler said. “I meant to ask you about the stage—the legitimate theater. You must be involved in that.”
Though the question had been uppermost in Koesler’s mind from the moment he first recognized the Mitchells, it had slipped to the back with all the talk about movies. He would not have forgiven himself had he not asked about the stage. God only knew how long before he might bump into the Mitchells again.
From the look that crossed Mitch’s face, Koesler realized he had broached a painful subject.
Lynn cleared her throat. “It’s his first love, Father. It just hasn’t worked out the way we wanted.”
Koesler felt awkward. He shouldn’t have introduced the matter. But how could he have known? “Well, that is too bad, Mitch. But then, you’ve got the movies. And from all you and Lynn have said, that pays pretty well.”
Mitchell shrugged. “It’s not the same. It’s just not the same. The stage is where it’s at. For one thing, the playwright is in command in almost the same way the author is in command of a book. You’re reasonably sure going into it that if it’s performed, some halfwit isn’t going to mutilate it. On the stage, the director and actors usually enhance what you’ve written.
“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.”