The amazing Michelet had a new preoccupation — at least, new to us. He’d been contemplating a one-man show, which he’d already spoken to Mike Nichols about directing. Or so he said. Mr. Nichols was seemingly enthused. It would be the story of his life: his revenant twin, Zeus-like dad and ice queen mom — the whole shebang. Apparently it had been on his mind a long while but everything had coalesced during the trip to San Rafael. Just after our late-night parlor car confab, he’d had a powerful vision in the form of a disturbing image, nearly religious yet intensely theatricaclass="underline" himself alone onstage, sitting at a table applying makeup “like a Gielgud or a Richardson” (“not Spalding Gray!” he added pithily) while intimately addressing his audience. The makeup, he added, was none other than a Vorbalid’s, the epiphany being that a monologue encompassing his life would unfold as the cosmo-cosmetic layers were inexorably applied (or removed; he wasn’t quite sure yet), until at performance’s end he stood to face the assembly in the naked, poignant, transworldly mask of human comedy — agglutinized agony of all the lost and ruined years. He’d forever been attracted, he said, to metaphorical monsters and the tortured poetry of their lives — Chaney’s Phantom, Laughton’s Hunchback, Karloff’s Frankenstein — and nonmetaphorical monsters too: the homely, sickly, myopic Giacomo Leopardi, whom Thad described as a lonesome boy who sequestered himself in his father’s library, promising not to come out until he was “as great a poet as Dante.” The operatic stageplay would be a unique chance to formally add his own unforgettably tender gargoyle to the canon.
While delighted to see him thus diverted and enthused, Clea and I were taken aback by the scope of his ambition. That he seemed intent on characterizing himself as a kind of Creature of the Black Lagoon caused a bit of shuddering on our part, alongside the realization that we needed to continue to voice support and encouragement, which was deeply genuine. There was no question the concept was brilliant in its macabre simplicity — a perfect vehicle to make use of a wide breadth of talents while at the same time proving wildly therapeutic. The raw honesty of the thing was, after all, what set it apart. I cringed and got gooseflesh at once, which made me think his proposal had the potential to be one of those breakthrough projects an artist is always remembered by. As we listened to him map it out, I grew more excited, playing off Clea’s enraptured startles, pregnant hesitations, and bridefully unbridled enthusiasms. (Don’t forget, I was her legal codependent.) Before long I had completely lost my head, giving my word to be first in the coming tsunami of financial backers.
“Do you remember The Day the Earth Stood Still? My brother and I loved Michael Rennie. How gay was Michael Rennie? We had total kiddie-porn hard-ons for Klaatu. We used to put on these little plays — I have all this written down!” He seized a disorderly sheaf of papers, some typed, some longhand, riffling through them with great devotedness as he spoke. “I was originally going to do a memoir but then I thought (and Miriam completely agrees): Don’t do the perimenopausal Susan Cheever thing. I want Grand Guignol-in-the-round, the roar of the greasepaint, the stink of the crowd!”
“It’s so great,” said Clea, really meaning it.
Then I thought it — and said it — and meant so too. And do, to this day.
Thad said Clea and I should coproduce; there was much to learn from his old friend Nichols. (Years back, delays on the Quixote shoot had forced him to bow from the director’s Lincoln Center revival of Waiting for Godot.) He began to pace, voicing concern that because of its autobiographical nature he might have to dip into The Soft Sea Horse for material. He was afraid of legal repercussions, should Mordecai Klotcher wind up optioning the book. Clea told him not to get ahead of himself.
Returning from the kitchen with a sack of chips, Thad assumed the posture of a suave extraterrestrial with an absurd French accent. “I am Klaatu, from Alpha Centauri. That’s how my brother used to say it—très Brigitte Bardot. We’d do our little mise-en-scène in the garden. I’d be ‘sleeping’ and he’d enter stage left making the Theremin sound.” He imitated the instrument’s campily evocative pitch. “I’d open my eyes and he’d be standing there, beamed down from nothingness. Very Starwatch. What can I say? We were ahead of our time. I’d pretend to be shocked, then start to stammer and be a good Earthling host. Uh, have you been traveling long? Jeremy would say—intone—‘About five months. Five of your Earth months.’ You must have come a long way. ‘About two hundred fifty million of your Earth miles.’ He’d look around the yard — he was actually very good at the cosmic snob thing — he must have picked that up from his little Gstaad pals! — and Jeremy would say, ‘What do you call this sector?’ I’d tell him we were in a place called… Martha’s Vineyard. One day we were doing our thing (I have it in my notes) and Jeremy said the big reason he’d journeyed all those millions of miles was — and this is fucking genius—‘I’m most curious to board what I believe you Earthlings call a “yacht.” It is my desire to explore the exotic Isle of Capri.’ The exotic Isle of Capri! Priceless! Oh, he was good! Oh! He was very good. ‘I wish to meet the fascinating specimens you call movie stars.’ Jeremy could be a devil—he was a smart little fucker. He stands there saying he could tell by my aura I had ‘what you Earthlings call asthma’ and that he could easily cure me of this ‘petty ailment’—but not until he returned from visiting the Isle of Capri where he planned to learn ‘the ways of Hollywood moviemaking.’ See, evidently, that was the main thing aliens wanted to know! How to make Hollywood movies!”
Thad smiled a weary, memory smile. Then, with casual elegance, he contemplatively tucked hands into pockets, already rehearsing mannerisms for his tour de force.
~ ~ ~
HIS ENTHUSIASM WAS CONTAGIOUS.
If we threw enough at the ceiling, something was bound to stick — for somebody. Besides, I could always use a creative kick in the ass.
I forced myself to work on Holmby Hills. Clea finished a précis for her children of celebs sitcom. Thad immersed himself in the one-man show, which, seen through the lens of my own collegiate dabbling in avant-garde, already looked like some sort of outrageous classic-in-the-making.
There were lots of irons in the fire. In addition to Miriam’s misguided efforts on Thad’s behalf to novelize “Prodigal Son” (she was actually making headway), Mordecai Klotcher was drawing up an option on The Soft Sea Horse. As if that weren’t enough, Nick Sultan was in hot pursuit of making a deal for the actor-author to adapt his father’s novel to screenplay form. I kept forgetting to ask Dad — perennial holder of the Chrysanthemum rights — if Nick was really attached or if he’d ever broached the idea of Junior’s involvement, as claimed. (I guess part of me didn’t want to know.) It was all pretty incestuous — not that it hadn’t been from the beginning.