the Goodman Theatre in Chicago as assistant to everybody and as the director of Stage 2, when a guy about my age walked in with a play under his arm. “Something for your next season.” I told him I’d read it over the weekend. “You don’t need to read it. Just do it.”
Mamet’s eyes sparkled and his upper lip twitched, but otherwise he held a straight face. There was a pause. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll put five grand in escrow, and if the play doesn’t win the Pulitzer, keep the money.” I mustered enough solemnity to reply that I would read the script that night, and we parted. I was fifteen pages in before he left the building.
Auditions began. We quickly signed J. J. Johnston (to whom the play would be dedicated) and W. H. Macy, but we couldn’t find someone for Teach. At a 10:20 A.M . audition a fellow came in, covered in blood. I asked if he was all right. “I fell out of the car, okay? Let’s just do the fucking audition.” We cast him.
At the first rehearsal, where Mamet heard the play for the first time, he kept tearing whole pages out of the script and throwing them away. After the actors left, I asked why. “Cuts.” I pointed out that some good stuff was on the floor. He examined a few of the discarded pages. “That’s true. Doesn’t belong in the play though.”
The actors were relieved, I suspect, because they had more than enough dialogue to learn in just nineteen rehearsals. Halfway in, we had a walk-through. Mamet was seated just behind me, and everybody was nervous. The actors, valiant to a fault, tried to get through the play without their scripts and so, of course, kept having to ask the stage manager for help. After a while, they were hopelessly lost. We started to hear everything twice.
“Line, please.”
“’Lemme see the fucking nickel.’”
“Lemme see the fucking nickel.” (Long pause.) “Is it still me?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Line, please.”
I think I may have suggested, in the heat of the moment, that they resembled amateurs. This went over particularly badly with the fellow who had fallen out of the car, and he advanced on mewith a questioning mien. My assistant whispered that he was definitely about to hit me. I knew there was an appropriate response, but I couldn’t think what it was at just that moment, and I turned to see if Dave had an idea. The door was closing behind him.
After the rehearsal I found him up the street at the China Doll. There was a little paper parasol in his drink. There were two more little paper parasols on the table next to the notebook in which he was writing. He suggested we cancel.
Opening night went splendidly. Even before the reviews, we knew that the American theater was now a little bit different. After a few weeks we moved the production to the new St. Nicholas Theatre space, with a brilliant new Teach, Mike Nussbaum, who played him like Nathan Leopold in cowboy boots. Dave and I watched from the back of the house, happy beyond all bounds and already nostalgic, because we knew this was the end of the best part.
Nineteen years later, I wandered into a film festival screening of Michael Corrente’s Federal Hill. In the lobby after the movie, I passed by Corrente, whom I’d never met, and threw him a quick thumbs-up.
Later that day, the director came up and said, “This won’t mean anything to Mamet, but could you tell him that Federal Hill never would have happened if I hadn’t seen Buffalo onstage when I was a kid?”
My response was to suggest that he direct the movie. Michael thought I was joshing him and went back to his wife and friends. I called Mamet to apprise him of the situation, and he was kind enough to suggest that if I thought Corrente was the guy for the job, then it was fine with him.
As Estragon says in Waiting for Godot, “Off we go again.”
The very first thing we did was to anchor the film with Dennis Franz, an old Chicago buddy, as Donny. Mamet suggested we get a really young guy to
Mamet’s eyes sparkled and his upper lip twitched, but otherwise he held a straight face. There was a pause. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll put five grand in escrow, and if the play doesn’t win the Pulitzer, keep the money.” I mustered enough solemnity to reply that I would read the script that night, and we parted. I was fifteen pages in before he left the building.
Auditions began. We quickly signed J. J. Johnston (to whom the play would be dedicated) and W. H. Macy, but we couldn’t find someone for Teach. At a 10:20 A.M . audition a fellow came in, covered in blood. I asked if he was all right. “I fell out of the car, okay? Let’s just do the fucking audition.” We cast him.
At the first rehearsal, where Mamet heard the play for the first time, he kept tearing whole pages out of the script and throwing them away. After the actors left, I asked why. “Cuts.” I pointed out that some good stuff was on the floor. He examined a few of the discarded pages. “That’s true. Doesn’t belong in the play though.”
The actors were relieved, I suspect, because they had more than enough dialogue to learn in just nineteen rehearsals. Halfway in, we had a walk-through. Mamet was seated just behind me, and everybody was nervous. The actors, valiant to a fault, tried to get through the play without their scripts and so, of course, kept having to ask the stage manager for help. After a while, they were hopelessly lost. We started to hear everything twice.
“Line, please.”
“’Lemme see the fucking nickel.’”
“Lemme see the fucking nickel.” (Long pause.) “Is it still me?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Line, please.”
I think I may have suggested, in the heat of the moment, that they resembled amateurs. This went over particularly badly with the fellow who had fallen out of the car, and he advanced on mewith a questioning mien. My assistant whispered that he was definitely about to hit me. I knew there was an appropriate response, but I couldn’t think what it was at just that moment, and I turned to see if Dave had an idea. The door was closing behind him.
After the rehearsal I found him up the street at the China Doll. There was a little paper parasol in his drink. There were two more little paper parasols on the table next to the notebook in which he was writing. He suggested we cancel.
Opening night went splendidly. Even before the reviews, we knew that the American theater was now a little bit different. After a few weeks we moved the production to the new St. Nicholas Theatre space, with a brilliant new Teach, Mike Nussbaum, who played him like Nathan Leopold in cowboy boots. Dave and I watched from the back of the house, happy beyond all bounds and already nostalgic, because we knew this was the end of the best part.
Nineteen years later, I wandered into a film festival screening of Michael Corrente’s Federal Hill. In the lobby after the movie, I passed by Corrente, whom I’d never met, and threw him a quick thumbs-up.
Later that day, the director came up and said, “This won’t mean anything to Mamet, but could you tell him that Federal Hill never would have happened if I hadn’t seen Buffalo onstage when I was a kid?”
My response was to suggest that he direct the movie. Michael thought I was joshing him and went back to his wife and friends. I called Mamet to apprise him of the situation, and he was kind enough to suggest that if I thought Corrente was the guy for the job, then it was fine with him.
As Estragon says in Waiting for Godot, “Off we go again.”
The very first thing we did was to anchor the film with Dennis Franz, an old Chicago buddy, as Donny. Mamet suggested we get a really young guy to
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