everyone within earshot—which must have included the entire population of Hartford, he bellowed so.
“Acting has nothing to do with appearing ‘natural,’ boy! Acting is about dynamism, vitality, dash, gusto. If you wanted to watch people being ‘natural,’ you wouldn’t go to the theater. You could stand on any street corner and soon be bored to death by the ‘naturalism’ all around you! Audiences crave the magic of the stage. The grand gesture. The majestic pose. Heroes and villains, gods and goddesses. The
supra
natural. Or have they not taught you that in the great theaters of the American backwoods?”
“Hear, hear!” someone called out, and I turned to see that most of my “comrades” in our impromptu audience—my fellow thespians—were glaring at me with naked contempt.
“I disagree that acting is about so simple and easily shammed a thing as dash,” I said to Sasanoff, and my training paid off this much, at least: I think I actually managed to sound calm and thoughtful rather than angry and humiliated. “I prefer to think it is about truth . . . something
bombast
quickly destroys.”
Sasanoff leaned in so close I thought his forehead might bump my chest.
“I will not stand here and be called a hamfatter by some know-nothing pup,” he stage-whispered, and he stepped back, bowed again to Father, and then whirled on his heel and swept away.
As much as I hated his acting, I had to give the man this much: He truly did have a knack for the “grand gesture.” In the silent moment that followed, my biggest fear was that someone might actually applaud.
I was spared that indignity, at least. Eventually, the low buzz of conversation rose up again, followed by the clinking of glasses and the squeaking of chairs and the thousand other sounds one usually ignores at a soiree, but which I welcomed now with all my heart because it meant my scene with Sasanoff was truly over.
“
So
glad you could come,” Mr. Turnbull said stiffly, and he stalked off toward Mrs. Turnbull, who’d been keeping watch over the party from a safehold by the punch bowl. The scowl she gave her husband—and then swung on me—would have had a charging tiger turning tail in terror.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Father. “Perhaps we should go.”
“Don’t apologize,” the Old Senator growled. But the glower upon his face was reserved—I was relieved to see—for Sasanoff alone. “You stood your ground before a fool. That’s something to be proud of, not ashamed.” He squirmed in his seat, as if suddenlyfinding himself atop a tack, then looked up at me. “Do you really believe what you told that gasbag about acting?”
“Every word.”
Father nodded thoughtfully, and I was still waiting for whatever he might say next when someone came striding up and stopped beside me.
“Sir,” I heard a man say—a man with an English accent. A member of Sasanoff’s troupe, no doubt, eager to act as his master’s second. I turned half-expecting the slap of a glove across my face.
Instead, I found our young Malvolio, William Escott . . . with his right arm stretched out toward me.
“May I shake your hand?”
“I should very much like to shake yours, if you’re truly willing,” I said as I clasped his hand warily. “You’re the best actor in Sasanoff’s company, Mr. Escott.”
“Oh, no. Not the best.” Escott flashed a wry smile. “Merely the most resistant to direction.”
As our handshake ended—it had been firm yet decidedly friendly—Escott turned and offered his hand to Father.
“Senator,” he said as they shook, “your son would make a fine critic.”
“Perhaps he would,” Father replied. “Only he believes he belongs onstage himself.”
“I’ll wager he belongs there a great deal more than certain others we could name.”
“Mr. Escott,” I said, shaking my head with amazement, “you’re being incredibly polite to a man who just insulted yourmanager . . . perhaps your entire troupe.
“Acting has nothing to do with appearing ‘natural,’ boy! Acting is about dynamism, vitality, dash, gusto. If you wanted to watch people being ‘natural,’ you wouldn’t go to the theater. You could stand on any street corner and soon be bored to death by the ‘naturalism’ all around you! Audiences crave the magic of the stage. The grand gesture. The majestic pose. Heroes and villains, gods and goddesses. The
supra
natural. Or have they not taught you that in the great theaters of the American backwoods?”
“Hear, hear!” someone called out, and I turned to see that most of my “comrades” in our impromptu audience—my fellow thespians—were glaring at me with naked contempt.
“I disagree that acting is about so simple and easily shammed a thing as dash,” I said to Sasanoff, and my training paid off this much, at least: I think I actually managed to sound calm and thoughtful rather than angry and humiliated. “I prefer to think it is about truth . . . something
bombast
quickly destroys.”
Sasanoff leaned in so close I thought his forehead might bump my chest.
“I will not stand here and be called a hamfatter by some know-nothing pup,” he stage-whispered, and he stepped back, bowed again to Father, and then whirled on his heel and swept away.
As much as I hated his acting, I had to give the man this much: He truly did have a knack for the “grand gesture.” In the silent moment that followed, my biggest fear was that someone might actually applaud.
I was spared that indignity, at least. Eventually, the low buzz of conversation rose up again, followed by the clinking of glasses and the squeaking of chairs and the thousand other sounds one usually ignores at a soiree, but which I welcomed now with all my heart because it meant my scene with Sasanoff was truly over.
“
So
glad you could come,” Mr. Turnbull said stiffly, and he stalked off toward Mrs. Turnbull, who’d been keeping watch over the party from a safehold by the punch bowl. The scowl she gave her husband—and then swung on me—would have had a charging tiger turning tail in terror.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Father. “Perhaps we should go.”
“Don’t apologize,” the Old Senator growled. But the glower upon his face was reserved—I was relieved to see—for Sasanoff alone. “You stood your ground before a fool. That’s something to be proud of, not ashamed.” He squirmed in his seat, as if suddenlyfinding himself atop a tack, then looked up at me. “Do you really believe what you told that gasbag about acting?”
“Every word.”
Father nodded thoughtfully, and I was still waiting for whatever he might say next when someone came striding up and stopped beside me.
“Sir,” I heard a man say—a man with an English accent. A member of Sasanoff’s troupe, no doubt, eager to act as his master’s second. I turned half-expecting the slap of a glove across my face.
Instead, I found our young Malvolio, William Escott . . . with his right arm stretched out toward me.
“May I shake your hand?”
“I should very much like to shake yours, if you’re truly willing,” I said as I clasped his hand warily. “You’re the best actor in Sasanoff’s company, Mr. Escott.”
“Oh, no. Not the best.” Escott flashed a wry smile. “Merely the most resistant to direction.”
As our handshake ended—it had been firm yet decidedly friendly—Escott turned and offered his hand to Father.
“Senator,” he said as they shook, “your son would make a fine critic.”
“Perhaps he would,” Father replied. “Only he believes he belongs onstage himself.”
“I’ll wager he belongs there a great deal more than certain others we could name.”
“Mr. Escott,” I said, shaking my head with amazement, “you’re being incredibly polite to a man who just insulted yourmanager . . . perhaps your entire troupe.
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