My Waiver Games, Part I: Theatre Of The Absurd

In a week or so, I will begin work on a show in New York produced under the Equity Showcase Code, more on that in a later post.  But the prospect of showcasing my work under this code reminds me a lot of what used to be called "Waiver Theater" in Los Angeles. 

Both codes were invented by the stage actors' union at the request of its members, who wanted a way to show off their stage talents without being cast in a show which had, you know, a real paying contract. I worked more than once under the Waiver code in LA, back when there were tiny theaters all over the place using it. Equity has since changed the name of that code, and has clarified its rules, as the thing was egregiously abused for years. Back in the day, a Waiver show might run for months and months, with the producers raking in the dough from the box office, while the actors worked for free.

The Odyssey Theatre Ensemble ran a production of Steven Berkoff's Kvetch for 8 years without paying an actor.

I think the code is now called the "99-Seat contract" , as it can only be used in a theater seating 99 people or less, and the union finally realized that "waiver theater" left the impression that Equity was waiving all its rules and regulations, which it was not.  

The only performing gig from which I have ever been fired was here, at the Ebony Showcase Theatre.
They ran a production of Norman, Is That You?, off and on, for years under the Waiver Code.
No actor was ever paid.

I did six shows in waiver houses when I was living in LA, and those memories are coming back to me, as I prepare to spend the summer working under New York's version of that old Work-For-Free code. 


My first experience with the species was when I was only 18 or so.  During my first year of college at California State University, Northridge, I began auditioning for on campus shows.  I had some luck with student productions, landing in an original one-act right away. 

Charlie Martin-Smith played Toad in American
Graffiti. He cast me in my first show in college.

The show was being directed by one of CSUN's celebrity students, Charlie Martin-Smith (you'd remember him from American Graffiti).  I was going to spend most of my college years appearing in student-driven productions, as the faculty directors were never sure what to do with me. 

At any rate, after finishing my CSUN debut performance in Have You Ever Seen A Panda? (yep, that was the name of the thing), I heard about an audition for a Waiver theatre in Chatsworth, CA, one of the burghs close to Northridge in the San Fernando Valley section of L.A.  The group was called the Valley Theatre of the Performing Arts, a high-falutin' name for a company which operated out of a building which looked like it had been converted from a two-car garage.

Somebody else's Interview.

The only reason this group caught my eye was the fact that they were casting a show I was very interested in, a one-act called Interview, by French absurdist Jean-Claude Van Itallie.  My California high school, Kennedy High in Granada Hills, had done a version of the show the year before I arrived there;  I had seen pictures of that production and was intrigued. With nothing else on my plate on campus, I auditioned and was accepted into the production.  The show actually included two one-acts by Van Itallie, the aforementioned Interview, and a companion piece called TV.  In the first play, eight actors played either job interviewers or interviewees, and the point was to illustrate the facelessness of corporate America, and the futility of trying to maintain humanity in the workplace.  In TV, three of us (including me) played employees of a television network whose sole job was to watch TV.  The other cast members enacted the shows we were watching;  ultimately, the audience was to be confused about which was which.  Both these pieces, as I said, were part of the absurdist theatrical movement, so they were not written in a realistic, linear fashion (but both their themes are even more relevant today, I think).

The cast performed in both one-acts, under the umbrella title America, Hurrah!  The show was an off-night production, which meant we were to perform only on Tuesdays.  Still, as a Waiver production, this was considered to be professional, and I was quite full of myself for having landed the gig.

Very soon after we started rehearsal, my acting class at CSUN received a one-day audition workshop run by Bruce Halverson, who was the newest faculty member and a real go-getter in the department.

Bruce Halverson now heads the South Carolina
Governor's School of the Arts.

I had a great time during his workshop, and after class, he approached me. He was in the midst of auditions for the main stage production he was directing, the Feydeau farce A Flea In Her Ear.  He wanted to make sure I was planning to audition.  The show conflicted with my measly little one-night-a-week Waiver production, so I had to rather sheepishly decline.  Bruce was a little startled that I would choose to do a couple of unknown one-acts out in Chatsworth, rather than appear on CSUN's main stage, but he certainly was not going to insist that I dump the off-campus gig.

Bruce had me in mind for the snotty butler in Flea In Her Ear.
My buddy Brad played it instead.

I've made some lousy choices in my theatrical career, and that was one of them.  I didn't have any guarantee that I would have been cast in Bruce's A Flea In Her Ear, but in retrospect, I think he was very interested in using me.

I eventually worked with Bruce on his
own show, Great American Travelin'
and Medicine Show.

Bruce turned out to be one of the very few CSUN faculty members who had any value, and I was lucky enough to work with him a couple of years later in another play, but still, when I saw his hilarious show, I regretted not trying to be a part of it.  That's not the only reason I regretted my decision.

A few weeks after my workshop with Bruce, we opened America, Hurrah!, to an almost empty house. 

The playwright's name was misspelled in the program. "Van Itallie" became "Van Itallic." A Freudian slip, or just lousy producing?

We rarely had more than a dozen people attend any of our shows (why anyone thought people would go to the theatre on a Tuesday night in Chatsworth, of all places, to see a couple of avant garde plays, is anybody's guess).  Our show was scheduled to run several months, ending in the summer.  But one Tuesday, only about 4 weeks into the run (which meant, after only four performances, I'll remind you), we arrived at the theatre to be told that tonight would be our last night.  The producers were shutting down the off-night show, and didn't care to give the actors any advance notice.

This illustrates one of the major flaws in what was known as the Waiver Theater Code:  the producers could do such things without regard to the actors.  They were not getting paid, so giving the cast a week's closing notice was unnecessary. 

America, Hurrah! closed while A Flea In Her Ear was still in  rehearsal, so I spent some time kicking myself for making the wrong choice, especially after the latter show opened on campus and was a substantial success.

In the four years I attended Cal State, Northridge, I was to perform in two more off-campus productions following America, Hurrah!, though neither of those productions was produced under the Waiver Code.  But only a few months after graduating, I was invited to join another Waiver Theatre production, one which remains one of my fondest memories.  Stay tuned for Part II of my Waiver Games.

 

Waiver Games, Part II: It Makes The Magic Happen

...second in a series regarding my experiences in Los Angeles Waiver Theaters, go here for part one...

During my senior year at Cal State Northridge I performed in a modern version of the ancient Roman comedy The Menaechmi.  The text had already served as source material for Shakespeare's Comedy of Errors and Rogers' & Hart's The Boys From Syracuse;  at CSUN, the piece was adapted for children and became The Twins. 

This college performance in The Twins was the antecedent of
my performance as Otto in Poof!.

I had a ball playing a bumbling sidekick to the villain of the piece.  My friend Ronnie Sperling was one of the stars of the show, and though we had both been performing throughout our college careers, this was one of the only times we worked closely together. 

Ronnie's in the red shirt, I'm on the floor in stripes.

I believe my performance in The Twins led directly to my second Waiver Theater production.

Our Roman
farce had
 Greek dancing.

Ronnie was involved with an off-campus performing company called the Camille Ensemble;  they were soon to acquire a children's theatre branch called the Prosody Players.  That offshoot was run by one of the finest human beings I have ever known, Kenny Michelson.  I did not know Kenny at this time, though I had worked with his sister Lisa at CSUN. 

Lisa Michelson (on the far left) and I knocked 'em dead in CSUN's Jesus Christ Superstar. She sang solo on "Could We Start Again Please," while I (on the far right) wowed the crowd as the Second Leper.

Poof was the second production
by Kenny's Prosody Players.

Shortly after I graduated, Kenny called me out of the blue, and asked if I would be interested in appearing in a new musical for kids, called Poof! . This phone call began one of the most enjoyable and rewarding theatrical experiences I have ever had.

Kenny and his partner had written Poof! for several particular actors, one of whom, my college chum John Dantona, was to play the role of Otto, the wizard's hapless apprentice. 

I directed John at CSUN, as El Gallo
in The Fantasticks.

If I remember correctly, John had lots on his plate at the time, and had to decline the production, and Ronnie, who was to play one of the comic roles in the show, suggested me as a replacement.  Poof! was a delightful little show, concerning the sprightly spirit that lives inside every magician's hat which makes "the magic happen."  The score was a perky gem, and I was blessed with what would probably be considered the 11 o'clock number, if one-hour children's shows had such things. 

This is a screen grab from a home movie made of
the original Poof! That's me in my big number.

The show was performed at The Company Theatre, one of the leading Waiver houses at the time, and we ran several months, on weekend days, and the occasional Friday night.

One of several raves we received from the critics.

We were all young and enthusiastic and grateful to be working in a professional setting; the show was a hoot, and performing in it provided a much needed respite for me.  After graduation from CSUN, I had allowed myself to be persuaded by convention and my parents that I needed a full-time job.  I was perfectly happy to continue my part-time work in the Sears Complaint Dept, but that was not going to cut it with the folks.  So, I allowed my father to put in a good word for me at Lockheed, where he was a pretty big muckity-muck.  I landed in an entry level, salaried position which most MBA grads would have killed to have, but I hated it from the first day.  Full time office work was just not my bag, but thankfully, I had my theatrical life at night to keep me sane.  For the first months of my gig at Lockheed, Poof! provided relief from the office doldrums.

I kept my double life secret from Lockheed, until this review popped up in the daily newspaper.

I was very sorry to see Poof! close.  The show itself went on to have several more productions without my involvement, but it holds a very special place in my heart. 

Tommy Tune, eat your heart out.

It was the only time I actually created a role in a brand new show in a Waiver Production.  I always thought the piece deserved a long life, and it probably would have had one, had tragedy not struck.  After surviving some severe health crises, Kenny stopped one night along the freeway, to help a stranded motorist.  Another car struck them from behind, and Kenny was killed.  It was a terrible tragedy which may not have happened had not Kenny been the caring and compassionate man he was. 

Kenny's sister Lisa, second from left, starred in
the second production of Poof!. In a terrible
bit of irony, she was also killed in a car crash.

I loved being in Poof! for many reasons, most importantly because it gave me the opportunity to meet and become friends with Kenny Michelson.  In spite of all his troubles, he remained a most enthusiastic, gentle, and optimistic soul.  It's been over 30 years since we worked together, and I still miss him.

My next foray into Waiver Theatre gave me the chance to work with my best friend, who remains so to this day.  Come back for Part III of The Waiver Games...

Waiver Games, Part III: Nick's Pacific Street Saloon

(third in a series regarding my history with Waiver Theatre in Los Angeles. Go here for part I and here for part II...)

I had a good time appearing in my third Waiver Theater Production, but I may have been the only one.  At this time I was still working full time at Lockheed, and was hating every minute of it.  I was always in need of something creative to do outside those lousy office hours.  Once Poof! closed, my best friend Judy Welden came to the rescue, with her first foray into the Waiver Wars.

I wrote about Judy several years ago, and I am pleased to say that she remains my dearest friend to this day. 

Judy's environmental production of
this classic caused a sensation at CSUN.
Actors climbed the walls and
 swung through the air on ropes.
The audience loved it.
The faculty hated it.

She directed me many times during our tenure at Cal State Northridge, both on- and off-campus;  she remains, by far, the director with whom I have worked the most.  We forged a bond which was based on personal and creative intimacy, a bond which continues to deepen today, decades after we first met.

Judy first directed me as the Emcee in Cabaret.

Judy always fearlessly wanted to stretch her creative muscles, so after we graduated from CSUN, she began looking for opportunities to direct in the Real World. 

Our Armenian-centric production of Bye Bye Birdie
featured future soap star Robert Newman (in my lap).

She was raised in the Armenian Church (though I don't think they actually call it that), and one of their branches was located in Hollywood.  High above the sanctuary, for some reason which escapes me now, the church had turned a third floor room into an actual theater.  They had purchased comfy chairs from a movie house, and installed them in a big room, effectively turning the place into a proscenium theater.  Judy, as one of their own, got a great deal on the rental of this theater, and set about preparing her Waiver Theater debut.

She chose to direct William Saroyan's The Time of Your Life, a sprawling bit of modern theater which fit right into her creative aesthetic. Judy was (and is) a great believer in placing her productions in environmental settings.  

I appeared in Judy's first MFA thesis
project at the University of Utah:
The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail.

She had little interest in staging shows on the traditional proscenium stage, which she felt had a tendency to create a separation between the audience and performer.  She preferred her audience to become part of the environment of the play, so she turned the Upstairs Theatre (as it was called) into the saloon in which The Time Of Your Life takes place.  She hung curtains to block off the stationary seating already installed in the theater, turning the space into a true Black Box.  Our playing space was transformed into a slightly seedy bar, with lots of tables and chairs scattered about, where the audience members were to sit.  Judy's audience, back then, didn't just watch the action from a distance, they were seated right in the middle of things.  This was a dangerous but exciting approach to the play. 

James Cagney appeared in the film version of The Time of Your Life. No, that is not Madeline Kahn opposite him, though it surely looks like her.

Judy is a great proponent (and teacher) of the American style of acting, with the Moment-To-Moment interaction between her actors being highly important. 

Our program appeared on every
table like a restaurant's menu.

The cast of The Time of Your Life was huge, prohibitive by today's standards, but since the Waiver Code did not require payment to the actor, such considerations became unimportant.  Instead, Judy concentrated on casting her show with the best actors she could find.  Naturally, she raided the alumni list of the CSUN Theatre Department; many of the roles were filled with our college chums. 

Jenny's performance as Kitty was a highlight.

The leading lady, in fact, was our best gal pal Jenny (I wrote about her a long while ago), who gave a critically lauded performance as the psychologically wounded hooker Kitty.  One of the most dependable actors to come out of our generation at CSUN, Art Riddle, played the pivotal role of Joe. 

Art Riddle co-directed me in my first college
show. Years later, we spent time at Nick's Saloon.

Many more supporting roles were filled with our theatrical buddies, but several prominent roles were to be filled by other members of the L.A. Theatrical Community.  I have put those words in caps to emphasize the inherent dichotomy of those words.  The Theatrical Community of Actors in L.A. consisted almost exclusively of people who were interested in film and television work.  They may have had stage chops, but the focus of their career was to be noticed by Hollywood. 

Jessica Peterson played a socialite who
wandered into the bar, and was horrified.

Judy held open auditions for the available roles in The Time of Your Life, and received an onslaught of actors eager to appear on stage, in order to be seen by casters in the film industry.  Hey, there's nothing wrong with that, I'm just pointing out that Judy and several of her cast members had different goals in mind in presenting The Time of Your Life.  Judy's goal was to produce a memorable piece of theatrical artistry.  Their goal was to snag a TV or film contract.

Those of us who had known and worked with Judy previously had a lovely time with the show, but several Actors At Large did not gel with her way of working. 

Jimmy Williams
today.

Particularly, the gent playing the bartender, who was wonderfully engaging on stage, was a major pain in the ass.  He dismissed Judy's concept of the play;  they were often at odds during rehearsal.  This guy's name was Jimmy Williams, so I'll call him that. 

Our college buddy Jann played
a barfly.

Jimmy's dissatisfaction with Judy's direction came to a head when he learned that the show would not have a curtain call.  Judy has always had an uncomfortable relationship with the moment when her actors come back onstage to receive applause.  In later years she came to terms with the fact that audiences want to applaud the work the actors have done, but back in those early days, she was likely to forgo the moment. 

Ed Blackoff, one of the Hollywood Gang,
played Kit Carson. He's had a lively career in
slasher films.

As for The Time of Your Life, she felt the play's conclusion lost much of its impact if the actors came back onstage to take bows.  She was not prepared for the adverse reaction of that decision by Jimmy and his other Hollywood Actors.  They, of course, wanted to come back out onstage to receive joyous applause from their friends, who were likely to be the only people to attend this show. 

Our setup was not very different from this one.

To understand what happened next, it's necessary to envision the theater's setup.  There was only one way to enter and exit the space, through a large set of double doors.  The audience filed in through these doors, and the actors made all their entrances and exits from these doors as well.  They served as the entrance to Nick's Pacific Street Saloon.  I liked this arrangement, as it meant the audience entered the same front door as the characters who were frequenting this bar.  But once the final lights came down on the play, the actors all left the stage through this entrance.  In Judy's concept, the lights came back up, and the audience was left with itself, alone, in the environment.

Jimmy lead an ad-hoc revolt among his Hollywood Peeps, and as soon as the lights came back up, after the final blackout of the play, he charged back into the theatre.  He was followed, one by one, by his professional cronies.  The audience took this as a curtain call, though our director had decided against one.  Jimmy claimed he was just going out to greet his friends, though why he felt he must do so while they were still clapping, who knows?  So, our audiences were often confused as to why some of the actors came out for a curtain call, while others (like myself) did not.

The trouble with Jimmy's Gang notwithstanding, I enjoyed The Time of Your Life.  I played Harry, the young man who comes into the bar looking for a job as a comedian. 

Gene Kelly played my role in the original.

He has several big moments, including his "audition monologue," which proves he should stick to his bigger talent, the soft shoe.  This role was played, in the original Broadway production, by a very young Gene Kelly, before he became a film star, and I had the pleasure of improvising little dance routines which were scattered throughout the show.  Harry, once he entered the bar, continued to hang around, so I spent the majority of the show onstage. Much of that time, I did not have the audience's focus, so I spent a lot of time sitting at the various empty chairs in the saloon, often at tables occupied by actual audience members.  This was a case of "self-blocking."  It led to one of my favorite director's notes I have ever received.  After our final dress rehearsal, I received one hand-written note from director Judy: 

"I hope you know you won't be able to sit in some of the places you've been sitting in."

That's  good advice for life in general, isn't it?

Judy directed me (twice!) in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

It would be only a couple of years after The Time of Your Life that I again appeared in a Waiver production.  Judy was involved in this one also, though as a stage manager rather than director.  Come back for Part IV of my Waiver Games, in which I gain an acceptable Irish accent but embarrass my mother.

Waiver Games, Part IV: There's No Place On Earth Like The World

That odd lyric ("there's no place on earth like the world") was included in one of the songs which were peppered throughout Brendan Behan's sprawling vaudevillian treatment of the Irish/English conflict, The Hostage.  The show was to be my fourth foray into the world of waiver theatre in L.A.  I did not go willingly into that good night's entertainment;  I had to be convinced and cajoled into participating in the piece, and became a member of the cast solely due to the entreaties of the director, Bobbi Holtzman.

I spent a dozen years, off and on, studying with Bobbi. She was a great influence on my life.

I wrote a bit about my long relationship with Bobbi here, soon after she died about four years ago.  I cannot overstate the influence Bobbi had on my life, both artistic and personal, and I find myself thinking of her often.  I first met Bobbi when she taught my Acting Three class at Cal State Northridge, and we formed an immediate bond. 

Bobbi.

After the semester ended, I joined her adult acting workshop, which met twice a week for intense scene study.  It was during these sessions that I believe I became an actor, and the tools which she gave to me are still being used today.

At CSUN, Bobbi directed a stunning production of the Lorca classic, The House of Bernarda Alba. It was seductive and suffocating at the same time. My oldest friend Claudia had a major success, as did Diane Rostant, who would go on to star in The Hostage.

It must have been around 1980 when Bobbi was invited to direct a full-length play under the auspices of her own non-profit theatre company, NTG. 

That's Bobbi's husband Alan
in the background, where he usually stayed.

She directed only once every 3-4 years back then, as her technique required buttloads of rehearsal time, and was exhausting for everyone concerned, including her ultra-supportive husband, Alan.  Bobbi's choice of The Hostage was both understandable and dangerous.  It is an unwieldy piece, taking place in a Dublin whorehouse, in the late 1950s.  Author Brendan Behan had used the piece as a forum to ridicule both sides of the Irish/British conflict, and the show was an unlikely mix of comedy, heavy drama, audience interaction, and Music Hall. 

An unusual four-disc album was released, of the full original Off-Broadway production of The Hostage. Julie Harris had some success as the ingenue, Teresa.

On first look, this was not at all Bobbi's cup of tea, as she was attracted to down-to-earth dramas with realistic characters.  The Hostage was peopled with flamboyant characters who often stopped the action on stage in order to sing a song or tell a joke to the audience. 

This was not our production, but it could have been: an eclectic group of misfits living together in a boarding house / brothel during the Irish Troubles.

Bobbi's directorial style was fluid and without sharp edges.  She would never have any success directing a farce, with the specific timing required for such things. 

Bobbi's workshops were serious and satisfying.
Her students were intensely devoted to the work and to her.
Then someone would have a party.

Her forte was the personal interaction among actors, and her shows usually looked very spontaneous and even improvised.  The Hostage, on the surface, looked like such a play, but in reality, it was to require a strong sense of timing and reliable specificity.  A particular type of actor would be necessary to pull off this show, and Bobbi was only partially successful in finding such actors.

But, back to me.  Once Bobbi decided to direct The Hostage, she asked me to play the featured role of Rio Rita, a transvestite prostitute who was one of the many oddballs who lived in the boarding house where the action took place.  At the time, I was struggling a lot with facing my sexuality, and I was deeply concerned about playing such a role which might embarrass my parents.  Though Bobbi did some strong convincing, I declined the offer to play the part.  Bobbi cast the role with my good friend Cris, another of her longtime students and friends, and began a rehearsal process which would last many months.

Cris was also part of Bobbi's gang, as well as being a good
friend of mine. He has continued in the business, and is now
an Emmy-winning TV personality and producer.

Meanwhile, I performed in one of my favorite shows, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, produced at a local women's club/dinner theatre. (You can read my thoughts on that production here.) 

After Bobbi caught this performance in
Forum, she renewed her efforts to get me
into The Hostage.

My best buddy Judy directed that piece, and as we were both close to Bobbi, she was invited to attend.  Bobbi loved the production, and in particular, my performance, and she once again began pushing for me to join her cast.  Our buddy Cris had at that point discovered that he would prefer to help Bobbi produce the show, rather than appear in it, so she was once again looking for someone to play Rio Rita. I finally relented (Bobbi was a force of nature which could not be denied for long).  The part was certainly a flamboyant one, but to call him a drag queen would be a misnomer.  I never appeared in what we would now call drag;  instead, I wore a provocatively placed scarf or a silk robe, over everyday, male attire.

Again, not our production, but this is a fair indication of Rio Rita's looks (he's the white guy with his hand to his chest): not at all a modern drag queen, he was ready to drop his flamboyance and blend into the real world of the 1950s.

We had two runs of The Hostage, the first in Encino, CA, and the second at the Pilot Theatre, which was one of a number of Waiver houses in Hollywood.  Our cast included several of Bobbi's workshop participants, though she did some casting At Large as well.  This being a waiver show, no one was paid, and Bobbi had the luxury of using a large cast.  Our ensemble of whores and drifters was particularly dynamic, and included an actor from Czechoslovakia, who spoke stilted English and played a Russian sailor.

Not our production, but the guy in the striped shirt is the Russian Sailor looking for love. In our production, he was a Czech sailor looking for his props.

In his particular sequence, this character wanders into the house, and the hookers begin to fight over him. Meanwhile, he reaches into his sock and pulls out a wad of cash. One night, this poor actor forgot his prop money, and spent several tense moments searching his pockets, his shirt, his socks, even his hat, looking for his cash. The entire action of the stage stopped, waiting for him to produce the money. Bless him, he remained in character, and babbled in Czech, which sounded like Russian to our ears, while frantically searching his pockets.  At just the moment when the audience began to feel some alarm that something was actually going wrong onstage, I pointed at the front door of the set and shouted (in my Irish brogue), "Throw him out!"  The stage exploded with exclamations, and the audience erupted with relieved applause. 

Heston was not packing heat when he
came backstage to meet the cast.

(This actor's day job was as valet to Charlton Heston, I kid you not. Heston came to see The Hostage during its initial run, and was very gracious backstage to everyone.  He was much less public about his politics back then, and I was pretty pleased to shake his hand, not realizing that I would later be invited to take his gun out of those hands when they were cold and dead).

Joe Colligan has gone on to
a substantial on-camera and
voice-over career.

Bobbi's greatest achievement in casting The Hostage was with the two actors playing the romantic leads.  Joe Colligan had played the title role during his undergraduate career, and he was ripe to attack the role again.  I thought he was outstanding as the British soldier captured by the IRA and stashed in the whorehouse until he could be executed.  I loved watching Joe's work, as he had a charisma which was undeniable. Plus he introduced me to Fosters Beer. 

Diane Rostant was one of the strongest
actresses to come out of CSUN. Here she's
causing trouble in The Crucible.

Playing opposite Joe, as his love interest, was one of my CSUN cohorts, and one of Bobbi's favorite actresses, Diane Rostant.  Diane's work was always seamless and grounded and utterly, utterly real;  she may have been the best dramatic actress to come out of my generation of CSUN students.

In the role of Meg, the landlady and ersatz madam of the house, Bobbi cast an off-beat character actress  who was also her friend, Bunny Burnhart. 

Bunny Burnhart (seated) played Meg with
vivacious humanity. Bobbi directed her
many times; this is Hot L Baltimore.

Bunny was one of the most memorable people I have ever interacted with, and she gave an outstanding performance.  Unfortunately, the majority of Bunny's stage time was shared with the man who ultimately sank our production.  Barry Cahill was an older gent who had been knocking around Hollywood for decades, playing one-scene roles in television and film, and becoming more and more bitter about his lack of fame. 

Barry Cahill died this year, at the age of 90, never
coming close to the success of his wife. He was
a misery to work with.

His bitterness was compounded by the fact that his wife was substantially more successful than himself.  She was an original player on General Hospital, and worked steadily on the soap for over 40 years. I knew exactly who Rachel Ames was, and had a lot of respect for her talent, as did everybody else. 

I was thrilled when Rachel Ames
dropped by rehearsals, after a
full day of taping
 General Hospital. She had class
and charisma, sorely lacking in
her husband.

But she was clearly the breadwinner in her marriage, and her husband was not the kind of man who could easily accept that fact. By the time Barry was cast in the central role of Pat in The Hostage, he had become an embittered and obnoxious drunk. 

I had a success in The Hostage (the gay press gave me raves, duh), and my father and sister attended the show.  My mother declined to see the production.  I was upfront with her about the flamboyant, somewhat queenie characterization I was giving, and she asked to be excused from watching.  I had no problem giving her a pass;  she was never comfortable with my feminine tendencies, and as Rio Rita, director Bobbi was encouraging them. 

Our flyer gives the impression my role was bigger than it was (I'm standing in the "O"). Though draped in scarf and silk robe, I had street clothes of the period underneath.  Rio Rita was always ready to "pop down to the docks to see if I can pick us up a sailor."

The Hostage taught me a lot about how to conduct myself in a professional setting (it gave me a pretty good Irish accent, too).  I saw the animosity which Barry Cahill created toward himself with his obnoxious behavior, and I also saw the respect which our younger leads Joe Colligan and Diane Rostant engendered.  Though I had been studying with Bobbi in her private workshop for years, I was glad that I took the plunge and finally worked with her as a director. 

Bobbi's workshop presented me with
a cake on the occasion of my last class,
as I headed off the grad school in 1993.

Bobbi was well-respected on the Waiver circuit as a director and as an actress, and when she died in 2008, after a long decline, there was quite an outpouring of admiration for her.

It would be 3 or 4 years after The Hostage before I worked again under the Waiver Code.  That next venture would be the first American production of a text which was over 400 years old, and had shady Shakespearean ties.  To get the scoop on that chestnut, come back for Part V of My Waiver Games. Meanwhile, you can read the full series, so far, here.