Protest from a Professional Liar

PROTEST FROM A PROFESSIONAL LIAR Roy Brocksmith Answering the eager inquiry of a New York bound, youthful egocentric, Walter Kerr wrote, "Stick to what you know and follow your instincts." Judith Crist retorted, "Stay in Quincy [111.] and bring culture to the hinterlands." I hated her for it and promptly tore her letter to shreds. Now, after thirteen years, I can perceive the wisdom of both replies. While I still can't say I dote on Ms. Crist, I respect her honesty. And my opinion about Kerr has changed, too. My arrival in New York in May 1969 coincided with the rumor that the theatre was dead. Like Roderick Usher my head split with a "thump-thumpthump " telling me the corpse was still kicking. There was hope. Brought to the city by a semi-deranged Ukranian anesthesiologist whom I mistook for a De Medici, I instantly perceived that I needed a job. I had come to direct. I directed books making entrances and exits from the N.Y. Medical Library. My benefactor having disappeared and my future as a librarian dubious, I turned to the only other thing I knew about theatre: acting. It was but a fluke of fate that brought me to shout my first words on the New York stage, "I want a tulip up my ass!" It never occurred to me that acting was a serious occupation. That is, until I saw my half-naked, green and bald body on the cover of the N.Y. Times Magazine with Joseph Papp. My opening night on Broadway was recorded history. Somebody was taking me seriously. Exhibiting a pomposity that could rival Muhammad Ali's, I secretly knew that while I may not be a fraud, I was most emphatically a novice. Empirical evidence proved I was part of not only a living, but lively, theatre: Cast as a bitch, Carrie Nye, when asked about her part on the first day of 87 rehearsal, replied, "My character is a sweet young thing from the country .. . shy ... demure ... harmless. And, oh yes, my character is too small." This was followed by a simple glide out the door. John Wood's wince and tone of disbelief as he said to me, "You are my understudy?" With sword clenched between her teeth and leg above her head, Patricia Elliott's screech, "Act! Brocksmith, act." Or Jack Warden's panic-stricken voice as I pushed him onto a set he had never seen in a costume he had never worn, "I can't see through this damn mask!" Al Pacino's query, "Market? Why didn't Brecht say drugstore?" Leonard Frey's lament, "We're always just getting started." Jeanne Arnold's quip, "Play with the big kids." Geraldine Fitzgerald 's, "Just do it all, whatever comes your way. It adds up." I knew I was a part of the theatre when I preceded Mildred Dunnock in a curtain call. I have paid my dues, literally hundreds of dollars of it to three separate but equally useless unions. I have appeared in bombs matched only in effect by Mt. St. Helens. And, I have had my lucky share of hits on Broadway and out of town. Our critics have heaped me with undeserved praise and dumped on me with equally undeserved ordure. I have been Ostrowsized, Foremanized, Simonized, and smeared with Papp. I have tasted the fat and the lean of this business. Now, I am a character actor who is fighting a personal battle not to grow bitter, but better. When asked by me what accounted for his success, Tyrone Guthrie said, "I have worked with people I respected and who respected me. And, we have outlived everybody else." His comment made sense in 1969 and even more so now. Longevity gets easier the older I get. But, mutual respect gets more and more difficult. It is the basis of my anger and profound disappointment. For years I lamented to anybody silly enough to listen about the lowly state of the actor in America. Until recently I said, "Historically, the best known actor is John Wilkes Booth." I could be dreary as hell. I put the blame on anybody but my...