Diary of a Play - and Life - in Progress

Behind the scenes with the writer, producer and star of Geneva
by Jerry Brown
Black & White, November, 1994

I begin this attempt at introspection on the morning following the second frost of the season. This fixed and irreversible point in the natural cycle has devastated my garden, which I have nursed to limited glory through a continuous series of small catastrophes. The first frost, which hit a couple of weeks earlier, had merely stunned the rows of white salvia and clumps of New Guinea and double impatiens. This one has finished them.
I clip the crystallized stems an inch of two above the soil and toss them into a garbage bag for a compost stew. I work at this far longer and more diligently than the weather warrants. Kneeling on the frozen ground, I am, of course, avoiding the task at hand, trying to think of a way I can excuse it all through a brilliant use of metaphor and irony. I can't. Waiting in the study is the ergonomic keyboard and mindlessly cursing screen, booted, loaded and ready.

I have decided to do a column about my experience in taking on the theatre's most dangerous triathlon, writing, producing and acting in a new play, in this case, Geneva, a fictionalization of Wallis Warfield Spencer Simpson Windsor, the woman whose manipulations threw the future of one quarter of the world's population up for grabs when, in 1936, Edward VIII, King of England and the British Empire, gave up the throne to marry her. It is a subject that has sometimes, quite frankly, overwhelmed me with its implications.

I don't just mean the couple's fairy tale life in the press, which dubbed them the "Romance of the Century," but the disturbing facts that have come out about them since their deaths: Wallis' experiences in the brothels of China during the twenties, when she was married to her first husband, naval officer Win Spencer; the sexual techniques she learned, which is probably what made her so indispensable to the king, who was severely dysfunctional; the couple's mutual support of Hitler during World War II and their role in his plans to defeat England.

The Duke and Duchess of Windsor were staggeringly self-indulgent, mean and insanely petty. There was very little to actually like about them, yet the world looked up to them as an ideal. They had style. A king of England had given up the throne to marry the woman he loved. Married people all over the world looked at each other and felt the pangs of disappointment. Only Buckingham Palace and a few members of the government knew the real reason behind the abdication. The rest were left to dream and despair.

But this is the story I've taken on, and the process of writing this play has and will, over the next several weeks, continue to fill me with moments of terror, dread, debilitating self-doubt and loathing, as well as those of joy, ecstasy, pride and the rarest kind of intoxication, that of being wide awake at three in the morning, perfectly sober, dancing on the rim of the universe.

But one step at a time.

The Birthing Process

It all starts last winter when I decide to write a short play for the Festival of Arts salute to Switzerland. Since there is no recognizable Swiss drama to speak of, much less to salute, I see the opportunity to create something custom tailored for the occasion. Searching for a hook, I become intrigued with the concept of Geneva as the "The City of Peace," and the idea of writing something to test the fragile nature of peace in a barbaric world, a favorite theme of conversation after two martinis. Peace, after all, is not something that is naturally sustainable. Historically, it is something that has to be artificially and carefully imposed and supervised. "The bigger your guns," I remember my Father, an Air Force pilot, saying, "the quieter your enemies."

But my Father is not the direction I want to pursue. I begin to sense a woman trying to make her presence felt in my thoughts. From somewhere, I don't know where, comes the image of a large sitting room, part of a suite in a Grand Hotel, and Wallis, the Duchess of Windsor, standing by the window with a cup of tea, looking out over Lake Geneva. She is sad. Tired. Overwrought. The phone rings. She is so startled by it, she almost drops the tea.

I sat back from the ergonomic wonder. The Duchess of Windsor? A hotel room? A tea cup? Where the hell did that come from?

I have absolutely no idea. But I start writing, to see where it will go. After a few stops and starts, a monologue begins to take shape. She is waiting for someone---I didn't know who---and she begins to speak of her childhood, her memory of looking out an old attic window, pretending she was a princess and waiting for her prince. "Never a king, oddly enough, just a prince. (A SAD LAUGH) Who would have thought."

I feel a chill. I still don't understand why she's in Geneva, or what any of this has to do with peace, but I do know, as an expectant mother must know when she feels that first twitch in her abdomen, that something is up. I think back on the books that came out about her and the duke after her death in 1986, and my invitation, thanks to a well-connected cohort, to an early preview of her jewelry at Sotheby's in New York prior to the sale in---

Good heaven. Geneva.

There it is. In the vortex that swirls out of the unconscious, I'd seen this woman looking out a window at the sale of her jewelry in the auction tent below, the year after her death. I sit at the screen, staring into the field of words, and feel an almost palpable sadness for her, for a life spent in the relentless pursuit of escapism and extravagance, none of which, in the end, brought her any comfort.

I stop the monologue and try to figure out how I can dramatize the implications of what I am feeling. Another surprising image appears. A butler. He is admitting someone into the sitting room. A middle-aged Englishman, straight out of Noel Coward. No, meaner. A mouth as deadly as a broadsword. An old boyfriend. Someone who is still in love with her. Someone only she can satisfy.

A part, in other words, for myself. I rush to the library and check out everything in the card catalogue on the Windsor family. The fabled "Romance of the Century," of course, was anything but. Documents held by MI6 tell of Wallis' scandalous past in the "Singing Houses" of Hong Kong and brothels of Shanghai during the Chinese Civil War. Frequently employed as a courier---not unusual in those days for an officer's wife---there is also evidence that she worked on a much more sinister level, obtaining secret information in exchange for sexual favors, most notably an oral technique which was---and I suppose still is---reputed to prolong organism.

On the scarier side, there is ample evidence that the duke and duchess were privy to Hitler's plan to dispose of George VI and restore the duke to the throne, along with the duchess, in his final defeat of Britain. To back up his word, Hitler guaranteed them 50 million Swiss francs, which he deposited in a Swiss bank account.

It all starts to come together. Geneva, the city of peace. 1946, two years after the German surrender. The height of the Nuremberg Trials. Peace for the Duchess of Windsor would mean keeping some key people in Nuremberg quiet. Since the old boyfriend has come to visit, maybe she manipulates him into doing it for her. Perhaps in return for certain favors, of which only she is capable of granting. Better yet, perhaps the old boyfriend---who is now called Jack---was another operative who worked with her in China. Someone who knows everything about her. And just to juice it up, maybe Jack is closely related to the Royal family. A cousin, say, to the Queen, Wallis' nemesis.
Bingo.

I find the voice of the play and the rhythm of the language, which turns out to be so strong and stylized that it almost takes the form of a secondary plot line. I spend the next two days in a frenzy of tapping keyboard keys, Diet-Cokes and Dip Size Fritos. I end up with a throbbing headache and a 36-page first draft. I start calling around. "I have this wonderful one act for the Festival of Arts." The lack of response is thundering.

Only Gary Robertson, artistic director at UAB Town & Gown, who can't take it on because of his schedule, even asks to read it. I print out a copy and rush it down to the theatre, where I find Gary in conversation with Ed Rosendahl. Suddenly, the thought of giving it to someone sends my body into shock. The old feelings of self-doubt and inadequacy take hold with the force of a military coup, and I shoot myself directly in the leg when I blurt, "I'd like to know what you think, but I really don't know if it's the right kind of show for your audience."
Gary seems surprised. "Why not?"

"Because basically," I say, "it's a thirty minute play about a b--- j--."

Afterbirth

Gary calls a couple of days later to say that he's read it and finds the writing and characters fascinating, but thinks it needs to be developed into a longer work. There is a much bigger story here, he feels, than I am telling. And, no, he indicates in terms as polite as possible, this is not just a play about a you know what.

After we speak, I fall into a kind of pointless depression, and, just to get out of the house, I drive to the fishing lake at Oak Mountain. Sitting on one of the old wooden benches, watching the sun dance on the water, I suddenly realize that Gary is right. This is a story about how the world we live in is largely determined---and often defined---by the whims and peccadilloes of some very unsavory people. This is a story about the way the world really works, the way it operates in quiet, private rooms, without the glare and balm of spin and pr.

I drive home. And that is the end of it. Something inside of me, something I sense to be dark, is afraid to say what needs to be said in this play. Why, I don't know. Not until several months later, when Vastine Stabler, president of Birmingham Festival Theatre, calls about doing a series of new play readings, do I take the script out again and begin to confront the demon.

The Adolescent of a Concept

The first public reading of Geneva opens BFT's Festival of New Plays on a hot Thursday night in August. Carolyn Messina reads Wallis, Doug Gilliland reads Morris, the butler, and yours truly reads Jack, the old boy friend. Roger Casey has directed. The fake French furniture, all there is to the set, is from my living room. About sixty people attend and the reaction is wonderfully enthusiastic. I am too numb from the experience to notice anything but a good number of laughs and the remark, "It's not a play. It's a tv movie. Get it to ABC."

I don't. What I do is call Gary Robertson, with whom I am to start working on Some Enchanted Evening, and ask if it's possible to get Clark Theatre between engagements for a two day showcase---a fully rehearsed production with minimal sets, the purpose of which is to see if a play can stand on its own. To my surprise, he says, "Sounds interesting. Let's talk."

We do. Gary wants to start a new play series at the theatre, and from what he's heard about the reading, he thinks Geneva might just be the ticket. The date is set for the first weekend in December. I put together a company with great excitement, but slowly, to my dismay, the worm begins to turn on an increasingly discordant note. Because of mounting personal problems with some of the people involved, I spend two days in anguish, then finally place a phone call. I have decided that I can't take on the pressure of both writing and acting in this show and put up with four weeks of egomania and generational conflict. I cancel the production. I endure two hours of verbal abuse over the phone and go to bed, knowing that I'm passing on one the biggest opportunities I've ever been given. Still, I feel I have no choice.

A couple of days later, in a conversation with John Falkenberry, who has agreed to help put the show together as producer, we decide that if we can put together another company, we should proceed. We discuss Betty Campbell in the role of Wallis and both agree she'd be perfect. I take a copy of the script to her at TNT, where she is appearing as Mrs. Venable in Suddenly Last Summer. She calls the next day to say that she loves the play and would be delighted to come on board. We get together for a read through. Her grasp of the part, as well as the language, seem instinctive. There is no director, just a shared bottle of pinot noir. We sit and read. The sparks start to fly almost immediately.

This, I tell myself, is what it's all about.

Robert Paisley, with whom I'd worked in Some Enchanted Evening, agrees to take the part of Morris, the butler, despite some scheduling difficulties. The role calls for someone who can be cool, sophisticated and evil as a snake. The match is flawless.

However, we are almost three weeks away from opening night and we still have no director. Feelers go out to the best people in town, but with the holidays coming up, there are conflicts. Then we here that Elizabeth Tull, who would be perfect, is interested. A Restoration style game of phone tag ensues, which, as I write this, has still not concluded.

Isn't This Supposed to be Where it Hurts?

Gary Robertson calls a production meeting for myself and the Town & Gown technical staff. It is a revelation. Russell Drummond is to do the costumes and is clearly excited about the prospect, especially the notion of dressing Wallis. Phillip Anderson, who created the remarkable horse heads for Equus, is to be Property Master and will gather, organize and help create the props and set pieces. Clay Christian is to head the team as Production Designer, and Ed Rosendahl is to stage manage.

Gary makes a short speech, saying that the task is not to mount the perfect production, but to assist the playwright in discovering his work. "Our job is not to impose external ideas on the play," he says, "but to serve the writer." Everything I'm hearing in contrary to my expectations and experiences. No one is grumbling. No one is in a snit over the extra work in Gary's plans to create a new play series. When I describe to Clay what I think would be perfect in terms of a set, he says, "We can do that." I turned to Gary and say, "This is too easy."

I meet with Phillip the next day to search for some French furniture we can borrow. Anything that isn't free, I have to pay for out of the box office, which we expect be limited. We go to Finney McClure's and are as surprised by the quality of Louis XVI pieces and we are by the enthusiasm of the manager, Ed Maxey, who agrees to wave---so we think---the usual rental fees. Running around like a couple of two-year-olds in a toy store, we find virtually everything we need, including something we hadn't thought of, a remarkable collapsing chandelier. Once again I hear myself say, "This is too easy." This time it is. Although we are prepared for a shock when Ed calculates the total for the deposit check, we are not the least bit prepared for what we hear.

$34,000. The rental fee has not been waived, it seems, and will amount to almost $3500 for a show that will run for four days, whose top ticket price if five bucks and out of which I have to pay the cast and director, which we still don't have. Obviously, we need to explore other possibilities.

Naturally, of course, who should walk in as Phillip and I are standing there, covered head to toe in egg, but Gary Robertson, who, for the first time since the project began, looks around the shop and seems genuinely alarmed. I want to blurt, "It wasn't my idea!," but thankfully, maturity prevails.

At my age, I can't always count on it.

A Final Whack

I am now at home for evening, giving this piece a final whack. It hasn't been as difficult as I anticipated, and is probably far more revealing than I intended. So it goes.

Tomorrow night, I meet with Betty to work through the first act and the rewrites, which hopefully won't be that extensive. After a couple of false stops and starts, we are still creaking toward an opening, although it is now postponed, thankfully, to the second weekend in December.

In an attempt to avoid writing these final observations, I pick up the latest copy of The New Yorker and read Anthony Lane's unusually tart review of The Remains of the Day. He concludes the piece by saying, "Ivory's films...have no style, no real signature. What they do have, in abundance, is an accumulation of good taste masquerading as style..."

Judging a work of art, as this film surely is, for its lack of style is like trashing the Mona Lisa for her lack of a proper hat. I smile at the pomposity of Lane's remarks, but not too widely, for this is precisely the axis on which I've been trying to balance my own work, the careful integration of style, content and depth into an innately conflicting whole. The fact Wallis Windsor probably had more style and less content and depth than anyone else in this century doesn't help. I crumble at the thought of it all, the weight of the responsibility. Only a handful of writers have ever done this sort of thing successfully. Perhaps I've taken on too much. And who the hell do I think am I for even trying in the first place.

The anxiety, acute as it is, passes with a simple thought: I am no longer alone in this process, but a member of a dedicated and highly professional company, whose extraordinary generosity is the only balm I need. The mind clears. Tomorrow I have to complete the rewrites for Act II. After that, I will need to shift gears, assume the role of actor, and try to make sense of the words I have spent so much time writing. I will need to draw an invisable line within myself and cross over it, script in hand, notes and scribbles in the margin, and bring the thoughts of the last several months to an altogether different kind of life.

I invite you to join me and the rest of this remarkable company in the process.

P.S. We have a director. It is Elizabeth Tull.

P.S.2 'Geneva' opened on December 9 to the following reviews.

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