Eccentrics, Lunatics and Maniacs: Part 2B
March 15th 2008 15:38
Opening night nerves jangled; 'scene changing' was still proving difficult and very dangerous. A theatre carpenter was temporarily hired to help us. A big butch, 'straight' carpenter, who worked for people he would probably like to punch, if he bumped into them at the pub!
Actually, when we got to know him, he was quite charming, even to us lowly ASMs! (An ASM is short for assistant stage manager, or slave, to be precise.)
My offsider ASM was a slightly tizzy queen, unlike my more 'butch' self, well, in comparison to him I was like a footballer! This ASM had one other incredible ability, so the senior stage manager told me, and the SM insisted that I ask him what it was. This is always a situation to be wary of, especially when it is concocted by passive aggressive alcoholics in positions of power.
So I asked him.
We were all sitting around the table we used, under the stage, before the show began. I said, "The SM tells me you have a special gift, what is it exactly?" Stifled sniggers broke out amongst the gawking gallery around the table.
“I won’t tell you, I’ll show you!” gushed my testosterone depleted friend. I was ready to duck, or at least wince, as I expected ping pong balls to suddenly erupt from a secreted orifice in his person, but no, out of his mouth came a perfectly pitched soprano voice, singing an Italian opera, not the chorus part, but the lead!
I was gob smacked! Here was this total queen who looked quite physically chunky, singing a soprano lead part, perfectly!
He loved opera, and the old show tunes too, of course, and at the end of our show's season, I told him to get out from backstage and start using his talent, which he did! Years later, to his credit and my amazement, I saw him in his own show, in Sydney, (and he was terrific), he came over to me and thanked me for giving him the courage to get on stage, which was lovely of him. I have encouraged and helped a lot of people in the business over the years, but he was the only one to remember me.
However, that was all to come much later, for we have now arrived at opening night!
By curtain fall, all had gone well with the show; rapturous applause, gales of laughter, we had a potential national hit on our hands, however, thanks to unavailability of certain cast members, and stingy company management, we closed as pre-scripted, one month later.
Backstage; the bubbling of voices, back slapping, squeals of delight were cacophonous, it was very exciting indeed, it was my second big show with the company and my first professionally.
Then, cutting through the cackle of exaggerated theatrical voices, all trying to out do one another, came the voice of Frank Thring, "You're all invited back to my house! Remember to bring drinks!"
The 'famous' members of the cast politely turned that offer down, claiming to have prearranged plans, so that left a few dodgy 'spear carriers', (derogatory term for supernumery actor, or bit part), and us, the stage management!
As I tried to explain to the senior stage manager that, "I had prearranged plans...” I was promptly told it would hurt Frank's feelings if I did not go and that my plans were not as important as Frank, who was highly valued by the company; this was all perfectly encapsulated for me in one pithy statement, "Don't go, you're fired!"
I went.
The house, in Toorak, was large and set back from the road, shrouded by heavy foliage and very dimly lit. One could imagine a gothic horror film being shot there.
The interior was not much different, albeit a little better lit.
What struck me was the colour; rich red walls framed by Japan blacked wood skirting, architraves and panelling; it was not a colour combination I would have chosen myself. In fact, I read somewhere, people who choose red and black as their favourite colour combination were often psychopaths, but not our Frank, well, maybe there was a tinge of sociopathy, but no more than the average egoist you find beyond the stage apron.
On entry, we received the, “I suppose you all want the grand tour” of the house, I wanted to say, ‘NO actually, just a drink!’, but I kept my mouth shut, for now. The tour was of downstairs, naturally, as upstairs were the bedrooms and Frank did have a some sense of decorum, as well as occasion, “This is the entry hall obviously”, Frank drawled, odd that he needed to point this out, “That’s the kitchen, nothing to look at there,” so we all craned our necks to gain a passing glimpse, as Frank forged ahead down the corridor.
He was right about the kitchen, yet in a way, there was a lot to look at, if you happened to be a set dresser for film and wanted to get an idea of what kitchens looked like in the 1930s, or for that matter, what a kitchen from the 1930s looked like now, after fifty years of neglect. I am not saying it was filthy, it was just old and worn out, the edges all misshapen and gnarled, the bench tops pitted, the paint dulled, dusty and faded, a little like its owner actually.
“This is the dining room!” Frank trumpeted triumphantly. At the centre of the room was a dining table that sat eight or ten, I can’t remember well enough, for my eye was struck by what lay on the table. It was festooned with place settings, four or five fine crystal wine glasses, a stack of fine china at each place; the dinner, dessert, salad, entrée and soup all catered for, and lots of gorgeous looking sterling silver cutlery, softly gleaming, it was an extraordinary sight, yet its static and unused nature gave it a feeling of the distant past, of time frozen. It was not my fault, I couldn’t resist; “Doesn’t it get awfully dusty?”
This impertinent quip speared Frank’s side like a Japanese kujira mori, (whale harpoon). I didn’t mean to harpoon him, it just came out, all of a sudden, as often happens when my wit leaps from the cerebral sullage of my mind.
“THIS WAY, is the lounge room and sitting room!” Frank, quite correctly, refused to draw attention to my impudent bon mot, and as he turned to lead us to the next room, I turned to my fellow guests, hoping to silently share amusement of my joke, but met instead the eyes of the senior stage manager’s now glowering face. I promptly snapped my head back and whisked into the lounge after Frank and loudly, probably a little too effusively, gabbled on about his wonderful house. The trouble was, with all that booze I do not think I stopped gibbering on, all wearisome night long!
Jobs in the theatre were not easily attained, so my sudden garrulous behaviour was designed to cover my arse, so to speak, and pass the salt! Frank liked it, for awhile.
His lounge room was filled with interesting object d’art, porcelain vases, small statuettes, books and comfortable ‘olde worlde’ furniture. It was, I imagined, exactly as it looked the day his mother passed away.
His father died, sadly, when he was just ten. Frank W. Thring senior, was quite a man about town in his day, he started Australia’s first film production company, Efftee Studios, and modelled it after the Hollywood style of film company.
Thring senior was reputed to have created the ‘clapper board’, (sometimes you see one, if it is in the film’s action), otherwise only the studio sees the clapper board; it is a slate with chalk writing on it and a slat of wood, black and white striped, hinged on top, which the “clapper loader” guy, for the camera crew, bangs down before a scene starts. They have to make the noise to know if the microphones are working, checked by the sound guy, who watches the needles on his recorder jump.
Sometimes the sound guy forgets to take his headphones away from his ears, and you hear a small whimper, as his ear drums nearly burst. On the clapper board is written the film title, scene number and number of the “take”, which means the times the same scene has been shot, so you hear the clapper loader call out, for instance; “Scene 12, Take three”, and then he slams the ‘clapper stick’ down, to help synchronize picture and sound in editing. (I could go on, but I won’t!)
Sorry, I got carried away.
Anyway, so there was a lot of Australian cinematic and stage history hidden in the corners of Frank Thring’s house, with no one to record it, no one to hear Frank reminisce, to notate our nation’s theatrical history that now, all too typically, has gone to the grave with him.
I had my chance to do this, in a way.
Gradually, over our conversation, people drifted off home. After an hour or so, I then realized I was left alone with the great man. It didn’t worry me, although I had masses of perfect ash blonde wavy hair, a waspish figure and all the guile of a young looking fresh faced 26 year old, and I was probably not his type.
Needless to say, the large, fat, bald, old man sitting opposite to me was not my type either. I preferred my men to be tall, slim yet wiry, not bald, dark and very slightly dangerous, for some reason, I do not know.
However, there we were, delving into Australia’s artistic, theatrical and cinematic history, when I noticed a large tome was perched on a small chair, the book was larger than the petite chair it stood upright upon.
“I am curious, Frank, why does that book have its own chair?”
“Ahh, dear boy, that is a rare and wonderful book! It is by the artist Donald Friend.”
“Oh!” I blandly responded. I had no idea who he was speaking of, and I grew up in galleries, my family knew a lot of the leading lights in the Australian art world, but for etiquette sake, I feigned knowingly.
“Would you like to see it?” Frank rasped almost lasciviously.
‘Yes, I’d love to!”
“BUT YOU MUSTN’T TOUCH IT!”
I stared uncomprehendingly.
“PROMISE? DON’T TOUCH IT!”
“Errr…yes” I agreed meekly. I was rather taken aback, what on earth did he think I would do with the damned thing?
Frank then fetched the book from across the room, and again sat opposite me,
“YOU MUSTN’T TOUCH IT!”
“OK! No! I promise!”
Frank began opening the large book, it facing towards me, upright in his lap. This was an absurd way to treat an expensive and rare book of course.
His presentation of the book reminded me of the ‘Magic Circle Club”, a TV show I appeared on once, when six or so, and I felt I was about to hear Snow White, being read to me by an irascible old ogre.
I had begun to lean forward, trying to see across the four or five feet between us, so I could at least make out something of the book, when he barked at me, “DON’T TOUCH IT!”
I nearly screamed. Frank had begun to annoy me.
I did remember seeing one faint red pastel sketch of nude boys running or playing. Thought nothing of it really, a simple sketch. Apparently his work is full of them.
I still know next to nothing of Donald Friend the person, his obsessional topic, nor much about him as an artist, he never really interested me. I did know and love the art of many artists my family knew personally; Brett Whitely, Justin O’Brien, Geoffrey Smart and many others besides.
I grew up in a family of artists, not always a pretty picture.
The book was quickly dismissed, as I let him know, by the dulling of eyes and droning of responses, that I was over his bizarre presentation. We then talked and talked; about theatre and the people in it, about my family and some worries I had regarding what was happening to them, general stuff, none of which I can now remember.
I do remember finding a way to change the direction of our discourse, when I drew attention to the over stuffed roll top desk, that sat incongruously next to us, in his lounge room, books, scripts, letters and papers crammed into it, the roller cover unable to close properly.
“Are you working on something?”
“Oh that” , Frank growled, “No, it is my autobiography. I can’t stand it!”
“That would be a wonderful read! Why don’t you finish it?”
‘No! No, I can’t bring myself to do it; people try to push me into writing it. No, NEVER!”
It struck me that he had been so mortally wounded emotionally, by his past, that just the thought of opening the desk, would strangle his soul. This was a saddening moment, for I had not the psychological tools to help him come to terms with this mountain of pain he carried, somewhere deep, in his labyrinthine personality.
Frank then shot me with a paralysing poser.
“And what do you want to do?” the tedium in his tone contradicted by a cool, blue tincture of interest buried in his eyes.
Obviously Frank had dismissed my current employment, as ASM as a stop gap, a means to an end. He was right; I never wanted to be a stage manager. I only studied it as a means to write more effectively for the stage, and to be employed in my area of interest. However, as I was quickly finding out at the time, being a stage manager left little time for anything else.
Frank's question lingered unanswered.
A remembered retort; barked at me one night by another barfly, after I had been 'holding court' too long in Kinselas Bar, "Writers write, Fog!" and I had no riposte for him, and now, with Frank waiting, I could feel my throat being strangled by my own hypocrisy. years had passed and I hadn't written a damn thing!
Now, my self-proclaimed justification for existence, that being, 'I'm going to be a writer', held all the conviction of a tobacco executive facing a Washington Congressional Hearing. I felt failed, before I had started. Such feelings are often woven, by other hands, into the fabric of one’s personality. Maybe true, I am not sure for myself.
I then verbally exorcised my childhood dream, “I..I want to write.”
The response from Frank was as alarming as it was immediate.
“WRITE FOR ME! WRITE FOR ME!!!” The desperation of his vocal delivery was a little shocking. “Why not write for me?”
Should I tell him, I wondered?
My mind buzzed, 'Why not Frank? Because I'm a charlatan, a faker, I pretend to be of some artistic merit, in order to justify my otherwise useless existence! I'm a brittle skeleton submerged in a sea of doubt, blubbering and flatulence! I am no modern day Marlowe, no Roald Dahl, no Stoppard, I am not of their loin, nor of their cloth, and the thought of it, drags me to graveside, ready to leap!'
These haphazard thoughts were becoming Shakespearian in nature, minus the iambic pentameter, of course, instead, imbued with plenty of daytime soap opera!
But I remained silent.
It never occurred to me that he would need someone, particularly a ‘nobody’ like me, to write for him. I also had no idea, at the time, that he too suffered a debilitating low self esteem, and probably chronic depression.
I also did not know that we had one other thing in common, alcoholism. My disease in infancy, disguised by youth, his; all bleary eyed bloated, in its stupefying dotage.
I stared blankly. My mind was a silent black box.
I couldn’t think what I could possibly write, that would be of any use. Odd actually, for as a child I used to watch the old ‘golden age’ Hollywood movies, and I realized then, that I could write for particular actors, as I could remember their mannerisms, voices and characters, odd thinking for a nine year old.
I had dreams, but that is all they were, and any futile attempts, done mostly ‘latheringly’ drunk, were scrawled undecipherable claptrap and what could be read, the next day, was always woeful waffle.
I became instantly depressed. Here I was, with the great, yet fading, Frank Thring, and he was asking me to work with him!
Then the front door opened!
A tall good looking Asian man then entered, ‘Hieee Fraaank” he effeminately called out, “I’ll do the kitchen, you got a nice friend too?”
We ignored him, he disappeared.
I then noticed something else amazing, it was daylight! We had talked all night, or did I talk all night and poor Frank humoured me with yesteryear manners, probably.
At 10am, Frank phoned a radio station to cancel an interview. I felt a trifle ashamed, he said not to worry, he couldn’t stand doing them anyway.
I then left his home, now looking less like the lair of a homicidal maniac, than it did the night before, and pondered upon that lost opportunity, to write for Frank Thring!
(to be continued)
The Great Frank Thring
Actually, when we got to know him, he was quite charming, even to us lowly ASMs! (An ASM is short for assistant stage manager, or slave, to be precise.)
My offsider ASM was a slightly tizzy queen, unlike my more 'butch' self, well, in comparison to him I was like a footballer! This ASM had one other incredible ability, so the senior stage manager told me, and the SM insisted that I ask him what it was. This is always a situation to be wary of, especially when it is concocted by passive aggressive alcoholics in positions of power.
So I asked him.
We were all sitting around the table we used, under the stage, before the show began. I said, "The SM tells me you have a special gift, what is it exactly?" Stifled sniggers broke out amongst the gawking gallery around the table.
“I won’t tell you, I’ll show you!” gushed my testosterone depleted friend. I was ready to duck, or at least wince, as I expected ping pong balls to suddenly erupt from a secreted orifice in his person, but no, out of his mouth came a perfectly pitched soprano voice, singing an Italian opera, not the chorus part, but the lead!
I was gob smacked! Here was this total queen who looked quite physically chunky, singing a soprano lead part, perfectly!
He loved opera, and the old show tunes too, of course, and at the end of our show's season, I told him to get out from backstage and start using his talent, which he did! Years later, to his credit and my amazement, I saw him in his own show, in Sydney, (and he was terrific), he came over to me and thanked me for giving him the courage to get on stage, which was lovely of him. I have encouraged and helped a lot of people in the business over the years, but he was the only one to remember me.
However, that was all to come much later, for we have now arrived at opening night!
By curtain fall, all had gone well with the show; rapturous applause, gales of laughter, we had a potential national hit on our hands, however, thanks to unavailability of certain cast members, and stingy company management, we closed as pre-scripted, one month later.
Backstage; the bubbling of voices, back slapping, squeals of delight were cacophonous, it was very exciting indeed, it was my second big show with the company and my first professionally.
Then, cutting through the cackle of exaggerated theatrical voices, all trying to out do one another, came the voice of Frank Thring, "You're all invited back to my house! Remember to bring drinks!"
The 'famous' members of the cast politely turned that offer down, claiming to have prearranged plans, so that left a few dodgy 'spear carriers', (derogatory term for supernumery actor, or bit part), and us, the stage management!
As I tried to explain to the senior stage manager that, "I had prearranged plans...” I was promptly told it would hurt Frank's feelings if I did not go and that my plans were not as important as Frank, who was highly valued by the company; this was all perfectly encapsulated for me in one pithy statement, "Don't go, you're fired!"
I went.
The house, in Toorak, was large and set back from the road, shrouded by heavy foliage and very dimly lit. One could imagine a gothic horror film being shot there.
The interior was not much different, albeit a little better lit.
What struck me was the colour; rich red walls framed by Japan blacked wood skirting, architraves and panelling; it was not a colour combination I would have chosen myself. In fact, I read somewhere, people who choose red and black as their favourite colour combination were often psychopaths, but not our Frank, well, maybe there was a tinge of sociopathy, but no more than the average egoist you find beyond the stage apron.
On entry, we received the, “I suppose you all want the grand tour” of the house, I wanted to say, ‘NO actually, just a drink!’, but I kept my mouth shut, for now. The tour was of downstairs, naturally, as upstairs were the bedrooms and Frank did have a some sense of decorum, as well as occasion, “This is the entry hall obviously”, Frank drawled, odd that he needed to point this out, “That’s the kitchen, nothing to look at there,” so we all craned our necks to gain a passing glimpse, as Frank forged ahead down the corridor.
He was right about the kitchen, yet in a way, there was a lot to look at, if you happened to be a set dresser for film and wanted to get an idea of what kitchens looked like in the 1930s, or for that matter, what a kitchen from the 1930s looked like now, after fifty years of neglect. I am not saying it was filthy, it was just old and worn out, the edges all misshapen and gnarled, the bench tops pitted, the paint dulled, dusty and faded, a little like its owner actually.
“This is the dining room!” Frank trumpeted triumphantly. At the centre of the room was a dining table that sat eight or ten, I can’t remember well enough, for my eye was struck by what lay on the table. It was festooned with place settings, four or five fine crystal wine glasses, a stack of fine china at each place; the dinner, dessert, salad, entrée and soup all catered for, and lots of gorgeous looking sterling silver cutlery, softly gleaming, it was an extraordinary sight, yet its static and unused nature gave it a feeling of the distant past, of time frozen. It was not my fault, I couldn’t resist; “Doesn’t it get awfully dusty?”
This impertinent quip speared Frank’s side like a Japanese kujira mori, (whale harpoon). I didn’t mean to harpoon him, it just came out, all of a sudden, as often happens when my wit leaps from the cerebral sullage of my mind.
“THIS WAY, is the lounge room and sitting room!” Frank, quite correctly, refused to draw attention to my impudent bon mot, and as he turned to lead us to the next room, I turned to my fellow guests, hoping to silently share amusement of my joke, but met instead the eyes of the senior stage manager’s now glowering face. I promptly snapped my head back and whisked into the lounge after Frank and loudly, probably a little too effusively, gabbled on about his wonderful house. The trouble was, with all that booze I do not think I stopped gibbering on, all wearisome night long!
Jobs in the theatre were not easily attained, so my sudden garrulous behaviour was designed to cover my arse, so to speak, and pass the salt! Frank liked it, for awhile.
His lounge room was filled with interesting object d’art, porcelain vases, small statuettes, books and comfortable ‘olde worlde’ furniture. It was, I imagined, exactly as it looked the day his mother passed away.
His father died, sadly, when he was just ten. Frank W. Thring senior, was quite a man about town in his day, he started Australia’s first film production company, Efftee Studios, and modelled it after the Hollywood style of film company.
Thring senior was reputed to have created the ‘clapper board’, (sometimes you see one, if it is in the film’s action), otherwise only the studio sees the clapper board; it is a slate with chalk writing on it and a slat of wood, black and white striped, hinged on top, which the “clapper loader” guy, for the camera crew, bangs down before a scene starts. They have to make the noise to know if the microphones are working, checked by the sound guy, who watches the needles on his recorder jump.
Sometimes the sound guy forgets to take his headphones away from his ears, and you hear a small whimper, as his ear drums nearly burst. On the clapper board is written the film title, scene number and number of the “take”, which means the times the same scene has been shot, so you hear the clapper loader call out, for instance; “Scene 12, Take three”, and then he slams the ‘clapper stick’ down, to help synchronize picture and sound in editing. (I could go on, but I won’t!)
Sorry, I got carried away.
Anyway, so there was a lot of Australian cinematic and stage history hidden in the corners of Frank Thring’s house, with no one to record it, no one to hear Frank reminisce, to notate our nation’s theatrical history that now, all too typically, has gone to the grave with him.
I had my chance to do this, in a way.
Gradually, over our conversation, people drifted off home. After an hour or so, I then realized I was left alone with the great man. It didn’t worry me, although I had masses of perfect ash blonde wavy hair, a waspish figure and all the guile of a young looking fresh faced 26 year old, and I was probably not his type.
Needless to say, the large, fat, bald, old man sitting opposite to me was not my type either. I preferred my men to be tall, slim yet wiry, not bald, dark and very slightly dangerous, for some reason, I do not know.
However, there we were, delving into Australia’s artistic, theatrical and cinematic history, when I noticed a large tome was perched on a small chair, the book was larger than the petite chair it stood upright upon.
“I am curious, Frank, why does that book have its own chair?”
“Ahh, dear boy, that is a rare and wonderful book! It is by the artist Donald Friend.”
“Oh!” I blandly responded. I had no idea who he was speaking of, and I grew up in galleries, my family knew a lot of the leading lights in the Australian art world, but for etiquette sake, I feigned knowingly.
“Would you like to see it?” Frank rasped almost lasciviously.
‘Yes, I’d love to!”
“BUT YOU MUSTN’T TOUCH IT!”
I stared uncomprehendingly.
“PROMISE? DON’T TOUCH IT!”
“Errr…yes” I agreed meekly. I was rather taken aback, what on earth did he think I would do with the damned thing?
Frank then fetched the book from across the room, and again sat opposite me,
“YOU MUSTN’T TOUCH IT!”
“OK! No! I promise!”
Frank began opening the large book, it facing towards me, upright in his lap. This was an absurd way to treat an expensive and rare book of course.
His presentation of the book reminded me of the ‘Magic Circle Club”, a TV show I appeared on once, when six or so, and I felt I was about to hear Snow White, being read to me by an irascible old ogre.
I had begun to lean forward, trying to see across the four or five feet between us, so I could at least make out something of the book, when he barked at me, “DON’T TOUCH IT!”
I nearly screamed. Frank had begun to annoy me.
I did remember seeing one faint red pastel sketch of nude boys running or playing. Thought nothing of it really, a simple sketch. Apparently his work is full of them.
I still know next to nothing of Donald Friend the person, his obsessional topic, nor much about him as an artist, he never really interested me. I did know and love the art of many artists my family knew personally; Brett Whitely, Justin O’Brien, Geoffrey Smart and many others besides.
I grew up in a family of artists, not always a pretty picture.
The book was quickly dismissed, as I let him know, by the dulling of eyes and droning of responses, that I was over his bizarre presentation. We then talked and talked; about theatre and the people in it, about my family and some worries I had regarding what was happening to them, general stuff, none of which I can now remember.
I do remember finding a way to change the direction of our discourse, when I drew attention to the over stuffed roll top desk, that sat incongruously next to us, in his lounge room, books, scripts, letters and papers crammed into it, the roller cover unable to close properly.
“Are you working on something?”
“Oh that” , Frank growled, “No, it is my autobiography. I can’t stand it!”
“That would be a wonderful read! Why don’t you finish it?”
‘No! No, I can’t bring myself to do it; people try to push me into writing it. No, NEVER!”
It struck me that he had been so mortally wounded emotionally, by his past, that just the thought of opening the desk, would strangle his soul. This was a saddening moment, for I had not the psychological tools to help him come to terms with this mountain of pain he carried, somewhere deep, in his labyrinthine personality.
Frank then shot me with a paralysing poser.
“And what do you want to do?” the tedium in his tone contradicted by a cool, blue tincture of interest buried in his eyes.
Obviously Frank had dismissed my current employment, as ASM as a stop gap, a means to an end. He was right; I never wanted to be a stage manager. I only studied it as a means to write more effectively for the stage, and to be employed in my area of interest. However, as I was quickly finding out at the time, being a stage manager left little time for anything else.
Frank's question lingered unanswered.
A remembered retort; barked at me one night by another barfly, after I had been 'holding court' too long in Kinselas Bar, "Writers write, Fog!" and I had no riposte for him, and now, with Frank waiting, I could feel my throat being strangled by my own hypocrisy. years had passed and I hadn't written a damn thing!
Now, my self-proclaimed justification for existence, that being, 'I'm going to be a writer', held all the conviction of a tobacco executive facing a Washington Congressional Hearing. I felt failed, before I had started. Such feelings are often woven, by other hands, into the fabric of one’s personality. Maybe true, I am not sure for myself.
I then verbally exorcised my childhood dream, “I..I want to write.”
The response from Frank was as alarming as it was immediate.
“WRITE FOR ME! WRITE FOR ME!!!” The desperation of his vocal delivery was a little shocking. “Why not write for me?”
Should I tell him, I wondered?
My mind buzzed, 'Why not Frank? Because I'm a charlatan, a faker, I pretend to be of some artistic merit, in order to justify my otherwise useless existence! I'm a brittle skeleton submerged in a sea of doubt, blubbering and flatulence! I am no modern day Marlowe, no Roald Dahl, no Stoppard, I am not of their loin, nor of their cloth, and the thought of it, drags me to graveside, ready to leap!'
These haphazard thoughts were becoming Shakespearian in nature, minus the iambic pentameter, of course, instead, imbued with plenty of daytime soap opera!
But I remained silent.
It never occurred to me that he would need someone, particularly a ‘nobody’ like me, to write for him. I also had no idea, at the time, that he too suffered a debilitating low self esteem, and probably chronic depression.
I also did not know that we had one other thing in common, alcoholism. My disease in infancy, disguised by youth, his; all bleary eyed bloated, in its stupefying dotage.
I stared blankly. My mind was a silent black box.
I couldn’t think what I could possibly write, that would be of any use. Odd actually, for as a child I used to watch the old ‘golden age’ Hollywood movies, and I realized then, that I could write for particular actors, as I could remember their mannerisms, voices and characters, odd thinking for a nine year old.
I had dreams, but that is all they were, and any futile attempts, done mostly ‘latheringly’ drunk, were scrawled undecipherable claptrap and what could be read, the next day, was always woeful waffle.
I became instantly depressed. Here I was, with the great, yet fading, Frank Thring, and he was asking me to work with him!
Then the front door opened!
A tall good looking Asian man then entered, ‘Hieee Fraaank” he effeminately called out, “I’ll do the kitchen, you got a nice friend too?”
We ignored him, he disappeared.
I then noticed something else amazing, it was daylight! We had talked all night, or did I talk all night and poor Frank humoured me with yesteryear manners, probably.
At 10am, Frank phoned a radio station to cancel an interview. I felt a trifle ashamed, he said not to worry, he couldn’t stand doing them anyway.
I then left his home, now looking less like the lair of a homicidal maniac, than it did the night before, and pondered upon that lost opportunity, to write for Frank Thring!
(to be continued)
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Comment by katyzzz
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MS Paint Art
Well done, although for me, excrutiatingly long, being a blog, that it is, it was more like a book.
But I got there, I don't usually want to expend so much time but I'm glad I did on this one, now I ,too can have a late breakfast, and to-day was going to be so well organised.
Comment by Mountain Fog
Infognito
Screen Trek
QUOTE ME NO QUOTES!
sorry I had not replied to your very generous appraisal of my work...I did not get a notification from Orble that anyone had responded, so it's not my fault!
Dare I say it...there is one more part to go...it is already posted...
And you are right, it is like a bloody book...sorry, I keep forgetting people just want to read a blog with something 'short and sweet' as the saying goes!
Maybe I could write "bloogs", instead of just a blog, or just a book, create my version of a combination of both!
Yes, I know, it has already been done...but did they call them "bloogs"???
This, I dare say, means I shall never be popular...as your lone testimony here demonstrates...but so what!!
At the very least, I am glad I entertained you!
cheers
fog