Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [59]
“If you mean the business, absolutely dotty. Insane. Not due to overwork, I assure you. The theatre scene here is grim, Sydney, absolutely grim. Everything is retro, dragging out old shows. Good God, we’ve got South Pacific and My Fair Lady playing to packed houses, even old Coward works like Private Lives and Star Quality. Nothing new. Absolutely nothing new!”
“Sounds promising for older actors and actresses, Harry.”
“And good for agents who represent them, which doesn’t include this agent. They’ve all gone to the conglomerates, the big agencies with Hollywood connections. It’s depressing, I tell you, bloody depressing. I’m thinking of getting out of the business, settle down in the Dorset cottage with the missus, tend the garden, and flip the bird at the whole bloody mess.”
Quill had been talking this way for all the years Bancroft had known him, even when his agency was prospering. He raised poor-mouthing to new heights, and had the first pound he’d ever earned, Bancroft was sure.
“How would you like to turn things around, Harry, old chap?”
Quill’s response was a belch.
“My one-man show.”
“Your what?”
“One-man show, Harry. It’s been percolating for years inside me, and I know the time is right.”
“What sort of show, Sydney?” He didn’t know what else to say.
“A show about me, Harry, Sydney Bancroft. Oh, don’t misunderstand. There will be lots more to it than simply a nostalgic look at my career.” He stood and began pacing the office. “You can’t believe, Harry—you simply cannot believe how many people remember my performances on both the stage and screen. They come up to me all the time, wanting an autograph, or just to chat about a favorite film of mine. Young people, too. Last night at the pub, Phil Wainsley and Sam Botha made a point of coming to my table to pay respects, and I could sense a buzz at the bar when I entered.”
He stood in the middle of the room and raised his hands high. “Think of it, Harry. A show in which one of Willie Shakespeare’s leading interpreters brings audiences into the Bard’s world as no one has ever done before. The humor most people—and, I might add, most actors—miss, new interpretations of famous scenes as they should have been played, some inside gossip about Shakespeare. He was as much of a scheming businessman as he was a writer.
“There’ll be plenty of sex, Harry. Shakespeare was the master of the double entendre, wasn’t he? You know, of course, of the American comedian George Carlin.”
Quill nodded.
“He’s packed them in night after night with his list of forbidden words. Very clever the way he does it. Made millions, I suspect. I’ll do the same with Shakespeare, let the audience in on all the words he used that sound innocuous but have come to have sexual meanings.”
Quill tried to say something, but Bancroft was not to be interrupted.
“I call this section of the show ‘The Bawdy Bard.’ Here’s but a small sample. Romeo and Juliet.” He assumed a forlorn expression as he slipped into character. “I must another way to fetch a ladder by the which your love must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark. I am the drudge, and toil in your delight, but you shall bear the burden soon at night.”
Quill stared.
“‘Bear the burden,’ Harry. The man on top of the woman. Can you picture the publicity the show will generate with an insider’s look at how bawdy Shakespeare could be? That was the nurse.”
“Pardon?”
“The nurse speaking to Romeo.”
He returned to his chair.
“Now, let me sketch out the entire show for you. The production costs will be low, Harry, the beauty of a one-man show. Here’s how I see it.”
Ten minutes later, when Bancroft had finished his presentation, Quill yawned and went behind his desk.
“Well?” Bancroft asked.
“Sydney, I do not believe a show as you envision it has a chance here in London. Or anywhere else for that matter.”
“Nonsense!” Bancroft jumped up and prepared to perform another scene. “Let me—”
“Sit down, Sydney!”
Bancroft did as he was told, staring helplessly