Last Monday I posted a quick and dirty RPG horror story about a pay-to-play campaign. This will be a proper attempt at telling the whole story, from the alluring start to my bitter resignation. Spoilers ahead for the beginning portions of Curse of Strahd. Trigger Warning for bullying and mentions of self-harm.
Mondays and Tuesdays are my guaranteed days off, so that is when I am available to enjoy my TTRPG hobby. Typically I am involved in three or four campaigns a week as either a DM or a player. A year-long campaign I was running reached its finale in the middle of March. When that ended and the time slot opened up, I wanted to be a player for a while. So I started looking in all the usual places; Discord servers I am a part of, StartPlaying ads, LFG threads, and the Roll20 boards. I indiscriminately applied for free-to-play and pay-to-play games at 1 PM on Mondays and ultimately got invited to join a Curse of Strahd campaign. I’ve experienced good and bad games in both camps, so this story is not about bashing pay-to-play games. Being a DM requires time, effort, and availability; and I am willing to pay since free games are not typically hosted during that time slot.
The DM hosting this Curse of Strahd campaign presented himself as a knowledgeable Grognard from the Gygaxian era. A retired man who ran D&D games to have fun and get a bit of spending money as a side hustle. He made promises that this campaign was going to be more than just an out-of-the-box 5th edition game. It would run the gambit of Ravenloft’s rich history taking elements from older editions and novels like ‘I Strahd: The Memoirs of a Vampire’. The game would be going from level 1 to 20, as defeating Strahd and escaping Barovia was just the beginning. He planned on the party visiting other domains of dread and dark places within the shadowfel. During a voice call interview, we spoke about table conduct, civility, respect, lines and veils, and all the things that sold me the idea he was a professional DM and cared about the integrity of his campaign. At no point did this grown-ass old man proclaim anything along the lines of, “This will be like playing D&D with two friends in a basement, and you’re the third wheel who buys our snacks”. If he had, I would not have signed up. We shall call him the Bantering DM for the rest of the story.
Two weeks go by and the game fills with four players: My half-goblin moon druid named Olivia; an elf bladesinger wizard named Cayden; a purple tiefling lore bard named Eternal Cake; lastly the problem player Jormungandr the fallen-aasimar giant barbarian. We have session zero with everyone in the Discord voice channel. The Bantering DM goes over the same points from the interview and has us go around the table so that we can introduce ourselves, our characters, and the lines/veils we’d like to avoid. I don’t like witnessing instances of child abuse, Cayden does not like descriptions of spiders, Eternal Cake does not want the party to torture NPCs, and Jormungandr asks that we be patient with him as he has ADHD. I go above and beyond by making high-resolution character tokens for everyone. As we are chatting and filling out our character sheets, it is revealed that Eternal Cake and Jormungandr are longtime friends of the Bantering DM and are not paying for the sessions like Cayden and myself. Personally, I’d feel more comfortable if all the players either paid a fee or played for free, but I let it slide because everyone seemed nice at the time.
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In session one, unfortunately, Eternal Cake was not able to join us so we had to puppet his purple tiefling. The Bantering DM uses the Creeping Mists introduction. Each of our characters was spirited to Barovia with whatever equipment we had on our person. Cayden and Jormungandr sounded mildly inconvenienced upon discovering that they were kidnapped by magical mist and then plopped into a dark forest. Meanwhile, Olivia was scared out of her mind and avoided the three strange men. She decided to climb a tree to find a road or landmarks. Survival checks were made, she discovered a road not too far away and heard the howling of wolves in the distance. Even though she did not trust these men, she motioned for them to follow her, hopefully, they’d be safe together.
We were ambushed by three wolves on the road. During the surprise round, both Cayden and Eternal Cake were rendered unconscious. Pack tactics caused a critical hit on Cayden, the wolf’s bite attack damage was 13, meaning his wizard with 7 hit points was a single point away from instantly dying. Thankfully, I prepared healing spells for just such an occasion. It was at this point that I got to experience the Bantering DM and Jormungandr’s dynamic.
DM: “At advantage from pack tactics, that is a 17 to hit.”
Barb: “No that does not hit me.”
DM: “Your token is linked to your sheet. You have 15 AC, my guy.”
Barb: “What about with a shield? Ever think about that?”
DM: “Even if you had a shield, that's 17, it meets it beats. But you're using a maul.”
Barb: “Does Cake have silvery barbs? I demand a reroll.”
DM: “Cake is unconscious.”
Me: “Um, I will get him up when it is my turn. Can you drop it?”
Barb: “Fine.”
DM: “That is 7 piercing damage.”
Barb: “7 bullshit damage! I have not even had a turn. I’m not raging so it is FULL!”
Olivia played cautiously, healing the downed party members and using ranged cantrips. Jormungandr did big damage with his maul but complained and argued with the Bantering DM, extending each of his turns longer than they needed to be. Injured, but grateful to be alive, we travel down the muddy road.
The party makes it to the village of Barovia. We wander the streets and eventually find the Blood of the Vine tavern. Cayden and Jormungandr do the majority of the talking, as Olivia is unsure if the villagers will be hostile or welcoming to a goblin like her. The Bantering DM laced the expositional dialog with a lot of profanity, personal attacks, and spitting on the floor. The barkeep explained that spitting was a Barovian custom, that if an evil thing is expressed one must spit quickly otherwise demons will possess the soul. The insults were primarily based on our characters' appearances. Cayden was called a knife-ear, short, girly man, hairless, and physically weak. Jormungandr was mocked for being stupid, a savage brute, and likely to get struck by lightning as he had a metal pauldron. Eternal Cake was spared as he was not at the session, though I imagine the Bantering DM had plenty to say about a purple devil man. The barkeep called Olivia an ugly greenskin, asked where the rest of her clothes were, if she was like goblins in fairytales that hide under children's beds to eat their toes, and that I may as well “get it over with as it will happen sooner or later”, implying that I should kill myself. When he said that, Olivia spat and glared at the man. Through that abuse, we learned the leader of the town recently died. His son Ismark was now in charge, but no one liked him. There was a cursed child with red hair named Ireena, taken in by the prior burgomaster. The ruler of this valley is called The Devil and he’s been sending monsters to torment the village recently. The priest of the local church had gone mad when his son died in a recent attack. Finally, there is a town further down the road called Vallaki. We rent a room and end the session with a milestone level up.
After the game wrapped up, we were still in the voice call and I expressed a couple of concerns I had about the banter during combat. Saying that it made the fight drag on for longer. I also said that I could handle rude or unlikeable NPCs and that I understand Barovia is a bleak atmosphere, but I felt the barkeep overstepped into abusive language with his comments. The Bantering DM apologized, said that it was all just in character, and excused the innkeeper by saying he is scared, small-minded, and considered us a bad omen on top of recent terrible events. I chalked it up to adjusting to a new group. This will be the only time that the Bantering DM will apologize or engage with my concerns and criticisms. After this, he would ignore what I had to say.
For session two Eternal Cake is unable to play again. The party woke up and left the inn. Immediately we are confronted by Ismark, he puffs himself up and banishes us from the town. Yelling for us to get out, that we were harming his people, we were unwelcome, and no merchant was legally allowed to trade with us. Then he stomped off unwilling to talk about whether or not we could help his people. Now, I’ve run Curse of Strahd before, I have meta-knowledge about things we can do in this village. There is content to explore, stuff to do, and ways to better the village. Some of which was hinted at by the barkeep last session. However, in character, Olivia was told to kill herself and a few hours later got banished. She does not belong here, she is not wanted, so the true neutral thing to do is leave. But in-character and out-of-character are very different beasts because I know that leaving would mean abandoning the story's most pivotal character Ireena. Jormungandr and Cayden both agree, well screw this town if everyone is going to be a jerk. I’m panicking, internally screaming, trying to come up with an in-character reason to force us to meet Ireena, but drawing a blank.
Then as we are about one hundred paces outside of town, we hear a young woman calling out after us. It is Ireena. She is running after us, short of breath and begging us to stop for a second. She explains that we are the heroes of prophecy. Asking if she could travel with us to Vallaki. The way that Bantering DM is playing Ireena, makes me mad, as he is putting on a stereotypical airhead voice and making her sound dumb. Cayden and Jormungandr pick up on this and ask a few questions. Ireena explains that she was never allowed out of the house and that this is the furthest she’s been outside of the village. She found her dad's old breastplate and rapier, but she’d never used them before. That she’s never been in a fight. Later on, the Bantering DM would show this by having her routinely make dexterity saving throws in combat to not trip and fall prone. Describing her as swinging wildly and whenever she did hit an enemy made it sound like an accident. Nor does she seem to have any bonds with her village, or care to say goodbye to her brother. The biggest problem is never mentioned out loud, but through meta-knowledge I know that her father has not been buried yet. This means that the Bantering DM chose to cut the funeral from the module, or that it still needs to be done but Ireena does not care about laying her father to rest.
We travel down the road and come to the gallows at the crossroads. It just so happens that Olivia sees the apparition of her own body dangling from the noose. She expresses sorrow and I hint at backstory trauma, calling the event “probably a bad memory of the last time I had a rope around my neck”. Then the Bantering DM performs the final part of Ireena’s character assassination. Ireena kneels down, looks Olivia in the eye, and says, “You must have gone mad”, then laughs at her. This is not Ireena, this is a careless fool with no empathy. I don’t know why the Bantering DM made these changes. Because he is sexist? To be funny? Is it because he considers the village portion of Barovia boring? Is he ignorant or malicious? I cannot answer these questions, nor will I pretend to be a mind reader. I am just laying out what he did.
We continued to travel down the road, eventually meeting an old woman with a cart headed toward the village. Ireena seemed to know this woman, calling her Granny, and spoke louder to imply the older woman was hard of hearing. She greeted us and offered pies for sale. With meta-knowledge I know that this is Morgantha, a night hag who kills people and grinds their bones at her windmill aptly named Bonegrinder. But I would never act on this knowledge nor spoil the surprise for anyone else. Jormungandr then asked, “Are the pies made of people?”, without any suspicious behavior or provocation. Granny said ‘no, of course not’. But then Jormungandr started to question the old lady intensely. Why are you traveling all by yourself? Are you not scared of wolves? How big is this woman DM? Does she look like she has an arcane focus? Is there anything weird about her cart? Can I do an insight check to sense her motivations? He hardly even let the DM answer the damn question before firing off another one. So I break character and say. “Stop meta-gaming! Knock it off!” Confronting Jormungandr seemed to get him to stop, but this should be the job of the DM, especially one who laid out a list of table etiquette during session zero. Once we resumed, in character I ran defense for the hag. Saying that as a druid I could talk to animals and giving them food often lets them know you are friendly. Just because she is an old woman, does not mean she was incapable of taking care of herself. To which the hag agreed and gave me a free pie.
After that, we got to the Vistani camp and Madame Eva’s fortune-telling. The cards we got were the best pulls I’ve ever seen, super thematic, and a great fated ally. The Sunsword would be at the beacon of Agronvostholt after we light it. The Tome is hidden in Baba Lysaga’s hut, makes sense that she’d keep her darling son's diary safe. The Holy Symbol is behind the sun at St. Markovia, so we have to confront a fallen angel to retrieve an amulet of faith. And we got the G.O.A.T. - Ezmerelda d'Avenir, we could run into her at a bunch of different places. All of this was meta-knowledge, of course, and unlike Jormungandr I did not intend to start demanding we go to these places to speedrun win D&D. We ended the session at that point, and once again we got a milestone level up.
I left the voice call, took a few days to cool off, and then carefully wrote out a respectful message detailing my frustrations to the Bantering DM. Both about Jormungandr’s meta-gaming outburst during the hag interaction and how he chose to portray Ireena Kolyana. I explained that she was coming across as an unempathetic ditz. The way she was acting made it difficult for my character to like or trust her. Hammering on the points about the funeral as well as her mocking Olivia at the gallows. I wrote that I understand there are many ways the community around Curse of Strahd has characterized Ireena. Ranging from Palidoozy’s disney princess version to Dragnacarta’s complete rework of her character into an arc to recover her memories. Sometimes she is a damsel in distress, other times the light that Barovia desperately needs. I never got a response to my criticisms. Perhaps I was out of line? I did not want my comments to come across as backseat DMing. I never interrupted the flow of the session, waiting until afterward to try and communicate my concerns. I felt like my issues were tangible and explainable. I did consider leaving the game if things did not improve. In hindsight, I think that it was the insane fortune pulls that got me to stay.
In the third session, Eternal Cake could play with us, but Cayden could not. Also, we got a new player added to the roster. A paladin named Paul. The party travels down the road until they come across a kidnapping in progress. Several men were tying up a young woman and stuffing her into a burlap sack. We charged in, and the DM puppeted Cayden. Paul was introduced in this fight. He emerged from the bushes and went after the bandits, ready to smite evil and save a damsel. Eternal Cake passed out inspiration like candy and used spells like bless and command. Jormungandr became a big angry boy and smashed his way through the bandits. Olivia got to show off her higher AC from taking a level dip into monk. Blowing everyone’s mind when I explained how these features stacked with wildshape. However, once again this combat brought out the worst in Bantering DM and Jormungandr.
DM: “The bandit disengages and runs over here. Then he fires a crossbow at George-Munger.”
Barb: “Jormungandr.”
DM: “That is what I said, Gorge-Gander.”
Barb: “Say my name right. Jormungandr.”
DM: “Your Muh Ganger.”
Barb: “George is my cat. He is a milk puddle. But I am not George.”
Me: “Can we please keep combat going?”
Barb: “No one asked you.”
Me: “Whatever…”
DM: “Anyway, a 13 misses your AC. Then it is this bandit’s turn. And he kills Jormungandr instantly.”
Barb: “You haven't even rolled yet.”
We manage to win the fight and have one enemy restrained in my entangle spell. During combat, we decided as a group to spare one of the kidnappers so that we could question him. Untying the young woman and pulling her from the sack. Then the girl casts produce flame and murders the bandit. Everyone is miffed, as it felt like the Bantering DM took away our opportunity to gain information. The girl explained that she was a Vistana named Arabella. Asking for us to guide her back to her camp, it is not far from Vallaki. We do so, and I don’t remember much of what happened during this session. I was upset about the bantering and that our group agency was taken away. I disassociated from the conversations but got the gist of it
Like with Ismark and the barkeep, the Vistani people insulted us. They gave the party a cloak of protection as a reward for saving Arabella. The Bantering DM said that we should argue over who gets to wear it. The Vistani name-dropped Strahd and called themselves his allies. Telling us that we may as well give up any hope of escaping. He briefly mentions dusk elves also being in the camp. At one point, the Bantering DM realized I was not contributing to the conversation. So Arrigal asked if Olivia was for sale. I flatly said, “I am free, don’t ever say something like that to me again!” The lines between in and out-of-character blurred. When it was about ten minutes till, I wanted to do something else. I said that I would be interested in speaking with the dusk elves. The Bantering DM said, “They are prisoners and the Vistani told you to not bother them”. I asked if I could make a stealth check. He said, “There are like 300 Vistani in this camp and someone will spot you.” On the one hand, he did not make me roll for something I could not succeed in, but it still felt shitty to be told no it is impossible. We ended the session with a milestone level-up. I did not write the Bantering DM between sessions. I should not have returned for another game.
Fourth session, Eternal Cake is once again missing in action. I had hoped that in this session everyone would be able to play and we could finally all get on the same page. We were also supposed to go into the town of Vallaki. However, once we started walking down the path a dusk elf appeared. She, yes a female dusk elf named Kassy-Mira no less, asked us to go to a haunted fort to find one of her sisters named Savida. My meta-knowledge goes into overload wondering what in the hell did this Bantering DM do. For those of you in the know, I am looking forward to responses and speculations in the comments section. Kassy-Mira explains that Savida is the keeper of their lore and history, an elven leader who must be recovered. I ask a couple of clarifying questions because at this point I have no idea what is going on. The elves are prisoners of the Vistani, yet a leader was able to escape? Why did no one else escape? Where is this fort? If the fort is haunted why would they flee there? Why are the dusk elves prisoners anyway? Did you escape Miss Kassy-Mira? Do the elves want to revolt against the Vistani? But I only got answers that the fort was to the west and that returning their leader was paramount. Then she rushed back to voluntarily go back into dusk elf prison, I guess. So instead of going to Vallaki like I was hoping, I guess we are going to the house of the silver dragon. My only theory is that the Bantering DM wanted us to get started on the questline to retrieve the skull, so he shoe-horned in a way for us to redirect to Argonvostholt. But in doing so he also revealed whatever he did to the dusk elf lore. I’m guessing he reversed the gender of the events before the campaign started. Which makes me wonder, did he gender-bend Rahadin too?
We wander down the road and find the haunted mansion atop the muddy hill. Seeing the statue and for whatever reason we decide to check out the collapsed stables first. The rest of the session was a combat encounter against a dozen giant spiders. Two of the three hours were dedicated to this, mostly because the Bantering DM and Jormungandr took forever to keep the turns moving along. And they were particularly toxic during this combat because Jormungandr hated that his rage did not resist poison. I knew that once the session was over, I’d be writing up my farewell message. Every time it was my turn, I simply stated what actions I took and quickly did it. Elaborating if questioned on my abilities.
DM: "Make a Con save against poison".
Barb: "No, make me."
DM: "Do it bitch."
Barb: "Fine. 21."
DM: "You failed."
Barb: "It says DC 11 for spider DM."
DM: "Yeah, well, fuck you."
Me: “I use multiattack, bite, claw, bonus action unarmed strike. 21 to hit, for 7 piercing damage. 18 to hit, for 15 slashing damage. 24 to hit, for 5 bludgeoning damage.”
Barb: “You can do three attacks? That is bullshit.”
Me: “Brown Bear has multiattack, monk grants martial arts.”
After the fight, we had just enough time to enter the mansion and find Savida. Olivia still had some spell slots, so I tended to her injuries. The Bantering DM said that the party would question her at the start of the next session. Once we ended the call, I wrote up a few things. First I left a message in the general chat thanking the players and wishing them well. I learned from Cayden later on that my farewell message was deleted by the DM. Then I wrote my final criticisms and sent them to the Bantering DM privately, letting him know I would not be returning.
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The punchline to this joke of a campaign. A week later, today, Cayden tells me that the Bantering DM canceled the session because neither of his buddies showed up to play. Eternal Flake, Geogreinanger, and the Bantering DM, despite all my complaints I hope they continue to have fun. Maybe next time though, don’t play favorites and charge people for a “fun time in Grandpa’s basement”.
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hiiii i relistened to all of her albums and like I decided to rank them again!!! sadly TLIIASAW isnt on this tier list and likee im too lazy to rank them all over again!!!
I still can't stand circle..... I literally looped it while i made the tier list and it felt like i was being burned at stake.
Bug like an angel: A, Pink in the night - Heaven
Buffalo replaced: S, Everyone - Abbey
Heaven: A, Bug like an angel - Pearl diver
I don't like my mind: S, Eric - Door
The deal: S, Happy - Heat lightning
When memories snow: S, Dan the dancer - Thursday girl
My love mine all mine: A, Top of A - Washing machine heart
The frost: A, Pearl diver - Bottom of A
Star: A, Crack baby - Love me more
I'm your man: A, A horse named cold air - Me and my husband
I love me after you: S, Should've been me - Dan the dancer
hi circle!!!!

Upstaged by Marlon Brando
I thought I had the talent to be an actor. A mercurial classmate gave me second thoughts.
By Alan ShayneMay 20, 2023 Marlon Brando photographed sitting on a chair and holding a book in 1946. Photograph by Cecil Beaton I was eighteen, living in New York, and trying desperately to get work as an actor. It was 1943. I had been drafted, and the plan was to do my time, then study with the help of the G.I. Bill. I’d spent a summer doing Shakespeare but had just been fired from a production where I played a gross, blustering football star. I was a polite boy from Brookline, Massachusetts, and I just couldn’t work myself into the character: smacking men on the back, smearing a chocolate bar on my camel-hair coat. I realized that I had to learn the technique of acting. Everything I’d done so far was instinctive.
The day came for my physical. I went through the routine like an automaton, distancing myself from the hundreds of young men who stood self-consciously in their underwear. One of the doctors took a long time examining my ears. “Perforated eardrums,” he said.
I was free. I got a scholarship at the New School for Social Research, which had a prestigious drama workshop. On my first day, the registrar gave me my schedule: Theory of the Theatre, Acting, March of the Drama, Movement, and Makeup. I signed papers all morning, and then she took me to my group, which was already in session. Ten students were seated at small tables in front of standing mirrors, applying cosmetics to their faces. They stopped and stared as I walked in.
“Alan is joining your class, and I hope you’ll make him feel at home,” the registrar said.
Several boys got up to shake my hand; the girls said hello. One extremely handsome boy, who had drawn a line from the center of his forehead down to his chin, and who had made up half his face in garish war paint, walked over to me. I put out my hand, but he glared and walked out the door. Everyone giggled, and the registrar said, “Don’t mind him. That’s just Marlon trying to get attention.”
One of the boys lent me some makeup, and I sat applying it, looking in the mirror. I wondered if I’d made a mistake. After all, I had experience in a touring company, in summer stock. I’d put on makeup dozens of times. No, I thought, I’ve got to study—that crazy boy with the war paint had just brought me down.
Stella Adler, the most important acting teacher in the country, was coming to lead a class. I was terribly excited. She had been with the Group Theatre, the pioneering New York drama collective, and had actually studied with Konstantin Stanislavski, the originator of Method acting. I had been reading his book “My Life in Art” as if it were the Bible, but I still couldn’t make sense of the Method and how to do it. I was sure Stella Adler would teach me.
She was a half hour late, but no one seemed surprised. Everyone had been talking, sprawled on folding chairs or perched on a raised platform that took up one side of the room. Suddenly, it was quiet. The students shifted their positions and looked toward the double doors, like animals sensing an approach.
There was a waft of expensive perfume, and Miss Adler appeared. Hands rushed to take her umbrella, her bag, her fur coat. “Darlings,” she said, kissing and hugging the students closest to her. They guided her into an armchair, and she reached above her head. “What do you think of my chapeau?” she asked. It was a frothy black cap from which feathers danced whenever she moved. A girl said unctuously, “It’s beautiful, Miss Adler.” She was ignored as Miss Adler shed a suit jacket that revealed a filmy satin blouse. She looked at me. “You must be the new boy,” she said. I felt her eyes peel back the layers of my clothes. “Yes, Miss Adler,” I said. She reached out her hand, and I stumbled over to take it. “I hope you’re very talented,” she said. I stood awkwardly as she looked me over. “Sit down, darling,” she said, and I staggered back to my seat.
For half an hour, she discussed her clothes with the class. “Do you really think this suit is more becoming than the one I wore last week?” Then she listened to everyone’s comments about whether she was better in green or in blue. Finally, she said, as if we had delayed her, “Let’s get to work. Marlon, you lazy boy, get in that chair.”
Marlon hadn’t turned up in any of my other classes, but I had seen him sitting in the hall, playing bongo drums, surrounded by a coterie of admirers. He made a point of not looking at me. One of the students told me that his last name was Brando. The rumor was that he was being kept by a rich, older man and that he had a girlfriend named Blossom Plum.
The class watched as Marlon slumped across the room and fell into a folding chair. He looked as though he had crossed the desert without water. “Now, Marlon, peel an apple,” Miss Adler said. Marlon pantomimed the knife slipping under the skin, then began to peel. He did it so convincingly that it seemed to be in one long piece that kissed the floor. “Now, Marlon, I’m going to say some words to you, and I want you to react accordingly,” Miss Adler said. “Cold . . . hot . . . hungry . . . tired . . . depressed.” I couldn’t believe my eyes. Marlon continued to peel the apple, but each time he heard a word he seemed to change. The metamorphosis was nearly imperceptible, but he actually became cold or hot or hungry. I thought, My God, I’ll never be able to do that. The class applauded. Marlon slumped back to his chair.
“Our time is up,” Miss Adler sighed. “Now listen. I believe that every actor should be able to do something in addition to acting—like singing or dancing or telling a story. So next time, I want you all to come in with a story, or a poem, or whatever, and perform it as if you were in a cabaret. Is that clear?” There were murmurs of agreement, and then a shuffle of chairs as actors rushed to help Miss Adler with her coat. I sat for a moment in my seat. I knew what I would do: my rendition of “The Devil and Daniel Webster,” the short story by Stephen Vincent Benét, for which I’d won a speaking prize my senior year in high school. I’d show them Marlon wasn’t the only talented one.
The next class with Miss Adler had the palpable charge of opening night. No one would tell anyone what they were going to do. It was all a surprise.
After a show of hands, Miss Adler chose a lanky, blond girl to go first. I had learned her name was Elaine Stritch and that her uncle was high up in the Catholic church, in Chicago. She was wearing a trainman’s overalls and her hair was pulled back. She sat on the floor and strummed her guitar, singing in a haunting, simple voice: “I wonder as I wander out under the sky, how Jesus the Saviour did come for to die.” The class didn’t wait to gauge Miss Adler’s response. Everyone applauded loudly.
I waved my hand in front of Miss Adler’s face. “The new boy seems very eager,” she said. “All right darling, you go next.”
I stepped up onto the platform and was relieved to see that Marlon had left the room. I felt as if I were performing in front of the Queen and her courtiers. It had been two years since I had won the speaking prize, but I remembered every word of the Benét story. I was nervous in the beginning, but I felt a new authority as I acted out several different parts, all with different accents and personalities. I told the story of the Devil’s battle with Daniel Webster to possess a man’s soul. I grew more and more impassioned. I felt transported to the New England farm where the story took place, and I became very moved when Webster finally won at the end. I had hardly finished when Miss Adler’s voice trumpeted, “Excellent!” and the class applauded. I went to my seat feeling a camaraderie with the others for the first time.
As soon as I sat down, Miss Adler gestured in my direction. “Now, let’s not be confused that what he did was acting,” she said. “He told a story and put on voices for the different characters. That’s all right for cabaret, which was the assignment, but we mustn’t mix it up with real acting.” Everyone agreed. I didn’t see why it was necessary to diminish my performance in that way.
There was a sudden flurry of activity. The curtains on the platform were drawn and the lights went out. I could make out one of the actors dropping the arm on a record. As the music began, the actor rushed over and pulled the curtains. Standing in the center of the stage, in a pool of light, was a gorgeous woman in a velvet evening dress and long white gloves. The class gasped—it was Marlon in a blond wig. As Judy Garland began to sing—“Zing! Went the strings of my heart”—Marlon began to lip-synch. I realized the record was on at twice the speed so that the sound was comic, as if Marlon had Betty Boop’s voice. The class went to pieces. The students screamed and applauded; several of them slid off their chairs and rocked with laughter on the floor. Through it all, Marlon played it straight. Miss Adler collapsed in her chair. “The Devil and Daniel Webster” had been completely forgotten.
The cabaret incident was the last time I saw Stella Adler. She won a role in a play called “Pretty Little Parlor,” and coaxed her brother Luther into taking over the class. He had also been in the Group Theatre and was a renowned actor, having appeared many times on Broadway. He was in his forties, stocky and short, though he wore lifts in his shoes. He was all business but very warm and helpful. I was finally going to learn the Method that was beginning to be the basis of all good acting.
On his first day, Mr. Adler gave us an exercise in improvisation: we were all to be chickens in a barnyard. We would hear on the radio that war was declared, and we had to react as chickens—to decide whether we were married, leaving our chicken families to go off to war, or whether we were single and awaiting the draft. I looked around. Students started clucking as they moved on their knees toward each other. Some of the girls grabbed boys and acted as if they were their husbands. I had always been uncomfortable with improvisation, so I decided that I was a loner who didn’t like the other chickens. I sat and sulked and managed to get through the ordeal.
Around that time, auditions began for the big student play of the year: Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night.” This was very exciting. I’d acted in “Much Ado About Nothing” in Boston, learning the rudiments of doing Shakespeare, and I’d got my scholarship by reciting one of his soliloquies. I went to the audition feeling confident, but discovered that all the boys were trying out for Duke Orsino, the part that I wanted. Everyone had to read for the director, Erwin Piscator, who was also the head of the workshop. He was a slight man, around fifty, beautifully dressed and with meticulously combed silver hair. He had been famous in Germany for doing epic theatre, a movement that stressed the political content of drama. He had escaped the Nazis and now sat hunched at the front of the auditorium.
I was startled to see Marlon, who hadn’t been around much. I’d heard that he’d been raving about “Good Night, Sweet Prince,” a biography of John Barrymore, the renowned Shakespearean actor, that had just been published. He was laughing at rumors that Barrymore, a known alcoholic, had peed on the floor of his dressing room when people came to praise a performance. I thought it was sad that a great actor resorted to such low tricks for attention, but I wasn’t surprised that Marlon was taken in by them. As usual, he looked right through me as we waited in the wings. I couldn’t understand why I annoyed him, but I put it out of my head. I could hear the boys who went before me, and none of them seemed exciting. Marlon was the worst. He mumbled his way through, making no sense of the words or the iambic pentameter. When my turn arrived, I forgot about the others, succumbing to the thrill of being onstage, the pleasure of reading such beautiful lines. Piscator thanked each of us. A few days later, a cast list was posted. I was Duke Orsino.
On the first day of rehearsal, we were all a little nervous. Piscator had directed the greats of Europe, and we were just kids trying to find our way. He settled in the front row and looked up. “Alright, begin,” he said. I started to speak the opening lines, and Piscator jumped out of his seat. “No, no, no,” he shouted. “You Americans are so afraid of the poetry.” He came onstage and walked over to me. “You have one of the most beautiful speeches in Shakespeare,” he said. “It must be like a rhapsody. Your voice should sound like a cello. Now begin again.”
After weeks of rehearsal, we were ready. There were two opening shows: one in the afternoon, for the school, friends, and agents, and an official première in the evening. Around noon, I began putting on makeup backstage. My costume was stunning: a red doublet with a diamond pattern, red tights, a navy-blue blouse with puffed sleeves, and a silver cape. I was just finishing combing my hair when Piscator walked into the dressing room. “Good afternoon, Mr. Piscator,” everyone said. “Good afternoon,” he replied. “I just came to say merde.” The French word for “shit’” was traditional in the theatre for wishing someone luck. It made us feel very professional.
Piscator walked over and stood beside my chair. “There’s been a bit of a problem,” he said, “but I think we’ve solved it very well.” I asked him what it was. “You see,” he said, “Stuart’s mother is very ill, so he had to go to Washington last night, and he can’t get back in time for the performance. He’ll be here tonight, but we had to get someone to take his part this afternoon. Of course, it’s only eight lines, so it’s not that difficult.” I blanched. Stuart’s part was the priest—the hardest moment in the play for me. It was the scene when the Duke finds out that the woman he loves has apparently just married his manservant, who seems to be in love with the Duke. All hell breaks loose, and the priest is summoned to confirm the ceremony.
“Who’s going to play it?” I asked. The director beamed. “Marlon has been good enough to help us out,” he said. “It’s very nice of him.”
Of all the actors, I thought. “Can we rehearse before the curtain?”
“There’s no time, unfortunately,” he said. “He’s in the costume department now, but he knows his spot onstage. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
I went onstage, sat on my throne, and listened to the first swells of music. When the curtain rose, I filled my voice with an exhausted yearning. “If music be the food of love, play on . . . .” I nailed the opening scene, striking just the right balance between honest emotion and the beauty of the poetry. As I made my exit—“Away before me to sweet beds of flowers: love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers”—there was a tremendous sound of applause.
The rest of the play went splendidly. Near the end, when I discovered that Olivia, my love interest, had married Cesario, my servant, the priest was sent for. I was deep in character, acting out the conflict between my desire to kill Cesario and my suspicion that he was in love with me, when I heard the audience start to laugh. I turned to see the priest. There was Marlon in a pair of tights, into which he had stuffed a small drum that made him look pregnant. He beat out a rhythm as he mumbled lines that no one could hear. The audience went wild. They laughed. They cheered. They egged him on until he performed a frenzied drum solo. The other actors onstage laughed, too, but I was livid. It was as if the play were totally forgotten. When Marlon finally finished, he left the stage to an ovation, and I had to wait until everyone quieted down. As I spoke, the audience started to laugh again.
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Somehow, we finished the play. I walked to the dressing room in a fury. I thought of my past year in New York: never having enough food; losing a tooth because I couldn’t afford a dentist; being self-conscious about my smile; never being warm enough in my thin coat; and waiting on tables for people who seldom even gave me a tip. All to be in the theatre that I loved. But this wasn’t the theatre that I had read and dreamed about. When I entered the dressing room, Marlon was sprawled on a chair with cold cream all over his face.
“How dare you,” I said. “How dare you ruin this play!”
Marlon said nothing. “Aren’t you even going to say you’re sorry?” I asked. Marlon looked away. My frustration was building. “I’ll do everything in my power to keep you off Broadway,” I said. I went to my dressing table and sank into my chair. Piscator whooshed in. “Wonderful, wonderful,” he said. I got up and walked over to him. “Are you going to say anything to Marlon?” I asked.
“My dear, it was wrong, but it was just high spirits,” the director said. “Tonight is the most important performance, and Stuart will be here for it.” I looked at him. He no longer seemed like a great international director. “If you don’t reprimand him for his unprofessional behavior,” I said, “I’m going to leave the school.” Piscator raised his hand in a deprecating gesture, then left the room.
I did the evening performance and never went back again. Marlon Brando was on Broadway within a few months. ♦
This is drawn from “The Star Dressing Room: Portrait of an Actor.”