Acrostic poem my family

Protopresbyter Joseph Dzagoev, a priest in the Protection monastery in Magadan, tells about the spiritual life in his city. He talks about well-worn stereotypes, “ordinary” Christian miracles, and how we should never get tired of trusting the Lord.
Trinity Cathedral in Magadan
The Russian antimension
Before 1989, our city was lacking not only a monastery; we didn’t have a single church. Before the Bolshevik persecutions against religion, there were churches, chapels and veneration crosses at various neighboring villages, on the coast, and in Cossack settlements. It wasn’t till the very end of the twentieth century when the persecution of the Christian faith finally officially stopped, and with the blessing of the Bishop of Khabarovsk, the very first Orthodox community was formed here. The first services were held in a private residence. This is where the Protection Monastery was later founded. Although it’s true that our city never even had a chance to have a church, because it started its life, so to speak, as a local GULAG camp in the early 1930s. That’s why any church was out of the question. We aren’t talking about the times of the Russian Empire, when churches were everywhere, and everyone, including exiles, convicts and other prisoners, always had the opportunity to attend a church service. But on the other hand, even if we didn’t have a physical church, it doesn’t mean that we had no Christians here. We have every reason to call both Solovki and Magadan and their surrounding territories an enormous Russian antimension spread under the open sky. How many new martyrs and confessors suffered here in very recent times!
One of the most revered local saints is the Venerable Confessor Andronik (Lukash), one of the elders of Glinsk Hermitage, whose relics rest in our Holy Trinity Cathedral. But there are many more saints like him—both those we know, and those known only to God. So, the place you stand is holy ground. I think we should know more about the holiness of this land.
Well-worn stereotypes
—Fr. Joseph, how can we understand the salvific value of sufferings? How do we benefit from them if viewed from the Christian perspective? After all, not everyone who suffered here at Kolyma suffered for Christ’s sake. If we read the works of Varlam Shalamov¹—it gives you jitters and you even can grow despondent.
—I have to say right away that neither I, nor many of the inhabitants of our region, are fans of Varlam Tikhonovich's literary work. You can’t find a glimpse of light in his writing. Besides, the locals say that not everything that he wrote is truthful. But let's leave Shalamov in peace, God rest his soul. As for the meaning and nature of suffering, in my opinion, there were prisoners (and there are still some—I have been conducting prison pastoral care since 1998 in our region, so I can talk to the prisoners) who truly suffered for the truth, for Christ’s sake, and for their loyalty to Him. But there were also some (moreover, many) who endured the hardship of imprisonment because, as many of them admit, they have been beneficial to them. They redeem from “other” sins for which they probably haven’t been “officially” convicted. These people tell me: “It’s better that I suffer here and now instead of later, in the afterlife.” I think this speaks of the humility cultivated in them. I used to meet real Christians behind bars, so we shouldn’t suppose that Kolyma is only for hardened thugs. But cultivating suffering—no, I will not do that. Let’s remember the words of the Apostle Peter: But let none of you suffer as a murderer, or as a thief, or as an evildoer, or as a busybody in other men's matters (1 Peter 4:15).
But overall I, and the overwhelming majority of residents of Kolyma region, have already gotten quite tired of this reference, the stereotype regarding our land—that Magadan is all about the prisons, camps, tough guys in padded jackets with an inmate number, barbed wire, and so forth. It still works somehow as a gimmick for tourists, but our land has so much more and it can surprise in a good way by bring joy to someone “from the mainland.” Actually, have you noticed that we even say, “from the mainland”, despite the fact that Magadan is actually also a mainland city, while Yakutsk is only 2000 kilometers away from us?
—Aha, right, “just” a mere couple of thousand kilometers—no big deal!
—But it is so beautiful, isn’t it?
The embankment
—That's true. The sea knolls, the sea, your сhurches, the embankment, the central streets and museums—it's a pleasure to walk around!

—So, we don't live in the dreary past, nor do we relish the allure of prison life—we have other things to do and something and someone to pray about. We have much to do, and that’s good. Because you can’t, after all, rush around the country “seeking greener pastures”. It is better to get comfortable in your own clean, spacious, well stocked and hospitable home. But you’ll obtain this home only when you, and not some “fairy-tale do-gooder,” take care of it yourself. Besides, that “fairy-tale do-gooder” actually does offer support; we receive sizable support from the federal budget. And no, it’s not our thing to sit here whining and waiting for better times, unwilling to lift a finger to make those better times come.
The fruits of a recent sermon and “birth pangs” of the Apostle Paul
But let us return to the idea of the Russian antimension spread under the open sky. It seems to me that the whole of Russia can serve as such antimension, since persecutions happened all over Russia. So many churches and monasteries were destroyed! I think, we, the Christians of today, can’t come even close to Holy Russia of that time.
In the Protection monastery
—And in qualitative terms?
—On the one hand, I can dwell on the problems like an old man—where our young generation (including priests) is heading, that they are the victims of the “upbringing” of the 1990s, that the former generations were “warriors, far better than you,”² “unlike the current crop of youth,” and to some extent I would probably be right. On the other hand, as a modern-day priest, I see something joyful happening before my own eyes—I wouldn’t’ say holy, I should be careful here—but examples that speak of a worthy and often miraculous Christian life.
Let’s take our Protection Monastery, for example. As I already said, it was founded around a house of worship with the blessing of Bishop Gabriel of Khabarovsk as far back as 1992. There was a community there already, but they were able to obtain their own building, albeit a small and remote one, only in the 1990s. Vladyka used to visit us here several times a year, and this community grew larger over time. Later the Magadan diocese was formed, so when Vladyka Arkady came here together with the monks, they began to travel all over Kolyma as missionaries, visiting every village and hamlet, baptizing, serving, and having conversations. That’s how the life of the Church has gradually settled here. Much later, our monastery was built, and it currently has four elderly nuns headed by Matushka Nadezhda, the abbess.
—It turns out that everyone has different gifts. One person is man of prayer, another is a master craftsman, and yet another one is an excellent organizer.

—I think the most difficult thing is to have only just begun the spiritual life—considering those “birth pangs” of the Apostle Paul. But later on, there comes a moment of great joy when you see that your community is growing in Christ. Thanks to Bishop Arkady’s labors, we were able to accomplish very much Above all, he succeeded in changing the attitude of the regional and city authorities towards the Church. And not just of the authorities, but also of our local people. Formerly, believers were called “relics of the past” and “pariahs,” despicable and worthless people with “issues,” who were crazy in the head. Now, largely thanks to missionary work, people have realized that first of all, Christ is risen, and secondly, His Resurrection directly affects each and every one of us. Do you choose to languish in the darkness of eternal complaints and death? Wouldn’t it be better to be joyful and work alongside Christ and His disciples? That’s where our choice is. It is, of course, a serious question—to what extent we sinners are worthy disciples of the Lord. But our failures don’t give us the right to forsake God, right? Judging from my own experience, I know how perplexed people were when we witnessed the faith. I remember how in the 1990s, when I was still working at a mining plant (I am a mine foreman by education), there was a lot of theft. And when someone made me an offer to “steal” at work, I replied that I was a Christian and I would not steal. They stared at me and kept looking at me for a long time as if I were insane. However, at any time, to follow Christ was always seen by the fallen world as a disease—we are not right in the head if we are Christians. God willing, may we be that kind of crazy.
Kolyma paradoxes and the miracles of Magadan
Protopresbyter Joseph Dzagoev with the patients of residential care facility
—The irony is that the site of the present-day Holy Trinity Cathedral in Magadan formerly housed the 1st administrative office of Dalstroy, the very consortium that brought workers, or rather slaves, to the GULAG. Later on, they decided to build the House of Soviets there, a huge one by local standards, around fourteen stories tall. But they never finished it; the structure cracked and it was impossible to commission it. That unfinished construction site has seen it all: drunken brawls, the stench of beer, teenagers committing suicide… It was horrible. But now it is the site of our magnificent Trinity Cathedral.
—Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our hearts were also transformed?
—That is harder to achieve, of course. Especially now, when the war is going on, and when our boys return after witnessing all that death. What are we to do with them? God willing, some of them will find their way to the church, But what about the rest? After the Great Patriotic War, career military people were sent to work here—straight from active duty in the army, they became the camp guards. They say there was an unheard level of drunkenness here... I don't know what will happen now. We pray that we can overcome the ordeal that befell our military men and their families.
Yes, and more about the sick. Our monastery is on good and friendly terms with the staff at the psychoneurological residential care facility. Many patients and their staff come to us, and we also visit them. We hold services, we meet and talk to people, comforting them to the best of our abilities. Here is what I want to say: According to information from the residential facility’s staff, the vast majority of their patients (and it’s something like ninety percent!) are the children of drug addicts and alcoholics. And there are about four hundred people residing there! This is the sad part.

Now about the miracles so common for Christians. Have you noticed one young man at the service—a kind and caring one, who is smiling and willing to help everyone? This is our Sasha, and he also resides there. He came a long time ago, when the Protection Monastery had just been founded. Well, he sort of came, but he couldn’t say a word—he could only mumble something unintelligibly. Well, he kept mumbling something while we prayed together with him. All churches and communities have such people, so it’s not surprising. But one day we came to the morning service and saw our Sasha standing in front of the icon of the Mother of God, clearly reciting, “Rejoice O Virgin Mother of God.” Not only was he reciting it, but so eloquently that any pious church reader would be jealous! We stood there in amazement. Once he finished praying, we came closer. “Sasha, dearest, how did you learn to read, how do you know the words?” He answered so calmly but matter-of-factly: “This Auntie taught me!” and pointed to the icon of the Mother of God. We could only stand there in silence and continue praying. And that’s what we do! As for Sasha, he continues to come, almost never missing a service. He also helps around the monastery and assists at our meetings in his residential care facility.
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So, we do have miracles, we can’t do without them. On the one hand, those miracles are truly our great support on our path to God. On the other hand, they give us a wonderful opportunity to pause and think that Christ does not work miracles without reason or purpose—any real miracle has its own meaning, and we always see God's love in it. We also have to work hard, even if we are spiritual invalids. We can still progress towards Heaven. If we ourselves don’t make an effort, of course there won’t be miracles! So I wish for us all to keeping working. And one more thing: If you ever happen to be in Kolyma, you are cordially invited to visit us!
Peter Davydov spoke with Protopresbyter Joseph Dzagoev
1 Varlam Shalamov (June 18, 1907–January 17, 1982, was a poet and writer who spent much of the period from 1937 to 1951 imprisoned in forced-labor camps in the Arctic region of Kolyma, due in part to his support of Leon Trotsky and praise of writer Ivan Bunin. He is the author of Kolyma Tales, about life in the northern GULAG.—OC.
2 From the poem about the Battle of Borodino, Borodino, by Mikail Lermontov.—OC.

There has been much speculation about Kathy Allen, the wife of accused murderer, Richard Allen, and of their adult daughter; 95% of it having to do with whether or not they knew he was involved with the murders. And that's understandable since it is curious how anyone could be intimately involved with someone and have no idea that they were at least marginally capable of murdering two teenage girls. Especially when there's a widely disseminated video of the murderer, albeit an infuriatingly indistinct one.
In fact, such is the curiosity that most of us have played the game...if it was your spouse in the BG video would you know it? I'm in the camp--the majority, if I remember correctly--of I would know it was my husband if he was the one moving so calmly and assuredly across those decomposing railroad ties. No doubt about it.
Or would I?
According to Kerri Rawson, neither she or her mother had any inkling whatsoever that her father, Dennis Rader, was the monster behind the horror film acronym--B.T.K., bind, torture, kill. To Rawson he was a doting, overly protective father; to Paula Dietz he was an attentive, church-going husband of 34 years--so much so that even when she found a creepy, cryptic poem about one of BTK's victims, she believed Radar when he assured her it was just a creative writing exercise for a college course he was taking.
But Rader couldn't help the serial killer alter-ego from seeping through his pocket protectors and dad jeans from time to time. According to Rawson, he would occasionally bully and push her older brother around physically, and she acknowledges he could be controlling, excessively critical and irksomely finicky, though he tried, sometimes unsuccessfully (a neighbor warned his wife to never interact with Rader when he wasn't around; telling her, the guys a creep) to hide this behavior from those outside his immediate family.
BTK Sketch
Disturbingly--though Rawson denies it--FBI profiler John Douglas says Dietz twice found Radar dressed in lingerie, bondage gear and a mask, both incidents occuring when she returned home earlier than expected. And when a sketch of the allusive serial killer made the front page every local paper within miles and miles of Wichita Kansas plains, apparently, it didn't ring any alarm bells in the Radar household.
Still, Tim Relph, a detective who was instrumental in Radar's capture, claims the public perception of Rawson and that, particularly, of Dietz, who holds a bachelor degree in accounting, her long time profession, is way off base:
“Paula is a good and decent person… She’s been downplayed by some people as some sort of ignorant Christian person. But her only mistake in life was to care for Dennis Rader.”
Even so, Dietz initially stood by her husband after he was arrested. She and Rawson communicated with him by letter. However, once they got word that Radar had decided to plead guilty, Dietz never corresponded with or saw him again.

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.”