"VISITING KING LEAR"
INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO GO MAD (AND KEEP THE AUDIENCE FROM LEAVING)
(A
Monologue)
© INDAUTOR
Cd. De México
© BENJAMÍN GAVARRE SILVA
Contact: bengavarre@gmail.com
gavarreunam@gmail.com
Dressing
room of a grand theater. The Actor, Richard Daniel, is applying a
Lear-style beard with spirit gum that smells like the devil. He stares into the
mirror as if facing an intimate enemy, and suddenly, with a subtle jolt, he
fixes his gaze on the infinity—where the audience sits. He takes a swig of wine
directly from the bottle.
Do
you hear that? That bell. First call, first. It’s the executioner’s gong. Don’t
look at me... don’t look at me with that face of respect; you know
perfectly well that respect is that useless courtesy one holds for the dead,
and I am still breathing and sweating. I sweat three liters—three!—of pure
distilled water per performance, you know? I’ve measured it. A Lear in
the storm loses more fluids than a marathon runner, but with the added burden
that we are draped in wool and velvet and, sometimes, a plastic crown or, even
worse, a long blonde wig like some washed-up hippie.
Well,
this man you see is me. The "Character Actor." Ladislao Cervera,
better known by the majestic stage name of Richard Daniel. A man who has
gone from being the Prince of Denmark to the old King Lear screaming at
industrial fans. And as for Hamlet, I must confess: all it takes is
being very handsome and having infinite doubts. "Shall I be that I?"
"Will you be the same as you were before?" "To be or not to
be," you know the drill... But to be Lear? To be Lear you need shattered
knees, the face of a lunatic, and an unpayable debt to the Bank.
Let
me tell you… In this production, the director says we are "the soul of a
sacred ritual." A lie. At most, we’re a group of neurotics trying not to
trip over the scenery or fall ridiculously into the orchestra pit. I’ve never
fallen, you know… Never… Or maybe I have, but it wasn't to ruin the show, let
there be no doubt about that… But, if I wanted to—theoretically speaking, of
course—I could sink the entire play out of pure spite just by dropping my tone.
The director would turn livid in his designer chair, but I’m the one splashing
liters of saliva onto the front row’s faces. By the way, this director thinks
he’s God’s gift to the stage, but I’ve seen worse… There are those who won't
call me for auditions because they say I’m already a "consecrated
actor." They say, they say that I "already have a name." And
that they couldn't possibly pay me what I deserve, ha! What a fine irony!
They
don’t call me because they know that by the second rehearsal, I’d be correcting
their blocking and explaining why their "avant-garde vision" crashes
against the laws of genre theory and style, and that their ignorance of the art
of verse is infinite. Prestige, my dear friends, is like the curse of the
Oscar. You’re quoted way above the budget, or you "can’t work on minor
projects," you’re overqualified and—oh, the paradox—that’s why they don’t
call you. And what about the poor character actor, grrr, whose only wish
is to fill his refrigerator? I honestly think many directors are terrified of
me. They’re afraid I’ll open my mouth and, instead of obeying, I’ll give them a
lecture on how to project a vowel without looking like I’m suffering a kidney stone.
They say: "We don’t want to bother the Master with an audition." What
they mean is: "We don’t want the old man to show us up in front of the
interns." Prestige, dear audience, is the most comfortable cage in the
world.
(He
jerks his tunic into place with a sharp movement).
You
know? Looking as handsome as I do… I’ve had many lovers, and don’t you laugh.
The theater is a nest of romances in five long acts. Many actresses fell in
love with my gallantry and woke up to my… indescribable breath. The result:
Nothing lasting. And it must be said that it’s difficult to live with a man
whose brain is crowded with dead people. My prestige is a public prison, dear
audience, but the real prison is inside... where the ghosts hunt me. The woman
who finally became my wife is terrified of me. Imagine this scene: Sara told me
the other day, through screams and sobs, that I woke up in the middle of the
night, drenched in sweat, pointing at the wardrobe and shouting at the top of
my lungs: "Ah, woe is me! Ah, wretched me!"
I’ve
asked her to thank me: other husbands scream the names of other women; I only
scream verses by Calderón de la Barca. "Shut up, Segismundo," she
tells me, "turn off the light and stop fencing in bed." I know she’s
right. Life is a dream, but the alarm goes off at seven and it doesn’t
understand that dreams… are only dreams.
Calderón’s
nightmares are bad; the recurring dreams where I’ve lost my costume are
terrible; others are like what happens to Segismundo… I’ve dreamed I am The
Miser, and I scream because I can’t find my money. Sara tries to wake me,
terrified, and I yell at her: "My casket! My little casket!"
Eventually, she ends up slapping me, and I wake up with a very foul taste in my
mouth for having lost my entire fortune.
Adventures
with Molière are very entertaining for those who get to punish the evil
Harpagon, but there are even more intense panics… Poor Sara had to endure
another one of my nightmares… I got up, sleepwalking, and screamed in perfect
English:
"A
horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!"
...
Can you imagine the panic? I don’t know if I truly wanted a horse, or if I just
wanted a damn taxi to take me to the airport… But that’s how it was… Poor Sara,
she says she doesn't want to sleep with me anymore. And I understand her, poor
thing.
At
my age, you don't play characters; you inherit them like chronic illnesses.
I’ve been Oedipus, and my eyes still itch whenever there’s too much
stage fog. I was Segismundo, and I still feel sometimes as if this dressing
room were a prison I only leave so strangers can stare at me. Today, it’s time
to be the mad, elderly King. And with a new Cordelia, by the way…
Greta…
the "new star." The girl playing Cordelia. She looks at me with a mix
of pity and reverence, as if I were a ruined cathedral that might collapse on
her at any moment. She has that insulting freshness of those who still believe
art is going to save the world. She thinks she’s Greta Garbo, and I look at her
like: "Look, honey, dial down the stupidity a notch or two." She says
she’ll be famous because she’s already in a TV series and they give her
"big, big close-ups" with a high-definition camera. Fine, let her be
famous… let her be the actress of the moment, I don’t care. I, on the other
hand, will remain faithful to the boards and the "truth of the
stage." Ha! Even I don't believe that… What a stupid phrase. The only
truth of the stage is that if you forget your dialogue, your castmates look at
you like they’re going to murder you while they flash a weird grimace of a
smile at the respectable audience.
(He
puts on his mask but pauses, looking into the infinity of the theater).
Tonight…
In the climax of the storm, when I have to curse the elements, maybe I’ll go
for the heroic. Instead of invoking the winds, I’ll stare at the rich folks in
the boxes and tell them in painstaking detail every single debt I have to pay,
including my bank loans—the latter in the tone of a Sophoclean tragedy. The
effect will be masterly! A fissure in reality. An example of "Poor
Theater"… of "Poor-Me Theater." Prestige finally shattered. A
cry for freedom against the dictatorship of the script.
…But
I know I won’t do it. I am more than an artist; I am a craftsman of word and
gesture. I will stand up, walk toward the spotlights that leave me more blind
every day—and I’ll give my little tribute to the Swan of Avon—and I’ll
do my job well. I’ll scream at the fans while I lose my mind, in that
continuous rehearsal toward madness. I will die once more on stage, as I do in
every performance, and even if it’s a work of pure invention, at least one
spectator will weep like never before.
(From
the dressing room loudspeaker, the dry, precise voice of the Stage Manager is
heard):
—
"Maestro Richard... Second call. Stand by for your entrance; we are two
minutes out."
Well…
That’s my cue. My entrance to the ring and the fanfares. I’m off to be
applauded for being mad, blind, or imprisoned. The King will lose his kingdom,
once more. With a lot of arrogance, some dignity, and a bit of cynicism: the
only makeup that doesn't run with sweat and tears.
(Richard
Daniel recovers an imperial elegance and exits the dressing room. The sound of
the audience breaking into applause is heard just before the door clicks shut.)
THE END
