Show report--

It was a troubled project even before I showed up on the scene. And I did show up very late in the process, just over three weeks ago. And it was difficult scheduling rehearsals that everyone could attend. But still, nothing had prepared me for tonight's singular experience, one that most actors dream about, but it simply never happens in the real world.

The theater wasn't filled to capacity (25), but it had a few butts in it. I assume most of them were members of the company but I haven't been around long enough to recognize all of the faces. All I know is that there are actually people in this building that have come to see our play. My birth on L.A. was about to take place. I had my little opening scene in Act One and my little closing scene in Act Two. Imagine my surprise when I was told, tonight, that I have a third scene.

Now keep in mind that no one had ever given me a script. My only exposure to the play has been the 3 pages that make up my two scenes and anything I might have gleaned from the 3 or 4 rehearsals I have been to. No one had ever mentioned that I might have another scene somewhere in the play. Due to circumstances at the rehearsals, we had never had the time to rehearse it. And yet, tonight, I would be performing it.

"Don't worry about it," Chris assured me. "You don't have to say anything. You're sitting there in the room with Crane and then when you should leave, I'll give you a little nod. Nothing to it."

Nothing to it, huh? Fine. My panic level goes back down a couple of notches. The play begins. I do my little opening scene. I am an L.A. actor, baby. It's official. But the drama and majesty of my West Coast premiere are completely overshadowed by the dread and confusion that await me in the second act.

And finally the moment comes. My mystery scene. I am ushered on stage during the blackout between scenes and I take my seat next to Crane's bed. And it hits me. I don't know what's going on in the scene. I'm visiting this man in the hotel and I don't know if he's getting better, getting worse, in a coma, ready to leave, talking to me, in full cardiac arrest, nothing. I don't know what has led up to this moment nor where it is going. The lights are about to come up on me, on stage, and I have no idea what is happening.

So I put my head down. This is my bold decision. I decide that MARK has been there all night and is desperately tired and has fallen asleep at ROY COHN's bedside. That way, whatever happens in the scene will be just as much a surprise to him as it really is to me. And just before the electricity rushes through the lights to begin the one and only "blind" scene I will hopefully ever perform, my head goes down onto the side of the bed. Lights up. Chris enters the scene. I stir and try to get my bearings. Chris has a little moment with Crane. He looks over at me. I am pretty intently staring at him, let's say, so that MARK can figure out from the NURSE what is happening to his lover. But you and I know now that John Ducey is staring at Chris to try to get the nod to get the hell off the stage.

The nod comes. I leave. Relief. I return to the stage once more to perform my last scene and then once more to take a quick bow (which we haven't rehearsed, surprise surprise). And that's it. I have been born on the West Coast. The journey is officially underway. Let's just hope that when I make my triumphant return to the East Coast to star in a big-time Broadway production, they let me look at the script prior to opening night.

Go on to the next show.

Roy Cohn | L.A. Stage | Resume