Tag Archives: Sherlock Holmes

Crook Books

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I seem to have turned to a life of crime.

I am immersed in old novels of mystery and detection.

My mom coulda been shocked and ashamed (think of a teary-eyed matron: “He’s a good boy…”), but she first introduced me to Hercules Poirot.

My dad woulda said “Whadda ya expect from a kid who’d rather read a book than change the oil in the car.”

Janie, the love of my life; “He’ll get over it. Next week it’ll be giraffes in outer space. He’s retired and having a fine time.”

Oh, but I’ve had a nefarious past. On stage I’ve murdered (“Deathtrap,” Dial M for Murder,” “Ceremony of Innocence”, and “Sweeney Todd”), I’ve stolen (Glengarry Glen Ross,” and “Little Foxes”), I’ve evaded taxes (“You Can’t Take It With You,”) and I’ve tried miserably to play Dracula, which was a crime unto itself.

But that was the theatre.

Now it’s the written word.

That’s powerful stuff.

I blame it on a local bookseller. He shrewdly showed me a group of criminous novels by Emile Gaboriau he had just obtained. Having read the canons of Arthur Conan Doyle and Paul Feval in the past, I was open to exploring the originator of Monsieur LeCoq. That led me back to re-read Sherlock’s adventures.

The same bookseller then lured me to a pile of beautifully maintained mystery novels published in the 1930’s by the Mystery League for cigar shops and drug stores. Some were good, most were…not so much, but they took me to the pre-WWII seaside villages, pubs, trains, pubs, church graveyards, pubs, estuaries, and pubs of England. This is not the between-the-wars England of Agatha Christie (not that there’s anything wrong with that.) These often tawdry stories have also taken me to German castles, Parisian bordellos, New Orleans unrestrained Mardi Gras bacchanals, the treacherous dressing rooms of Philadelphia department stores, and New York speakeasies. What’s not to like?

Currently, I’m hanging out with the obnoxious Philo Vance, for whom no expense need be considered…for that matter no other person on the planet need be considered. Whatta guy.

And…

I am luxuriating in the mystery novels of Edmond Crispin (real name; Robert Bruce Montgomery) and his ever-so-erudite don/detective, Gervais Fen.

Tagging along with Professor Fen, I’ve visited post-WWII pubs, pulled the blackout curtains after dark, climbed into choir lofts, chased lost Shakespearean manuscripts and toy shops that move, lugged a pig head in a sack, run for Parliament, and protested animal cruelty sitting on a branch in a tree.

It’s been delightful, but I must caution. It’s best to read Crispin with a dictionary nearby. Gervais is verbose, has a serious vocabulary (word-wise and quote-wise), and is unabashed in employing same…and it’s very worth knowing what he’s saying. It’s usually apt and funny.

What have I learned thus far in this hazardous literary journey?

When in doubt, arrest the local publican.

The Blue Carbuncle

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I know it’s early, but may suggest a Christmas movie?

If, like me, you’ve seen the standard yuletide fare the requisite three dozen times, and, like me, you have a pretty good idea of what to do with a general, and like me, you’ve avoided shooting your eye out, and like me, you really dread being forced to resort to the Hallmark Channel, you could clear your egg nog noggin with this.

I’ve begun an extended journey of revisiting the Sherlock Holmes canon as interpreted by Jeremy Brett.

To quote that jolly philosopher Joe Ferrell (who at least once shared a drink with Charles Dickens); “What a joy!”

And it is.

I first met Mr. Holmes as relentlessly portrayed by Basil Rathbone as a non-glamorous leading man in a drab 1940’s overcoat (there’s a reason why Errol Flynn got the girl in THE ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD), dragging a befuddled Dr. Watson around a foggy, criminous London as he skewers the flagitious verbally before he claps ‘em in irons.

Subsequent Sherlocks were just as fun to follow.

Ian Richardson was commanding and thoughtful. That Baskerville mutt gave him no paws.

Benedict Cumberbatch rode the razor rail of sanity and brilliance to bravely butt heads with that Napoleon of Crime; Professor Moriarty.

But Jeremy Brett continues to be the Holmes for me. Fiercely intelligent and fiercely impatient. Knows everything about poisons and smokes like a chimney. A master of disguise and occasionally has the fashion sense of Lebowsky in his flat. uber-sensitive to every nuance of a client’s usually unlikely conundrum and then barges out of the flat, oblivious to Mrs. Hudson’s prideful cuisine under cover on the table;

Holmes; “Come Watson! The trail is hot!”

Hudson; “Which is more than the dinner will be.”

The Brett version of Sherlock is immeasurably enhanced by the passage of time. Brett covers many cases over a number of television seasons. Thus, as we do in Doyle’s stories…and in life, we see Brett’s and Sherlock’s athletic energies wane, stamina fade, wrinkles grow, hairline weaken, and wheeze lurk a little closer to the surface. For some reason…this resonates with me and makes me feel even closer to the still fabulous consulting detective. I’m even considering starting a bee hive. IYKYK.

My favorite Jeremy Brett Sherlock is probably THE BLUE CARBUNCLE.

It’s London at Christmastime. There’s snow, visible breath, top hats, mufflers, various carriages, pubs, a pint of yer finest, and a missing blue gem with a blood-red history. How Dickensian can you get?

Wait!

“Please sir, may I have some more?”

How about geese?

I have a thing about a Christmas goose. Janie, on a whim, cooked a goose for our Christmas years ago and it has become a holiday comfort food for me ever since.

Several geese figure prominently in this story. Whose geese are they? Whence did they come? Wither did they go? Why? What did they eat? Who ate them? Who should go to jail? Whose hat is it?

A well-cooked goose answers most queries and worries.

Goose bless us every one!

You Say Hund & I Say Hound

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Movie night!

I guess it’s hubris…or karma…or just a mess of “what goes around…”

I’ve written before about my delight in the imaginary languages one finds in the movies. Tarzan’s “Kreegah!” and Michael Rennie’s “Klaatu narada dikto,” don’t terrify me, they thrill me.

Well…

…this has been my week to be challenged by unknown-to-me real languages in movies without the aid of either subtitles or English dubbing.

I used to be inordinately proud in my ability to rattle off the first lines of José Marti’s Guantanamera, but to truly be “un hombre sincero,” I should confess that’s about the sum of my mastery of Spanish…except for ordering breakfast.

Yet I found myself caught in in the sluggish whirlwind of Jesus Franco’s lesser known masterpiece; Dracula, Prisoner of Frankenstein. Sluggish, because any film featuring Howard Vernon as your action-driving monster has a lot of inertia to overcome as soon as the opening credits have run. Whirlwind, because you can always add an ineffectual fistfight with a non-titular werewolf at the end of the flick to liven things up a bit, and director Franco, consummate artist of the box office, knows this and complies.

Still, it might have been helpful to understand what few words were left in the script between the grunts, growls, and howls of the monstrous troika propelling this miscarriage.

And then there’s German?

Sigh.

I can mumble a few syllables of Stille Nacht at a noisy Christmas party and I can spin a few wine terms like “trockenbeerenauslese,” but other than that, I’m schnitzel.

But I have been eagerly anticipating viewing the 1937 German film; Der Hund von Baskerville since it arrived in my latest box of goodies from Sinister Cinema. Imagine my initial dismay when it sported no dubbing, no subtitles.

But ya know…it didn’t matter.

I am an amateur Sherlockian. I have read and watched Sherlock Holmes stories for almost 60 years. I have seen so many film versions of The Hound of the Baskervilles, so many times… The best film version was written by a friend of mine. Hell, Janie and I even vacationed in a small cabin on the only moors in the US.

I know this tale.

The actors could bark their lines as quickly as they pleased and I corrected them even more quickly. I knew intimately what Sherlock’s rooms, and Baskerville Hall should be like. I knew the paths and the mists and the perilous bogs. This was terra familiar.

I delighted seeing Mrs. Hudson fussing over Watson’s experiments with tobacco ash. I despaired watching a ridiculous “hound” that might have been the inspiration for The Killer Shrews. I needed no explanation for Sir Henry’s imperious pique over his missing shoe.

I don’t know the German for “cognoscenti,” but I know it was me.

And I loved it.

Ach!

Snarling Charles and the Case of the Christmas Gas Bag

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“Look at the fog!”

Chuck peered out his front window at his first Christmas season in his new neighborhood. After decades of Christmases living under the Hollywood sign in Los Angeles, clearing the bougainvillea droppings from his hot tub, and watching reruns of Bing, Rosie, Vera, and Danny thrilling to the snows of White Christmas, coming home to a Bluegrass blurry Christmas was nettlesome.

Bouncing around his ankles, also aspiring to be nettlesome, but too wee to succeed was Nigel.

Nigel, Chuck’s fierce and tiny Yorkie was on a biological schedule. “Itstimeitstimeitstime – DadDadDad – letsgoletsgoletsgo – Igottahikemyleg-g-g-g.”

Chuck continued to survey the smudge of a yuletide evening that was far from being “…just like the one I used to know.”

“I haven’t seen fog like this since my first trip to London.”

Early in Chuck’s successful screenwriting career he wrote two most excellent Sherlock Holmes screenplays that also provided an extended stay in London as the “screenwriter-in-residence” on the set of the filming. He had spent much of the residency turning his well-nurtured Anglophilia into full-blown Angl-Oh-h-h-sweet-mystery-of-life.

He savoured (note the spelling) Scotch eggs, marmite, warm beer, and old champagne. He favoured (sic…and sick) cricket over baseball and snooker over pool, though he still couldn’t play any of them.

He adopted a sort of uniform for his post-prandial wanderings through the misty streets of night-time London. He had an ulster-ish coat. He eschewed the arms of the coat and draped it over his shoulders like a cape. He had acquired a billed cloth cap with a hounds-tooth pattern. It wasn’t exactly a deerstalker but in the fog…

He also had a cane.

Not a mere cane for walking assistance, but a cane of hidden menace.

A twist of the handle and voila – a twelve-inch blade!

But wait…there’s more, and I’m not talking Ginsu knives.

With a commanding arch of one eyebrow, a radical lift of lip, and a sideways glance worthy of Sam Elliott, Snarling Charles was born and the city on the Thames trembled.

This night though, now that he thought of it, all those ingredients were still in his possession…and the fog…and the dog…

“Alright Nigel, you silly bugger, let’s sally forth.”

“Charlie! Wait. I have something for Nigel if you’re going out.”

Chuck’s Lovely Wife Julieanne (she was contemplating a legal change of name to “Lovely Wife” but had not yet committed) ran up waving a plastic straw. It was one of those light sticks that, when violently bent and twisted, emitted a sickly green chemical glow. She wrapped it around Nigel’s neck (twice – tiny bugger that he was). Nigel bounced; “nownownownownow!”

Cap, cape, cane, canine, and sneer all in place, Snarling Charles and his noble beast were on the street and on the prowl. Thomas Burke would have approved.

Alas, there were no ill-lit shops inhabited by Quong Lee, no lamplights, no hansoms, no foghorns or chimes, no newsstands, no blind match-sellers beloved by Edgar Wallace; just prim, new residences hunkering down in the murk. Even the murk was marred by blobs of harsh light bobbing on the lawns.

There were blob reindeer, and blob Santas, and blob angels, and blob snowmen. They were inflatable plastic yard decorations, garishly lit from the inside, and staked to the earth to limit their contagion. At least that’s how Snarling Charles thought of them.

“Nailing‘em to one place is good for a start, but I can think of a more permanent cure for this infestation. I’ll nail them gas bags fer good!”

He approached a six foot high snowman doing a handstand. The sheer fantasy physics of a glowing snowman cavorting on his hands was maddening.

“How would his hat stay on?”

Charles gave his cane a twist and voila!

“I should name this little sword ‘Voila!’” He thought.

He hovered in front of the offending balloon. Nigel bounced about in triumph; “LooklooklookDad! It’s a quality poop, just like they promise on TV! Pickitup-pickitup-pickitup! We’ll add it to the collection!” Nigel had long been convinced that somewhere there was a gallery of The Poops of Nigel, the Silly Bugger.

Just then, the front door of the house to whom the prancing abomination belonged, opened and a man’s voice bellowed; “Ay! What’re you doin’ out there?”

Snarling Charles bristled at the tone, but maintained a civil front.

“I’m simply admiring your yard…art.”

“Well, you just admire it from the sidewalk and get offa my lawn!”

There was a final duet of a door slam and a vocalized “Pervert!”

Charles was left in a silent fog, the darkness broken by a radiant upside down snowman and a bouncing Chernobyl green glow stick on his dog.

No…it wasn’t London.

No…it wasn’t the snowman’s fault.

But someone must be made to pay.

He sheathed his sword…

…and left the poop.

And by the light of his good dog Nigel, he wended his way home.

An Opera House…in Kentucky?

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You Can't Take It 10It would have been about 1:00 in the afternoon on a weekday in 1970…
…in an opera house…
…in Lexington, Kentucky.

Why was I there?

Was it to see a production of Carmen, or Madama Butterfly, or Rigoletto?

Nah!

I was there for the weekday bargain matinée at the Opera House Movie House on a fairly sketchy block of North Broadway. For a $1.50 I was settling in for a cinema mini-festival of the Barbra Streisand/Jack Nicholson classic; On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (she sang, he didn’t…thank God) followed by Waterloo featuring Rod Steiger and Christopher Plummer in the mud (neither sang as I recall…thank God).

The theme of this film pairing is strikingly apparent; tedious films employing and contrasting singing and cannon fire as mediums for selling a ticket or two…and maybe a tub of Buttercup Popcorn.

Frankly, I don’t recall much of the afternoon that was indelible in an uplifting way. I recall a long afternoon of affordable and forgettable flicks. I recall dimness, not just in the screening room, but in the lobby (skimping on lighting – a double savings; lower electric bills and less spent on actual housekeeping). I recall passing on the Buttercup offerings; the dim lighting couldn’t obscure the sharp, refinery whiff emanating from the butter(?)-dispensing mechanism. I recall the occasional skittering noises of the legendary rodent cleaning crew in the dark rows of the screening room celebrating the discarded remains of the Buttercup offerings.

Hey!
Buck fifty.
Two films.
You get what you pay for.
Plus Yves Montand and Ivo Garrano…and Mickey and Jerry (without Tom).

Well…that was then.
Eight years later, at age 27, I’m playing the 70+ year old Grandpa in Studio Players’ production of You Can’t Take It With You on the Opera House stage – same building. The seats are new. The balconies and boxes are gilded and populated with Lexington theater-goers. The lights are bright. The lobby, halls, staircases, carpets, and aisles are proudly pristine. No Buttercup products are in sight (or in smell).

What happened?

In the 70’s, the Opera House was attacked by ice storms, gravity, and old age. The wrecking ball loomed.
The city of Lexington and a group called The Opera House Fund said “No.”
A serious architect, and a serious Lexington, and a serious Opera House Fund (thank you Linda Carey and W. T. Young) redesigned and restored the structure – not to a museum roadside attraction, but to a thriving driver of Central Kentucky’s performing arts community.

A year after the success of You Can’t Take It With You, I played a deliciously young and foolish Cornelius in Studio Player’s production of Thornton Wilder’s The Matchmaker in a Saturday afternoon performance to 54 (count ‘em!) attendees in a house that seats about a thousand. Another fairly grim afternoon in the Opera House, but at least the grimness was in striving for something good, not for hygiene or affordability.

I should mention here that in both of these shows I got to work with my friend Paul Thomas. Paul has retired a myriad of times from the teaching profession and became the House Manager of the Opera House. I believe the Opera House muckety-mucks valued his participation, but were unaware that his best and highest use is ON-stage, not off. Such is fickle fame.

In 1981, I urged everyone to “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat” in Lexington Musical Theatre’s production of Guys and Dolls. This was a notable production for Paul’s vocal exploration of musical scales of which Schoenberg never dreamed.

In 1982, Paul and I played in Brigadoon, also for Lexington Musical Theatre. Paul demonstrated a technique for holding a gun that the NRA is still trying to explain and justify.

Both of these edifying experiences were on the Opera House stage.

In 1987, I had the totaling fulfilling experience of playing Dr. Watson to my friend Eric Johnson’s Sherlock Holmes in the world premiere of my friend Chuck Pogue’s luscious script; The Ebony Ape, on the Opera House stage in an Actor’s Guild production. A two-story set, perfect and beautiful costumes, Fred Foster, Julieanne Pogue, Martha Campbell, Rick Scircle, Matt Regan…a glorious time for Mrs. Leasor’s little boy.

This was also on the Opera House stage…thank you very much.

A year later, in The King and I (a Lexington Musical Theatre production directed by my friend, Ralph Pate), Janie and I appeared in our one and only show together. She was lithe and lovely. I was…not so much, but I got to sing some beautiful songs for which I was not particularly suited (not, alas and thank God, an uncommon occurrence).

This was also on the Opera House stage. Sorry about the singing…but look at Janie! Isn’t she fine?

Carousel 01Now…
…skip ahead with me to 2006.

I’m asked to play the Star Keeper in the University of Kentucky Opera Theater’s production of Carousel at (you guessed it) the Opera House.

Well, I guess I could find time for that.

I got to walk out on the Opera House stage, count the stars – the stars!– , revive the protagonist and inspire him to briefly return to his former life and assure his daughter that she’ll “Never Walk Alone.”

Whoa.

This is a far cry from 1970 and Waterloo and…

“On a clear day, rise and look around you and you’ll see who you are.
On a clear day, how it will astound you that the glow of your being outshines every star.
You’ll be part of every mountain, sea, and shore.
You can hear from far and near the words you’ve never heard before.”

…
…
Well…
…maybe…
…not so very far.

Broken Things

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I’m old enough now to have been several things. Over the last six decades, I’ve been a library clerk, a husband, a retail store manager, a stepfather, a student, an advertising manager, a wine consultant, a friend, a singer in musical theatre, a husband again, a Frisbee artiste, a party planner, a government relations director, a voracious reader, the president of a chain of liquor stores, a book collector, a singer in a rock-n-roll band (the whitest soul-singer you’ve ever seen), and……an actor/storyteller.

I’ve been pretty good at some of these things. Others? Well…I still throw a decent Frisbee.

During the “ugly hour” (thank you, David Bromberg for that troubling concept) of looking in the morning mirror, the person I most often see is that last listed; actor/storyteller. It feels like I have consumed a huge chunk of my life by instantly pondering in every situation; “How am I gonna tell other people about this?”

Storytelling and acting…it’s my comfortable place.

So…

I’m remembering a time when I was rehearsing a play.

It was Athens West Theatre’s production of The Christians by Lucas Hnath and I was spending my evenings rehearsing a gripping and relevant script with a literate and incisive director and a cast whose passion humbled me.

It was a real good time.

What enhanced the rehearsal process were the spaces in which we rehearsed.

We rehearsed in various rooms at a private school in Lexington. One night we would be in the school’s cafeteria, the next in the school’s music room, the next in the school’s theatre office. The spaces were warm and clean and neat. Everything worked. Everything pointed to civility and creativity. Their hygienic competency inspired us to leave the spaces as pristine as we found them. That was their message to us; “Work. Create. Dream. Respect those that follow.”

I have worked in rehearsal spaces (and theatres themselves) that were far from pristine. In one space we tried to create an Antarctic setting in the basement of a downtown building that was thermostat-challenged in January (I assure you imagining the cold was no problem at all). In another, we rehearsed Sam Shepard and Sherlock Holmes in a building that shook with every passing car and the dust hovered in the air looking for a parking spot in our lungs. Another space nourished our creative efforts with water fountains that spewed burnt-siena-tinged fluids. Other spaces saluted our presence with deliberate car horns. Shakespeare was challenged by rain and heat and barking dogs (sometimes simultaneously).

Our storytelling efforts were not improved in these broken environments.

Striving to create, surrounded by broken things.

It reminds me of a Christmas I witnessed where a six-year-old boy received a bonanza of presents. Every complicated gizmo advertised on TV that holiday season was unwrapped Christmas morning. He was delighted and overwhelmed…for a day. By the next day, the charms of every toy and gizmo had faded. The six-year-old with six-year-old motor skills had compromised every item in some way. He sat in his play space pitifully surrounded by things that did not work as they should. They were all broken…in some way.

Surrounded by broken things.

What good can possibly come from that?

I was envious of the bubble created by the private school. I wanted to play with all the guitars and drums. I wanted to share their meals and thrill to their daily discoveries. The message to the students was clear; “We don’t expect you to merely survive. We expect you to thrive. We expect you to make things better.”

But outside the bubble…?

What about the broken things elsewhere?

Bridges, water slides, county water systems, sinking cities, neighbors sinking into substance abuse, and teenagers carrying weapons of mass destruction and brains that will not be fully developed for another five to ten years…

We are surrounded by broken things.

We are not improved by the messages those broken things impart.

We must fix the broken things for everyone.

It’s not dramatic…or sexy…or rapid. I’m old and may not see the harvest of such a mending, but I know it’s the better path and I’ll sleep better and tell a better story if we’re heading in a better direction.

Work.

Create.

Dream.

Respect those that follow.

This is not hard.