no retelling. In no time flat all kinds of theatres were interested in what was now called Raised in Captivity. This was shocking to me. You see in my pre-Pterodactyls days, I couldn’t get arrested. That’s a euphemism. I could, of course, get arrested and had on several occasions. (I still insist the money was a gift—but it’s my word against his.)
I agonized over where to do the play. I allowed myself to be bribed and cajoled with fancy cars and jewelry. But in the end I decided it would be appropriate to give it to the Vineyard Theatre, as that organization had taken a chance on Pterodactyls. That was in the spring.
During the summer David Warren, my director, and five actors, who’ll be listed later, schlepped to the Vassar campus to do a workshop. (A workshop is a chance for the author, in this case yours truly, to do a little more work on the script before unveiling it in New York City.) New York Stage and Film is a wonderful company that takes over the Vassar campus each summer and does all kinds of theatre. Now, I don’t mean to badmouth Vassar or the town of Poughkeepsie...but cripes!
First of all, it’s hot as Auschwitz! I mean it’s a hundred degrees with a hundred percent humidity—and there’s no air conditioning! I have never enjoyed the outdoors. Nature, it seems to me, is fine as a subject for a Disney documentary, but I enjoy a mall. My natural element is buildings. I own no shorts. I am spotted outside only occasionally, and then only briefly, as I dive into a taxi. I wear a tie, vest and sport coat every day, feeling, correctly, that we are all adults here and can’t we please just dress as such. I refuse to be intimidated by the vicissitudes of climate. (This was another area of unfinished business with that viper Dr. Lanier! I hope her sugar plantation is infested with lice.) So there I was, in July, well groomed and somewhat crabby.
The rooms are Spartan in the extreme! Benedictine monks would turn up their noses. A bed with a rubber mattress and a dresser. That’s it. Bare floors, cracked walls, screen windows filled with dead moths. One had to beg for a ride to the Kmart, to purchase life’s necessities: a phone, a lamp, a towel, M&M’s, pornography, etc. Each floor had two bathrooms: one for men, one for women. Being socially retarded and self-conscious beyond words, I waited until everyone went to bed, usually four in the morning, to visit the facilities. I’m sure I developed gall stones.
But the truly remarkable thing is the movie stars. The place is rotten with movie stars! I’m not going to say anything bad about them so I’ll name just a couple. Steve Martin was there (I never saw him), Tony Goldwyn, Peter Gallagher, Joel Grey—I hope no one feels offended by being left out. I drop the names just to make a point. There are all these famous people frolicking in the great outdoors, clad in tank tops and Bermuda shorts, living in abject poverty and finding it all so novel! I found nothing novel about it. The fact is poverty is entirely too recent a memory for it to take on the glow of nostalgia. (The funniest thing was watching the crowd form outside the communal men’s room every morning—interns, actors and everyone hoping to get a glimpse of Tony Goldwyn emerging from the shower. He was on my floor. I don’t know who drew crowds on other floors. Sorry.)
I was miserable at first. There was no TV. I don’t drive. There was nothing. The entire experience was similar to what I imagine life was like behind the iron curtain...or in a sensory deprivation tank. But then, gradually, something in me changed. We started working on the play and my mood improved. I found the process so invigorating that I soon forgot the humidity. I no longer missed the 24-hour deli on my corner. I was glad you had to wait forty-five minutes to get an outside line! Perhaps I was drunk on oxygen purer than I’m used to, but I found I was accomplishing a great deal. I was pleased with the work and the sense of community. I apologized to the management for any unpleasantness, and anything I may have broken in a fit...
Mind you I never became Marlin Perkins exactly. On my last night there, there was a party for the local residents. I was peacefully drinking my diet Coke, wearing my uniform of a three-piece suit and perspiration, when I was assaulted by a heavyset woman in a cotton “casual set.” I’ll call this woman Esther Shapiro, not so much to protect her, but because I’ve repressed her name. Esther came marching up to me, gnawing on a cocktail frank.
“Are you the playwright?!” She demanded hostilely.
“I’m a playwright.”
“What is with you!?” She sprayed wiener as she spoke. “I happen to be a nudist,” I swear to God—“and you are driving us all nuts! With your three-piece suits! My God, with the vest and the ties! I’m dyin’ just lookin’ at you! It’s enough already!!”
I thought for a moment. “I’m sorry, madam, if I’m making you uncomfortable with my attire. But to be frank, I am quite comfortable. And my comfort, in all honesty, is a good deal more important to me than yours.” She shook her head and muttered as she walked away. She hated me. Oh well.
I returned to New York a few months later and started work at the Vineyard, blissfully happy in the fetid squalor of Manhattan.
Raised in Captivity was a wonderful experience. I have seldom enjoyed myself more than I did working on the original production. This was not just because of the personalities involved, but also because we all understood what we were making. The original cast was composed of five brilliantly gifted actors. Each of them was funny and generous and just perfect in the play. I’d like to thank them for some of the best weeks I’ve ever had. Their names appear on the following page next to the character each played. It’s a long journey from an idea to the stage, and I’d like to extend my sincerest thanks to those who helped along the way (you’d think I was winning something!): Doug Aibel, Jon Nakagawa and everyone at the Vineyard Theatre; George Lane and Mary Meagher, my agents (listed, please note, alphabetically); Mark Anderson; Tim Sanford, Bruce Whitacre; John Guare; Peter Manning, Leslie Urdang and Max Meyer of New York Stage and Film; Alma Cuervo and John Slattery, who did the workshop; the great design team of Don Holder, James Youmans, Teresa Snider-Stein and John Gromada; my good friend James Bart Upchurch III, a constant inspiration, who taught me a bit about prison and a great deal about the limitlessness of human potential; my dear friend Chuck Coggins, always supportive and witness to some embarrassingly neurotic behavior; and David Warren, whom I also call my friend and who understands theatre, me and everything perfectly. Thanks.
N. Silver
New York City
April 1995
RAISED IN CAPTIVITY was produced at the Vineyard Theatre (Douglas Aibel, Artistic Director; Jon Nakagawa, Managing Director) by special arrangement with Mark Anderson, in New York City. It opened on February 28, 1995. David Warren directed the following cast:
Act I BREAD AND WATER
Act II
FORTY DOLLARS AND A NEW SUIT
CHARACTERS
SEBASTIAN BLISS, early thirties
BERNADETTE DIXON, early thirties, Sebastian’s sister
KIP DIXON, mid-thirties, Bernadette’s husband
HILLARY MACMAHON, early forties, Sebastian’s doctor
DYLAN TAYLOR SINCLAIR, early twenties, a convict
ROGER, early twenties (played by the same actor as Dylan)
MIRANDA BLISS, forties, Bernadette and Sebastian’s mother (played by the same actress as Hillary)
SCENE
