They
might as well put a sign over the stage door that reads “Love Shack.” Because the theatre is one
of those places — like summer camp — that gives rise to romance. Get within
the walls of a playhouse and, as at camp, you’re outside the boundaries of
daily life, of the usual rules, your standard character. In fact, because it’s
theatre, you’re encouraged to be a different person. The air is charged with
make-believe, with deliberately heightened emotion. It causes the blood to
percolate, raises a fever in the brain, makes the heart (among other things)
swell. You eye your fellows receptively, open to their charms. You make contact
with one, one makes contact with you, the rubbing strikes sparks, and — voila!
— a pair falls from the theatrical tree.
Romance wreaks its exquisite havoc all the time in the theatre. Lord knows,
I’ve seen my share of offstage coupling (so to speak), most of it brought on by
the theatre’s perfume of fantasy and the stimulating sense of comrades engaging
in a mutual campaign to mount (now stop it!) a play. I myself am guilty of a
theatrical affair or two, including one which resulted in a marriage that has
just entered its 10th sweet year.
Which brings me to the curious thing I’ve noticed about theatrical twosomes,
at least ones in this town: A lot of them make a long go of it. Of the two
dozen thespian duos that I know, most are couples of longstanding, by which I
mean several years: directors Michelle Metcalfe (Sherlock Holmes) and
Robi Polgar (The Beggar’s Opera): five years; actors Janelle Schremmer
(Water Into Light) and Troy Schremmer (Goodnight Desdemona, Good
Morning Juliet): five years; actor Lorne Loganbill (The Homecoming)
and actor/composer Sterling Price-McKinney (The Late 20th-Century Love
Affair): seven years; actor/musical director/composer Allen Robertson
(Trio) and actor Meredith Roberston (Trio): 10 years; actor
Katherine Catmull (The Homecoming) and actor/director Ken Webster
(The Homecoming): 11 years; actors David Stahl (Tons of Money) and Hans
Venable (Shear Madness): 13 years; writers/actors/directors Freddy
Carnes (The Shoemaker and the Elves) and Mary Alice Carnes (The
Beggar’s Opera): 14 years; and that’s just the tip of the valentine. These
stage couples are playing out their love stories in seriously extended runs
with no closing dates in sight.
Now, this goes against the grain of the theatrical tradition. The couples
whose passions we most glorify on the stage are those that have a spectacular
liaison for a brief period, then either are separated or one partner or both
buys the farm. (Blame old Will Shakespeare for most of this; all by his
lonesome, he gifted us with three of theatre’s most luminous and tragic love
duos: Antony and Cleopatra, Othello and Desdemona, and, of course, those
rebellious Venetian teens who couldn’t keep their paws off each other.) We
revere the couples who had romances like Roman candles: blazing light for a
moment, then darkness and the smell of smoke. Perhaps in tribute, most offstage
playhouse liaisons follow this example, putting out a lot of light and heat for
a short time — say, about as long as the run of the show in which the ardent
artists are taking part — then abruptly going the way of all flesh. (It should
be noted that some misguided theatre types have come to equate the brevity of a
romance with the luminosity of the lovin’ and will ignite and extinguish a
backstage affair between an evening performance and the next day’s matinee!)
Perhaps because we’re so conditioned by the tragic glory of drama’s love
duets, we expect all theatrical couples to be short-lived. That might explain
why, when we encounter a relationship of longevity between two playhouse
plebes, we stand in awe, whispering their names: Tandy and Cronyn, Lunt and
Fontanne. How ever did they make such a go of it in the theatre? we
wonder.
According to the couples themselves, they’ve done it — and continue to do it
— much the same way any couple does in a successful marriage. They talk to
each other. They listen. They take care of each other. “Always listen to the
one you love — and set aside your own problems or joys,” counsels actor David
Stahl. “If your relationship is truly mutual, it’s the most perfect and pure
form of give-and-take — and it’s wonderful.” “Because we have each other,”
says Robi Polgar of his and Michelle Metcalfe’s union, “it makes it easier to
get through the crummier times. We can talk it out any time.”
That’s not to say that the life of a couple in the theatre is exactly like the
life of any couple outside it. Not every relationship involves one half of the
pair watching the other half get hot and heavy with another person in front of
a hundred spectators. Not every relationship involves one half of the pair
being empowered to give the other half professional direction. Not every
relationship involves one half of the pair publicly reciting word for word the
observations and thoughts of the other half. Not every relationship involves
the two halves falling in love again or carrying on a screaming match or, god
forbid, killing each other on a nightly basis for the entertainment of a bunch
of strangers. No, much about the existence of a theatrical couple is peculiar,
in every sense of the word.
Take, for instance, the propensity of many of these pairs to realize their
romantic inclinations with dramatic flair. Laura and Marc Pruter of the comedy
troupe Monks’ Night Out first “got starry-eyed at a charity `Love-in’ for the
Center for Battered Women where we were dressed as hippies.” They became an
“item” three days later, on Valentine’s Day, recalls Laura, “after Marc hocked
his car to buy me a heart-shaped garnet ring.” Troy Schremmer proposed to
sweetheart Janelle during a student cabaret production at Wichita State
University. According to Janelle Schremmer, “Troy secretly prepared a little
song and dance to the Beatles’ `When I’m 64,’ ending it with a dramatic `Will
you marry me?’ Our friends will never let us live that down; it was an exciting
and emotional moment for everyone.” The wedding of Cathy and Ken Bradley, who
met during a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Aha! that
Shakespeare guy again!), was itself a production, an echo of the play that
united them. “Ken and Damian [Gillen, partner with the Bradleys in the theatre
group The Company] made this girl’s dream come true,” says Cathy, “by
transforming already beautiful Lockhart State Park into my `midsummer’s dream’:
white Christmas lights in the trees, music to dream by — to dance to, a
campfire in the middle of the festivities, champagne and Shiner, white flowers
of all varieties.”
Even the unions that are less theatrical in gesture still have the stuff of
the stage: in the convoluted comic missteps of destined-to-be lovers going
through two acts of trauma before they finally drop into each other’s arms. It
took years for Janelle and Troy Schremmer to realize what everyone else did,
that they were meant to be more than pals. When they “decided to officially
start dating,” says Janelle, it was “to none of our friends’ surprise.” Lorne
Loganbill and Sterling Price-McKinney were struck by each other when they met
at a party in 1982. Loganbill says, “I was attracted to Sterling the moment I
laid eyes on him.” Price-McKinney says, “I only remember that after a charming
time Lorne had to leave, and when he said goodbye, I saw true regret in his
eyes. It is his shining eyes in that moment that began his endearment to me.”
Despite this shared swoon and successive encounters in which, as Loganbill
describes it, “I got that same gooshey feeling I had the first time I met
Sterling,” the two didn’t realize their mutual interest until six years later
when Price-McKinney invited Loganbill to take a part in a show he was directing
at the Bastrop Opera House.
Katharine Catmull and Ken Webster suffered a similar dance of covert glances
and hidden agendas, and for comedic angst, it rivals the first play they did
together: Sexual Perversity in Chicago. Webster directed the production;
Catmull auditioned for it with then-housemate Bill Friedman. “Bill had already
been offered a role and he dragged me along,” she remembers. “I thought Ken
looked scary and kind of mean, actually.” Webster, meanwhile, mistook the
housemates for a bona fide couple: “I thought it would be interesting to cast
real-life lovers as the Danny and Deb characters. It turned out they were just
platonic housemates, but I cast them anyway.” Catmull strikes back: “So he
says, but I learned the true story later. His stage manager told me that
Ken had in fact hated my audition, but he’d hated everyone else’s, too. So,
yes, he cast me as Bill’s lover because he thought we were lovers in real life.
Ken always denies this story, but I don’t see why that stage manager would
lie. Anyway, my audition was indeed awful; my auditions are always
awful.” Soon, she says, “I developed a terrible crush on Ken, which got worse
during the next play he directed me in. I was already crazy about him by the
time we had an actual date.” As Catmull squirmed in Pinter-esque silence,
Webster was, he says, “having strong, uncontrollable feelings of lust for
Kathy. But I vowed to myself not to act on them, because a) I had a girlfriend;
b) she had a boyfriend; c) I thought it would be inappropriate to date someone
I was directing; and d) I figured that she didn’t feel the same way. Shortly
after Kennedy’s Children closed, I broke up with A, she broke up with B,
and I wasn’t her director any more, so we went on a date at the Hole in the
Wall for coffee. We confessed to each other our mutual lust, then went to her
house and made out like teenagers. We started living together within a
month.”
While the romance of the theatre encourages glamorous visions of actors
playing lovers and finding a passion in themselves that echoes their
characters’, the experience of most playhouse pairs is more prosaic: an
attraction blooms between an actor and a director amidst the weird
give-and-take of that relationship; an actor and a stage manager give each
other the eye when calls are made to the dressing room; a couple of actors who
barely speak to each other onstage have a chat offstage. Such was the case for
Allen and Meredith Robertson, as Allen wryly recalls: “We met doing Seven
Brides for Seven Brothers at Abilene Christian University. It was the big
homecoming musical. Meredith was a junior, I merely a freshman. She was a bride
. . . I was `Shop Owner.’ I had two lines: `Millie, get out here, I got a
dozen men a-bellerin’ for some vittles,’ and `I think poor Tabby has the
croop.’ My interpretation of these literary jewels won her heart. We had our
first real conversation during strike; we were supposed to be working. Some
things never change.”
Once together, couples face a host of unique situations, not the least of
which is having one’s partner play a love scene with another actor. Perhaps to
the surprise of some, stage couples get less worked up over it than you might
think. Janelle Schremmer explains that for her and Troy, “It’s no big deal
because we know the technicalities of such a thing. Both being actors takes the
pressure off that stuff.” Now, reactions may vary depending on the
circumstances. Ken Webster says, “It depends entirely on who the love scene is
with. I’ve been alternately jealous, unworried, and grossed out.” Bill McMillin
admits to “being a little shaken” watching his wife Mary Furse kiss actor Eric
Henshaw in a staging of Uncle Vanya. (“Wow! What a kiss!” he notes.) But
“when Mary kissed an actress onstage, I didn’t feel odd at all. Only when
numerous people in the audience turned and looked at me to see my response was
I at all nervous.”
A source of much greater friction is the respect with which partners treat
each other professionally. Furse and McMillin describe their situation: “We
have to work very hard at not crossing over into each other’s territory. Mary
can’t act as stage manager or producer, and Bill can’t give acting notes. We
have high standards for ourselves and each other. If everyone sticks to their
own job, things are okay. Otherwise, even `helpful suggestions’ feel like harsh
criticism.” When Webster and Catmull work together, almost always he directs
her. The one time the roles were reversed, Catmull says, “It didn’t go so
smoothly. Ken kept `forgetting’ all my notes. So one day in reherasal, I asked
him icily if he needed a pencil. He shaped up after that, though not much. But
he was awfully good in that show despite not listening to me, or because of
it.”
Working together can also lead theatrical couples to the same problems faced
by other couples who share an occupation. Asked what they like about working
together, Freddy and Mary Alice Carnes say, “We have access to each other night
and day.” Asked what they dislike, they say, “We have access to each other
night and day.” “When you go `home’ at the end of the day,” they say, “it’s
with the same person you’ve been with all day. Sometimes it can be hard to stop
working and relax.” Janelle and Troy Schremmer agree: “When we’re working
together, we are non-stop talking about the process that we’re experiencing.
The trick is to `leave our work at the office’ and talk about other things,
too.” “Theatre takes so much commitment, dedication, and hard work,” notes
Cathy Bradley, “that although Ken and I are working together, we don’t seem to
have enough time during a production to devote to being romantic partners. We
have to take time every so often during a production to hold and hug each other
backstage before a show or stay after everyone has left and just smooch and
reassure each other that we still adore each other!”
Even with the pitfalls that exist, most theatrical couples profess to enjoy
working together. Their reasons range from the profoundly tender — David Stahl
and Hans Venable’s “We get to be together that much more” — to the profoundly
practical — Allen and Meredith Robertson’s only partly tongue-in-cheek “We
like the car pooling.” Freddy and Mary Alice Carnes, in their roles as heads of
the Children of Light Players children’s theatre company, enjoy the way it
allows them to complement each other creatively. “I write,” says Freddy. “I
edit,” says Mary Alice. “I start,” he continues. “I finish,” she concludes.
“Working together gives us great freedom and creative license,” say Marc and
Laura Pruter. “We constantly surprise each other with new characters and jokes
and comic bits on stage.” Ken Bradley says, “There is and always has been with
Cathy a level of comfort in working that is unmatched. What this allows me is
the opportunity not only to exchange ideas, but to stretch them in directions
that would seem impossible if I was not working with anyone as optimistic and
innovative as Cathy.”
Working together enables most couples to renew the appreciation for each
other’s talents. “My most meaningful roles have been those I’ve shared with
Troy,” says Janelle Schremmer. “He’s just the best actor there is.” Of wife
Michelle Metcalfe, director Robi Polgar says, “Directing ‘shel on stage is easy
because she’s such a gifted actress.” Karen Carver Sneed, director of the
upcoming production of Texans and Their Guns, reports that her husband
Don once told her that having her as a director was “like having Joe Montana in
the huddle — nice, huh?”
Those partners who work frequently together are able to bring their intimate
understanding of each other into the playhouse and enhance their
collaborations. Allen and Meredith Robertson have developed, they say, “the
ability to work in a kind of shorthand; some things just go faster.” Katharine
Catmull echoes this sentiment: “Ken really understands me as an actor — I love
being directed by him. We share a lot of similar strengths and weaknesses as
actors, so he knows how to, for example, pull me out of what I think of as
Delicate Understatement, but which is in fact Acting of the Living Dead. Also,
we’ve worked together so often and been together so long that he can direct me
with shorthand phrases without a lot of explanation. He can say `pitcher’s
duel’ or `scene 2, you’ve got Webster’s disease’ to me and I instantly know
what he means and how to fix it. But mostly what’s important to me is how well
he understands me. Ken can see right through what I’m pretending to do to
what’s really going on inside me and say just the right words to get me back on
track. I’m extraordinarily lucky to get to work with a director like that.”
What comes through clearly from all these longtime couples is that an honest
admiration for each other’s artistic identity and desire to support that is at
the core of their relationships. “There may be many that say I’m lovestruck
still, but I really believe that Ken is a powerful actor and I find myself
getting `lost’ in his performances.” Michelle Metcalfe says of Robi, “When he’s
directing, I’m just beaming with pride at his work.” Bill McMillin shares
similar feelings: “I feel very proud of Mary when she opens a show, proud of
her and her ability as an actor.”
That support often takes its most important forms when one partner is in a
show and the other isn’t, in helping the active partner run lines and seeing
the show in which he or she appears. “Going to see your spouse in their show is
extremely supportive, don’t you think?” ask the Carnes. When Price-McKinney is
in the thick of a project, partner Loganbill says, “What I try to do most is
help with the little things — the details that get aggravating to deal with
when your mind is on so many different aspects of the show. I help pick out
clothing, iron shirts and slacks, fix flat tires, run errands, make sure
Sterling eats a good meal on a somewhat regular basis, and keep the
refrigerator stocked with Dr. Pepper.” Allen and Meredith Robertson have even
found that “having dinner ready or the house clean when one gets home from an
opening is nicer than flowers.”
In the end, the success of these relationships seems to have a lot to do with
the place of the theatre in the couple’s shared life. For these twosomes, the
theatre is not a source of false passions and ego amplification but a source of
strength, a place in which partners, separately and together, can share their
talents. Sometimes it is a source of unexpected epiphanies, as for Stahl and
Venable when they did Our Town together for Big State Productions. “We
drew so much from that experience as a couple,” they say. “We fell into a
deeper love for each other and certainly became more acutely aware of how
precious life is and our love for each other is in this very short life we have
together.” Sometimes it offers enchantments straight out of a fairy tale, as
for the Schremmers, when shortly after they were married, says Troy, “we got to
play the newlyweds in Prelude to a Kiss. So we kept getting to have a
wedding each night!”
That could only happen in the theatre. It is, as the song says — and this may
be the only time the B-52s edge out the Bard — “a little old place where we
can get together. Love Shack, ba-a-byyy!” n
This article appears in February 9 • 1996 and February 9 • 1996 (Cover).