“Al goodbye. I love you. But I just don’t have time this moment to submit to your usual avalanche of criticism. I’ll talk to you later.”
Schultz shaved, showered and dressed. Waiting in the cloistered peace of the hall landing and looking out this window down on to a little roof garden below planted with blossomed flowers between the white wings of this soul soothing hotel. The elevator door opening. A slender perfumed lady inside with an alligator bag. Beige tweed suit. Blond soft hair. Jesus she could be a grandmother. But I’d go to bed with her at the drop of her big ochre felt hat. If only I had a few more hours’ sleep and didn’t nearly get killed, maimed and driven out of my own fucking house last night. Christ the show. O my god. Just opened. Meanwhile a lifetime of horror has happened since. Got to keep the show going. Fuck all the dumbbell critics. Paper the house every night to capacity. Supply transport and give free tickets to mental institutions all over Balham, Tooting and Streatham if necessary. This lady looks like the sort who’d still say yes to a thrill in her life.
“Excuse me madam. But do you like attending the theatre.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Would you like to see a wonderful show I recommend. Kiss it. Don’t hold it. It’s too hot. Free with my compliments.”
“How dare you.”
“Holy christ madam, don’t get excited, it’s really the name of the show, ask the concierge in the lobby. I’m sorry please. Here’s the ground floor.”
The morning sunny and cool. Schultz jumping into a taxi with a smiling salute from the doorman. Down Park Lane and left along Piccadilly. O my god. Thank god for the discretion they got at that hotel. I go in and out looking like I come from a holocaust. And they keep showering me with courteous attention. I’m going to need it. Standing up in Court. With drunks and thieves. Haven’t even returned the morning suit that got ripped to pieces off my back.
Schultz pacing the floor in the smoky noisy Court corridor. Amid the solicitors, clients and culprits. As what fucking choice do I have. But to listen to the advice of these detectives.
“Sir you can get it all over with now. By pleading guilty. And avoid a big Court case later.”
Schultz in the dock. The distinguished judge, the son of a famous actor staring down over his spectacles. Frowning slightly as the evidence was read. Clearing his throat in some disbelief. Then with a deep breath looking leniently upon Schultz. As Mrs. Prune stood giving her heated evidence.
“But were you there madam.”
“He struck my daughter. I came here to Court by ambulance from under psychiatric care.”
“But were you present madam when your daughter was struck.”
“I was there when that bastard pulled my wig off.”
The judge pushing up his spectacles looking at the charge sheet. Lifting his chin to look out across the courtroom as the behemoth got up as if she were heading to Ascot.
“But that’s not what Mr. Schultz is charged with. Please stand down madam if you weren’t a witness to the charge. Now Mr. Schultz. I’m quite sure a man in your position momentarily lost control. So I’m not going to have you bound over to keep the peace. Fined ten pounds.”
Schultz nearly saluting from the dock. This pleasantly commanding figure calling for the next case. As Schultz ducking away, now ran rushing out into Bow Street and diving into a taxi. My god all this happening right across the road from the Royal Opera House where tonight they’re performing the ballet.
“Taxi. Stop. I’ll only be a second.”
Schultz emerging from the Opera House with tickets. Popped back in the taxi catching his breath. Till he charged in the door and along the shadowy hall of this familiar office of Sperm Productions. The door opened into the smoky chairman’s office. Rebecca cuting out reviews from a stack of newspapers. Binky with a cigar held out in one hand and pressing down with the other a whole page spread of newsprint. A massive picture of Magillacurdy and the Debutant.
“Ah my dear Schultz, you have arrived.”
“Yeah I have arrived. I want to see these reviews. Where’s his Lordship.”
“His Royal Grace Schultz is in his knickerbockers as you Americans risquély call them, and is I believe with the little wife going for a tramp up in his heather.”
“Holy shit. He should be here.”
“Ah. But we have chatted. At length. By telephone. And decided on the proper course. Be seated, Schultz. While we map out the funeral route. Pop right down there then on our trustworthy chaise longue.”
“I’m standing. And what the fuck do you mean funeral.”
“Pray tell, these, Schultz, the orations. Here for all to see. And this. Especially this. Perhaps the most devastating review ever written about any show in the history of London theatre. Headlined across three columns. Take a look yourself.”
MISS IT, DON’T SEE IT, IT’S TOO AWFUL
Last night saw what this reviewer must regard as the greatest load of rubbish ever disported on a London stage. In attending the opening of a show entitled “Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot,” one was of course forewarned. But the en suing pyrotechnics consisting of lyrics grossly insulting to the intelligence, music so vulgar and brash crashing upon the ears, plus garish costuming and sets, the latter which trembled or ripped at a breath, made for an evening of headache inspiring proportions.
The chorus were frequently off key singing, as they were out of step dancing and who, en masse, seem to have been rounded up from some housewifely amateur group from Sidcup or Surbiton. However, they did at least, by their appalling display, help distract from other terrible matters. Only that a member of the audience became stuck in her seat which gave one the release of laughter at the intervals made the evening tolerable. It was little wonder that one noticed a player’s name changed and the director’s name blacked out in the program.
However there was one exception, embodied in the two star players, who handled such horror with grace, dignity and poise. Genius is a word one uses sparingly but it would have to be applied in the case of Mr. Magillacurdy whose powerful yet sweet voice charmed and at times profoundly awed and moved his listeners. The rendering of his final aria was a tour de force. And indeed this hardened reviewer admits to a tear in the eye and a lump in the throat. He and his spectacularly beautiful co star, whose shimmering, exquisite balletic limbs and dulcet voice equally captivated the audience, did by their performances redeem what would have been an otherwise theatrically totally ruinous event.
To those of you who are still reading this, unless you feel you want to witness a little stage history being made by the debut of two young splendidly promising stars, my advice is a repeat of my sentiments heading this column. Miss It. Don’t See It, It’s Too Awful.
“Well Schultz. The other reviews are no better. No clearer case has there ever been for one to throw in the towel. Wipe our hands clean of the embarrassing matter. His Royal Grace on the phone, agrees.”
Schultz with a left hand holding up the newspaper suddenly sending his fist whistling through the air and crashing through the review like a pane of glass.
“My goodness Schultz whatever did you do that for to a perfectly good newspaper.”
“Because never never is that show going to close. Over my dead body.”
“I do believe his Royal Grace can find room for you in one of his cemeteries Schultz. Even in those most strange shoes. A grace and favour grave so to speak. And as a respected director of this firm, Sperm Productions will gladly accord you a most dignified funeral and foot the bill.”
Schultz pacing the floor shaking a clenched fist up and down. Rebecca leaving the room with a folder full of clippings instructed to check on the stars to see if there were any suicides. Schultz suddenly tripping on the carpet. An instant smile on Binky’s face. Schultz turning and leaning forward over the chairman’s desk.
“I don’t give a shit what the reviewers say. I’m going to beat the fuckers. That show has got balls.”
“Dear me Schultz yo
u are in a tizzy.”
“That’s right.”
“Well in spite of such testicular hope Schultz, the box office phones have been practically dead all morning. There is simply no advance booking. The reviews are unanimous that the show is atrocious. That little newspaper you’ve just put your fist through is read by about five million people.”
“I don’t care how many read it. They can wipe their asses with it, piss in it, but that show stays on.”
“And Schultz we understand from Mr. Gayboy, to whom I must confess I sold half my share of the show, that you could have sold the whole production to one of Broadway’s biggest producers last night where it would be ensured to find a suitably gauche audience.”
“That’s right.”
“And you didn’t.”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t even entertain the thought.”
“No I didn’t Binky.”
“Ah because you thought it would be so nice to keep your sterling reputation intact as a producer of resounding flops in which you have consistently guaranteed that the entire investment is always lost.”
“Fuck you Binky. You thought even before it opened it was going to be a flop. Selling half your share. Well I’m not selling anything and I’m not closing this show.”
Rebecca quietly stepping in. Solemn faced whispering to Schultz that Magillacurdy was not at Claridge’s all last night. And handing over the afternoon editions of the evening newspapers. Two more panning reviews. A headline next to one of them.
SOCK HER DON’T KISS HER
SHE’S YOUR WIFE
Sigmund Franz Schultz the impresario, and producer of “Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot,” was fined ten pounds this morning at Bow Street Magistrates Court for causing actual bodily harm to his wife whom he punched following last night’s performance at the Regent Theatre.
“O dear Schultz, here we go again. Same old headline. Sperm Productions, that innocent company dragged yet again into another Schultz intempestivity. With Gayboy already in a state. Raging that the show is giving the theatre such a bad name that it could ruin business for years to come. And dear me this little news item will promptly blow his hemorrhoids clean out of his backside. Forgive me Rebecca.”
“Bullshit. That’s a fucking headline everybody’s going to read. Mentioning the show, the theatre. I know in my bones this fucking thing is going to work. Shit, months, months of my life are not going to be buried suddenly by a fucking bunch of nincompoops who don’t know their ass from their elbows. You heard the laughing and cheering.”
“Yes I did Schultz. Under the booing and jeering. But most distinctly of all I recognised your clapping. Or were you applauding your rather large incarcerated mother in law.”
“Binky that audience for real were being genuinely entertained. Three quarters of them loved it.”
“Ah Schultz permit me, to leaven your heartfelt words with those of sobriety. I have not yet had his Royal Grace check with his laser beam financial eye all the figures but having myself peeked under items marked hotels, lodgings, transport and especially items miscellaneous, I would say you have the overcall already spent. And my dear young man does it not occur to you that you may live to, fight another day. That this is just another little flop that people will quite quickly forget in three or four years. But to persist in the present agony is only merely prolonging the future ignominy.”
Schultz taking up the torn newspaper from the floor. Hold up the perforated review. Piecing it together.
“Rebecca, you read what that fucking critic said. Well let me quote to both of you. Genius. Shimmering grace. Spectacularly beautiful. Captivated the audience. Stage history being made. Those fucking words are going to be emblazoned all over this town. And give me a cigar Binky.”
“Schultz have you no ethics. You can’t possibly print what you’ve just blatantly quoted entirely out of context.”
“Can’t I, just watch me. These fucking critics have such egos trying to bust out of their half assed guts that when that son of a sour bitch sees his name plastered all over he won’t even murmur a sigh of protest. Rebecca.”
“Yes Mr. Schultz.”
“Take this down. A tour de force. Vulgar, brash, garish, grossly insulting, and stage history is being made. Genius is a word one uses sparingly but it would have to be applied in the case of Mr. Magillacurdy and his stunning co star whose shimmering, exquisite balletic beauty captivated the audience. See it, don’t miss it, it’s too wonderful. Got that Rebecca.”
“Yes Mr. Schultz.”
“O.K. Rebecca put it into respectable grammatical order and slam all that into the classified ads. Use caps on the see it, don’t miss it, it’s too wonderful. And I want big spreads in the Sunday papers using the same thing under the picture of the two stars. And Rebecca on that phone get me this Knightsbridge number.”
“Ah my dear Schultz sometimes I do really detect a flavour of the naval man in you, albeit one, who has cast his moral principles overboard.”
“That’s right. Just excuse me a second. Hello. Hey. Hi. It’s me. Sigmund Schultz. Yeah Sigmund Franz Schultz. Come to the ballet tonight. You got to. Why not. That’s no reason. This is life and death O.K. I’ll pick you up at seven. See you.”
“Schultz I couldn’t help overhearing. The ballet.”
“That’s right. Taking a box at Covent Garden. Just for one evening to catch my breath. To put some grace and beauty back into my life.”
“Schultz. I’m impressed with you. Yes. Very much so. You are truly remarkable. You’re not with your tail anywhere near between your legs. I think perhaps I may even decide to lose my shirt with yours.”
“You mean half your shirt.”
“Ah yes, half. But old Gayboy will only be too relieved to sell back his share. Dear me in a business which is nothing but risk, I don’t know why I’m so cautious sometimes. You know many foolish and misguided things happen in the name of friendship. And when one has assumed the responsible position of Chairman as I have, there are times when one must take decisions on an empirical rather than emotional basis. It was from a very skinflint ancestor that I’ve inherited what may be thought by some to be an unflattering tendency to, how does one put it, to hedge one’s bets.”
“You’re a shrewd hard cunning son of a bitch Binky.”
“Thank you Shultz, thank you. But at least you’ve found in me, at this moment, a trusted ally.”
“Christ that’s the last thing I need now is people I can trust. Because from now on, nobody, including you is to be trusted.”
“Ah that’s a bit of a blow to one’s team spirit Schultz. Is not even his Royal Grace to be trusted.”
“Well I might trust him. I must confess he owns so fucking much of this world that all he has to do is look out for crooks.”
Schultz brushing down his clothes. Straightening his borrowed tie. The phone ringing. Binky picking it up. Putting his hand over the speaker.
“Now Schultz, this is an historic moment. The first phone call of the afternoon. Sperm Productions here. And how rude but nice of you to say so, Mr. Magillacurdy. Your embattled producer is right here and I shall put you on to him. Schultz.”
Schultz, both hands raised outstretched in a flying leap across the floor grabbing the phone.
“Hello.”
“It’s Magillacurdy me boyo.”
“Christ Magillacurdy where are you. I’ve just been having heart attacks. They said you weren’t in last night at Claridge’s. Where were you.”
“I’m at Claridge’s now me boyo.”
“Where were you all last night.”
“Ah me boyo. It was a vow I made one awful desperate night in despair. A vow that had to be kept. I promised the poor fucker resting in peace next to me whose mausoleum I was squatting in that I’d be back sleeping next to him if ever I opened on a West End stage.”
“Jesus Terence, you could get fucking pneumonia doing that.”
“Ah now me boyo, you
don’t think I’d abandon me old pal laid in rest back in Brompton Cemetery. I slept alongside of all these months chatting to just because I was a West End sensation. Now what kind of thankless indifferent behaviour would that be now.”
“Jesus just promise me Magillacurdy, you won’t do such things without warning me. And I could heat the place for you.”
“Ah a bit of hardship harms no one. But I see we’ve been slated in the press. Rumors abound the show is closing.”
“Nothing is fucking closing. And that’s from the horse’s mouth.”
“Ah glad to hear it. Just give me my cues and a soapbox and I’ll perform on stage or off stage. I’ll sing this show on top of a fragment of Nelson’s Pillar that they blew down in Dublin if necessary.”
“Jesus Magillacurdy at last.”
“What do you mean at last.”
“At last there’s someone with some fucking guts who doesn’t have to be persuaded to fight alongside me.”
“I’ll fight beside you and break any arse of any man who opposes us.”
“Just keep breaking the hearts of all the women, that’s all I ask.”
“Well said me darling boyo. Depend on me.”
“I am depending on you Terence. To save the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“Ah me boyo, be careful. Kicking the shit out of the goose that lays the golden egg is a great Irish custom. Goodbye now. And good luck.”
Schultz putting down the phone. And a hand up to his brow. Shaking his head. Shaking his shoulders. Clenching his hands and firing his fists around him shadow boxing in the smoky air.
“Ah well Schultz, the enemy is engaged. I suppose it behooves one to see in your fighting spirit a cause for optimism, however one must in caution also remain amply armed with pessimism. But there is yet another slight little matter. Over which I regret to say his Royal Grace is alarmed.”
“Holy jeeze what did I do now.”
“Schultz you wrote an anti blood sports letter to the Times newspaper.”
“Christ I clean forgot. Hey, they printed it. That’s great.”
“They did Schultz. And as it happens, his Royal Grace being a well known Master of Foxhounds. And does not think it’s great.”