Williamstown Theatre Festival Memories of Peter H. Hunt

30 years ago, I was working for Peter H. Hunt, first in New York City, then in Williamstown, Massachusetts, for the Williamstown Theatre Festival. It was one of the best six months of my life.

In March or so of 1990, I left Hartford Stage in Connecticut, where I had worked for two glorious seasons, to be publicity director at WTF (don't think for a second that the other meaning of that acronym was ever lost on any member of the company). I had been at Williamstown for the 1988 season, fresh out of Western Kentucky University and before Hartford Stage: that first season, I was the publicity assistant, in an unpaid internship, working for a publicity director who made my life hell, in a season that would turn out to be the last for Nikos Psacharopoulos (if he called the office for my boss and I said she wasn't there, he would hang up without another word). Were it not for some wonderful other interns and very kind and/or colorful celebrities, I would have quit mid-season. When that summer was over, I vowed I would never go back.

But you always go back to Williamstown. It's a joke among everyone that works there - one summer is never enough. And so I went back for the first season that Peter H. Hunt was the sole Artistic Director, first to New York City, for the annual benefit, and then to the Berkshires for the summer season.

Peter was best known for winning a Tony award for the Broadway musical 1776 back in 1970 or so. He directed the movie as well. I have no idea how many things he directed on stage and screens big and small - a lot. That first summer when I had been at WTF, Peter had directed Bertolt Brecht's The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui and it had knocked EVERYONE out of their shoes: one of the critics who regularly poo poo'd all things Williamstown asked me after she saw it, in all seriousness, "When is this moving to Broadway?" It remains one of the best productions of anything I have EVER seen. When I heard that Peter had been named sole artistic director for 1990, after sharing duties the summer before with two others, I thought, damn, if every production is half as good as Arturo Ui, my job as publicity director will be awesome.

It was awesome. But never easy.

Peter would walk into a room like a boisterous Hemingway, commanding everyone, dominating the space. I was terrified of him at first, but I quickly grew to adore him. I will never forget my first "moment" with him: the Williamstown season had just been announced with A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum opening the main stage and a very controversial play, No Orchards for Miss Blandish, opening what was then called The Other Stage. The latter had a rape scene and a LOT of other violence, and we were having a senior staff meeting to discuss whether or not we should put a warning in the lobby or in advertisements about the graphic nature of the play. I had a look on my face that, somehow, betrayed my thoughts, because Peter looked right at me and laughed and said, "Yeah, you're right, what we should have is a warning in the lobby of 'Forum' about the rampant dated sexism in it!"

Peter directed Death Takes a Holiday in August of that season. What a cast - it included Maria Tucci, Blythe Danner, Christopher Reeve, and a newcomer, Calista Flockhart. It was a gorgeous production of a play that, on paper, seemed like a silly and dated melodrama, but at Williamstown, under Peter's direction, it was magical, mysterious and otherworldly. I remember when the designer brought in a sketch of a concept for the poster for the play, and we loved it so much we chose the concept art over his "finished" product. And when I say "we", I mean WE - Peter and I. Because Peter included me, little oh-my-god-do-I-know-what-I'm-doing? me. He wanted to know my thoughts, and it was okay if I disagreed or tried to steer him in another direction when it came to publicity - he listened.

I still have the poster for Death Takes a Holiday in my home office. It is oh-so-precious to me.

Peter lost his voice just before we opened that first production, so I showed him how to say "Eat Shit and Die" in sign language. He was delighted.

At one point early in the season, a dog showed up, wandering around the festival grounds, and he became my dog, as well as the dog of the entire festival. His name was Buster. He followed me EVERYWHERE. I had to go to Peter's office about twice-a-week for a one-on-one. I went into the office, closed the door, and as Peter issued his orders for the week, Buster barked outside the door. And barked again. "Is that Buster?!" Peter almost roared. "Yes..." I said, meekly. "Let him in!" So I opened the door and let Buster in, and that little tramp pranced right by me and over to Peter's side, as though to say, "I know who is in charge." Peter sat there petting Buster and continued to issue orders. After that, when I went into the theater during rehearsals to ask Peter something, Buster would come right in too and prance down the aisle over to Peter, who would keep directing while leaning over to give Buster a pet on the head.

And then there was the aftermath of the July 4th Pittsfield Independence Day parade. The parade organizers had called Williamstown every summer, hoping for a celebrity to be in the parade, and every year, all the "stars" said no. I told Peter the organizers really, REALLY wanted someone this year, and that Williamstown really needed a "we love this community" moment. He said, "I bet Tony Edwards will do it. Want me to ask him?" He knew that if he asked Tony, rather than me, he'd probably do it. Anthony Edwards was in rehearsals for Harvey on the mainstage, and was super duper nice. He was also known to most folks as Goose in Top Gun. Tony said yes, and the stage manager of Harvey, Scott LaFeber, said he would find and dress up in a rabbit suit and sit next to Tony for the parade. I offered to go to the parade with them, to troubleshoot, but they assured me I wasn't needed. Well, parade-goers EXPLODED when "Goose" from Top Gun was announced by the MC, to the point that a crowd almost rushed the car as it went down the avenue. When they came back and told me about the madness, they were laughing, and I laughed right along. They went and told Peter the same story, and Peter thought I'd dropped the ball and not taken care of "my people", and he called to ball me out and let me know it. I hung up the phone and just sat there, horrified. Scott walked in and thought I'd just gotten news that someone had died. I told him about the reprimand and apologized for not being there. Scott marched out, grabbed Tony, told him what happened, and they went right to Peter to say he'd been unfair, that they had refused my offer to tag along, that there was nothing I could have done, and on and on. It was the first time, and one of the only times, someone has defended me professionally. Peter called me as soon as they left and apologized, sincerely. I have never forgotten that apology. Most people aren't big enough to do something like that - Peter was.

At one point that summer, someone in the company tried to blame me for a profound misstep with a member of the press. I walked over to Peter's office in the evening, knowing he would still be there, and told him exactly what had happened, and exactly how I had NOT been involved. And he believed me. And he stuck up for me. And that pretty much sealed the deal for how I felt about Peter Hunt.

When the festival was over, I took a job on the West Coast at a theater where I could work year-round. A few weeks after I took the job, Peter called the theater, looking for me, and when I got on the phone, demanded to know if I was going to come back the next season, saying he absolutely needed me. To this day, I regret not telling him yes. That job I had taken on the West Coast turned out to be a disaster, and in the spring of 1992, I reached out to the Williamstown Theater Festival and asked if they wanted me back. They did - but I backed out before I signed the contract, right after getting offered my first well-paid position ever, in the HR office of a hard drive company. I couldn't take the hit financially of moving again, just to be out of a job again at the end of the summer. It was my last chance to work with Peter, and it was gone. And I never worked in theatre again.

All these years later, I don't know if Peter H. Hunt would have remembered me. But I remember him. I know not everyone liked him. Not everyone likes me. He remains one of my favorite people that I have ever worked for. He trusted me, he recognized me, he valued me - and I would have gone through fire for him.

Peter has died. He was 81.

I have more stories... like when he tossed his Tony medallion to me (at me?), but I'll save those for friends. We'll get together, drink wine, and share war stories of working for Peter H. Hunt.

Rest in peace, sir.

Fathers & theaters

I’ll probably never see Hamilton. Certainly not on Broadway. If you’ve been priviledged to see it - and, yes, if you've seen it, you are priviledged - great for you. I understand why you blog about it and post about it on Facebook and can't stop talking about it at a party: it's a once-in-a-lifetime event, a very exclusive one, there's nothing like it anywhere, there may never be anything like it again, and you've been lucky enough to experience it.

But I’m part of the 99.9% of the country that hasn't seen it, and probably never will. I don’t have an “in” to see it, to even buy tickets to see it. I also live on the other side of the country and can't afford a trip to New York City right now. I’ll probably finally see Hamilton in 10 years or so, produced by a local amateur all-white group of performers that isn’t really sure how this whole hip hop thing is supposed to work, but they will be oh-so-earnest in their attempt to present the magic.

There’s a blog by Joe Posnanski being shared across the Interwebs right now about how he managed to take his daughter to see Hamilton on Broadway. It’s an incredibly sweet piece. His daughter cried a lot and squeezed his arm a lot, because he made her ultimate dream come true. What a gift. He knows what a huge moment he's been able to give her, that they've been able to share together. That’s something she and he will cherish for the rest of their lives. Beautiful. Great for them.

It made me think of my own father. And theater. Very different experiences from his, however.

My father and I didn’t like each other. In fact, most times, I hated him, and he was none too fond of me. He was an alcoholic who ruined most events: Christmas family gatherings, Thanksgiving family gatherings, my high school graduation, or just an evening meal… and he hated that I would refer to those ruined events, to remind everyone of what an ass he could be. He secretly recorded my telephone conversations and drunkenly mocked me with the information he gleaned from such, leaving me confused and humiliated - no teen girl should have her intimate conversations overheard by her father. He would call my friends' parents late at night and tell them, "You think you're better than me, but you're not," and ramble on and on, and I would have to face their children at school the following Monday and apologize. Most of those parents forbid their kids from coming to our house for sleep overs, and seemed nervous whenever I was in their houses. He did some really other humiliating, even abusive things I'm still not comfortable sharing on a blog, and probably will never be.

And then there were our differences in tastes and values. He wanted me to wear dresses and makeup and be beautiful and elegant, but I wanted to wear flannel and listen to Patsy Cline and watch “Star Wars.” He wanted me to be popular, I wanted to disappear. We were polar opposites on most political issues as well. We consistently made each other miserable.

But there was this one thing we did have in common: Theater. Dad loved theater. He loved a live performance in particular, especially if there was music involved. And he knew, early on, that I loved it too.

There was that time in the 1970s when he made me watch The Sound of Music on TV. I did not want to at all. I did not want to because the kids were cute and happy and singing in the commercials and, therefore, I hated them. And I did not want to because he wanted me to watch it. But I watched it. And I loved it. And I watched it every year it was on TV while I lived in our family home.

There was that time when he took me to the Executive Inn in Evansville, Indiana in the 1980s for a weekend matinee of a touring company doing 10 Nights in a Bar Room in the tiny performance space there - I think it was in the basement. And don’t think the irony of an alcoholic father taking me to a campy melodrama about an alcoholic father was lost on me even then. But the company was actually really wonderful. I laughed. A lot. It was delightful. He’d already seen the production with my mother, and he arranged for the lead actress to come to our table after that matinee performance and talk to me about how to work professionally in theater.

There was that time he took me back to the Executive Inn the following year to see a touring company doing South Pacific. It was a terrific little production as well. And he told me how he’d seen it at the movies, by himself, back in the 1950s.

There was the time he took me to see three storytellers that were touring the state, telling a story about a crime. I can’t remember the crime. I can’t remember the story. But I remember being riveted as I sat there in the high school auditorium, watching three men take turns telling a story - no light effects, no sound effects, no costumes, just them, talking.

On all four occasions, he said to my Mom, “Well, I think Jayne would really like this and should see it.” And he was insistent I see all four - the only thing he ever made me do. And I loved all four of those experiences. He was right. Other than when he taught me to drive a stick shift and took me on a very short motorcycle ride on his beloved Gold Wing, both experiences after a few years of sobriety and many years apart, it's the only great times we shared together. But during those experiences, I never grabbed his armed and squeezed it as tight as I could, like the girl in the Hamilton story. I never sobbed. I sat and watched those shows and really liked them, just like my father knew I would, but the awkwardness, the uneasiness, the distrust between us - it never left us, and we barely said anything to each other before or after the performances.

This blog that you're reading now won't go viral. I'm just not that cool. I haven't seen Hamilton. I probably won't ever see it. And I'll never get to improve my relationship with my father - he died in 1996 - 20 years ago. None of that is viral story worthy. But I haven't thought about those four theater experiences with, or because of, my father in decades, and I'm thankful for Mr. Posnanski for that. Theater is an amazing thing. I need to remember that, and enjoy it, wherever I am, more often.

Still Lovin' the Bard

My blog Lovin' the Bard has been the most popular personal blog I've ever written, per getting tweeted by a very influential friend in the theater world and then getting re-tweeted by about half-a-dozen high school drama teachers. 

A followup to that blog: for the last 12 months, I've been trying not to buy any books - I'm reading only what's already on my bookshelves. It's both to save money and to remind me that books are meant to be read, not stuck on shelves for years and years only as ornaments. And given how much I still have to read - either because I never read this or that book, or because I want to re-read this or that - it looks like I could go another 12 months. 

The last four things I've read have been Shakespeare plays. First, I read A Midsummer Night's Dream, which I first saw in the magical 1935 movie production when I was probably 14, and then as live theater at Hartford Stage in 1988, in a magical production no one who saw it will ever forget. I love the play so much I can quote from it - but as I'd never read it, I thought it would be a good first choice. It was a very satisfying read. 

Next, I read Twelfth Night, which, as I mentioned in that previous and very popular blog , was the first live Shakespeare I ever saw, in a production at the University of Evansville. I saw it again in 1987, in a production in London, directed by a young and up-and-coming director called Kenneth Branagh, with original music by Paul McCartney. Don't ask me which production was better - they were both exceptional. 

Then I read Taming of the Shrew. Which I did not enjoy nearly so much as the Zeffirelli's movie, though reading it provided a lot of food for thought (and the discovery that it's a play within a play - I had no idea!). 

Last night, I finished The Merchant of Venice. I wondered if, without the benefit of seeing it ever or having lots of footnotes explaining this or that or having a teacher guiding me, I would understand it, let alone enjoy it. It turned out to be the best read so far. The story is magnificent. Portia is an absolutely delicious role. And I came away with a very sympathetic view of Shylock. I think the play is both a reflection of the time regarding how British Christians viewed Jews, but I also think Shakespeare was being critical of their treatment - that's what the words say to me. YMMV. It breaks my heart to know shortly after Kristallnacht in 1938, this masterpiece was broadcast as anti-Semitic propaganda on German radio. What's next? Either King Lear or The Tempest.

Lovin' the Bard

It was 1981 or 1982. I was in the 9th grade, in a public school in Henderson County, Kentucky. I was in an English class. It wasn't an advanced English class, nor an honors English class. Just the normal, regular 9th grade English class. And our ordinary, normal, not-advanced public school teacher had us read and study Romeo and Juliet.

There we were, reading aloud in our thick Kentucky accents, sometimes struggling over words, sometimes laughing over phrases (especially the sexual ones). We read the play aloud, we read the play on our own, and we watched a slide show, an abbreviated version of the Zeffirelli masterpiece, accompanied by portions of audio from the film (I guess our school couldn't afford the rights to show the movie). The teacher asked us what was meant by this or that paragraph, why a character did this or that, what another character was feeling, and how we felt about what was happening.

And we got it. We understood the play, every bit of it. We understood that these were young people every bit as thoughtless and passionate as us. We understood that these were adults every bit as stubborn and closed-minded as many adults we knew. We understood that it was a tragedy, not something to aspire to. We understood the intensity, we understood the sorrow. The play was completely accessible. The teacher fully expected us to get it, and we got it.

Around the same time, I saw Twelfth Night at the University of Evansville. I admit that I didn't understand everything: I didn't get all of what was going on among Viola, Olivia, the Duke and Sebastian, but I most certainly got the set up and fall of Malvolio - and, oh, how I laughed. And laughed. And walked around for weeks saying, "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." (emphasis from the actor from that production, complete with rolling "R"s).

In the 10th grade, my English class - still not an honors class, and also in public school - read and studied Julius Caesar. And, again, we go it. We understood what was going on. We understood the conniving and the politics and the egos. Same for in the 11th grade, when we read and studied Macbeth.

I went on to read Hamlet in college, and to see, and thoroughly enjoy, probably a dozen productions of various Shakespeare plays over the years. Most productions were great. Some were mediocre. But all were completely accessible to me and everyone else watching.

I bring this up because Ralph Fiennes is running around the talk show circuit (and he can feel free to run around here any time) talking about his latest movie, Coriolanus, and the interviewers keep saying things like, "Wow, it's so accessible. I didn't think I would understand Shakespeare. Most people don't get Shakespeare."

Most people do get Shakespeare. It's why his plays have lasted this long. It's why they keep getting performed on stage and keep getting filmed. The real issue: most people don't ever see a Shakespeare production. More and more schools have to teach kids to take tests, more and more English classes aren't talking about Shakespeare anymore, except in passing. Most people don't go see a Shakespeare production because they have heard, again and again, Shakespeare is so hard to understand - from people who have never seen Shakespeare.

And THAT is a tragedy, every bit as anything Shakespeare wrote.

I not only enjoyed those early readings and study of Shakespeare; reading and studying the Bard also taught me quite a lot. In addition to greatly enhancing my vocabulary, reading and listening to Shakespeare has taught me how to concentrate on phrasing, how to read subtext, how word choice can affect understanding, how complicated humans are (just like all humans now), and how so many human activities and feelings are universal. All of those lessons have helped me throughout my life, at home and at work. How many times have I had to quickly adapt to the language and phrasing of some new industry I'm finding myself working in? And I didn't see or experience anything in Afghanistan I couldn't also find in Shakespeare, and that's probably why I was able to find a way to process the tragedies all around me there - and everywhere else.

Last week, I read A Midsummer Night's Dream. Now, I'm reading Twelfth Night. I read every word, and often re-read sentences. Is it an easy read? What is an easy read? No, I don't get a passage at a glance - I have to actually read everything. But do I get it? Do I understand what's happening? Do the jokes make me laugh? Sure! This public-school-educated, public university-educated, non-English major gets it just fine.

What's next? I'm not sure. Maybe something I've never seen a production of but always wanted to, like King Lear. Maybe something I've seen many productions of, like Tempest.

But I'm lovin' the Bard. I wish more people would give him a chance.