"VISITING KING LEAR"
MONOLOGUE
INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO GO MAD (AND KEEP THE AUDIENCE FROM LEAVING)
(A Monologue)
© INDAUTOR
Cd. De México
© BENJAMÍN GAVARRE SILVA
Contact: bengavarre@gmail.com
gavarreunam@gmail.com
Dressing room of a grand theater. The Actor, Richard Daniel, is applying a Lear-style beard with spirit gum that smells like the devil. He stares into the mirror as if facing an intimate enemy, and suddenly, with a subtle jolt, he fixes his gaze on the infinity—where the audience sits. He takes a swig of wine directly from the bottle.
Do you hear that? That bell. First call, first. It’s the executioner’s gong. Don’t look at me... don’t look at me with that face of respect; you know perfectly well that respect is that useless courtesy one holds for the dead, and I am still breathing and sweating. I sweat three liters—three!—of pure distilled water per performance, you know? I’ve measured it. A Lear in the storm loses more fluids than a marathon runner, but with the added burden that we are draped in wool and velvet and, sometimes, a plastic crown or, even worse, a long blonde wig like some washed-up hippie.
Well, this man you see is me. The "Character Actor." Ladislao Cervera, better known by the majestic stage name of Richard Daniel. A man who has gone from being the Prince of Denmark to the old King Lear screaming at industrial fans. And as for Hamlet, I must confess: all it takes is being very handsome and having infinite doubts. "Shall I be that I?" "Will you be the same as you were before?" "To be or not to be," you know the drill... But to be Lear? To be Lear you need shattered knees, the face of a lunatic, and an unpayable debt to the Bank.
Let me tell you… In this production, the director says we are "the soul of a sacred ritual." A lie. At most, we’re a group of neurotics trying not to trip over the scenery or fall ridiculously into the orchestra pit. I’ve never fallen, you know… Never… Or maybe I have, but it wasn't to ruin the show, let there be no doubt about that… But, if I wanted to—theoretically speaking, of course—I could sink the entire play out of pure spite just by dropping my tone. The director would turn livid in his designer chair, but I’m the one splashing liters of saliva onto the front row’s faces. By the way, this director thinks he’s God’s gift to the stage, but I’ve seen worse… There are those who won't call me for auditions because they say I’m already a "consecrated actor." They say, they say that I "already have a name." And that they couldn't possibly pay me what I deserve, ha! What a fine irony!
They don’t call me because they know that by the second rehearsal, I’d be correcting their blocking and explaining why their "avant-garde vision" crashes against the laws of genre theory and style, and that their ignorance of the art of verse is infinite. Prestige, my dear friends, is like the curse of the Oscar. You’re quoted way above the budget, or you "can’t work on minor projects," you’re overqualified and—oh, the paradox—that’s why they don’t call you. And what about the poor character actor, grrr, whose only wish is to fill his refrigerator? I honestly think many directors are terrified of me. They’re afraid I’ll open my mouth and, instead of obeying, I’ll give them a lecture on how to project a vowel without looking like I’m suffering a kidney stone. They say: "We don’t want to bother the Master with an audition." What they mean is: "We don’t want the old man to show us up in front of the interns." Prestige, dear audience, is the most comfortable cage in the world.
(He jerks his tunic into place with a sharp movement).
You know? Looking as handsome as I do… I’ve had many lovers, and don’t you laugh. The theater is a nest of romances in five long acts. Many actresses fell in love with my gallantry and woke up to my… indescribable breath. The result: Nothing lasting. And it must be said that it’s difficult to live with a man whose brain is crowded with dead people. My prestige is a public prison, dear audience, but the real prison is inside... where the ghosts hunt me. The woman who finally became my wife is terrified of me. Imagine this scene: Sara told me the other day, through screams and sobs, that I woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, pointing at the wardrobe and shouting at the top of my lungs: "Ah, woe is me! Ah, wretched me!"
I’ve asked her to thank me: other husbands scream the names of other women; I only scream verses by Calderón de la Barca. "Shut up, Segismundo," she tells me, "turn off the light and stop fencing in bed." I know she’s right. Life is a dream, but the alarm goes off at seven and it doesn’t understand that dreams… are only dreams.
Calderón’s nightmares are bad; the recurring dreams where I’ve lost my costume are terrible; others are like what happens to Segismundo… I’ve dreamed I am The Miser, and I scream because I can’t find my money. Sara tries to wake me, terrified, and I yell at her: "My casket! My little casket!" Eventually, she ends up slapping me, and I wake up with a very foul taste in my mouth for having lost my entire fortune.
Adventures with Molière are very entertaining for those who get to punish the evil Harpagon, but there are even more intense panics… Poor Sara had to endure another one of my nightmares… I got up, sleepwalking, and screamed in perfect English:
"A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!"
... Can you imagine the panic? I don’t know if I truly wanted a horse, or if I just wanted a damn taxi to take me to the airport… But that’s how it was… Poor Sara, she says she doesn't want to sleep with me anymore. And I understand her, poor thing.
At my age, you don't play characters; you inherit them like chronic illnesses. I’ve been Oedipus, and my eyes still itch whenever there’s too much stage fog. I was Segismundo, and I still feel sometimes as if this dressing room were a prison I only leave so strangers can stare at me. Today, it’s time to be the mad, elderly King. And with a new Cordelia, by the way…
Greta… the "new star." The girl playing Cordelia. She looks at me with a mix of pity and reverence, as if I were a ruined cathedral that might collapse on her at any moment. She has that insulting freshness of those who still believe art is going to save the world. She thinks she’s Greta Garbo, and I look at her like: "Look, honey, dial down the stupidity a notch or two." She says she’ll be famous because she’s already in a TV series and they give her "big, big close-ups" with a high-definition camera. Fine, let her be famous… let her be the actress of the moment, I don’t care. I, on the other hand, will remain faithful to the boards and the "truth of the stage." Ha! Even I don't believe that… What a stupid phrase. The only truth of the stage is that if you forget your dialogue, your castmates look at you like they’re going to murder you while they flash a weird grimace of a smile at the respectable audience.
(He puts on his mask but pauses, looking into the infinity of the theater).
Tonight… In the climax of the storm, when I have to curse the elements, maybe I’ll go for the heroic. Instead of invoking the winds, I’ll stare at the rich folks in the boxes and tell them in painstaking detail every single debt I have to pay, including my bank loans—the latter in the tone of a Sophoclean tragedy. The effect will be masterly! A fissure in reality. An example of "Poor Theater"… of "Poor-Me Theater." Prestige finally shattered. A cry for freedom against the dictatorship of the script.
…But I know I won’t do it. I am more than an artist; I am a craftsman of word and gesture. I will stand up, walk toward the spotlights that leave me more blind every day—and I’ll give my little tribute to the Swan of Avon—and I’ll do my job well. I’ll scream at the fans while I lose my mind, in that continuous rehearsal toward madness. I will die once more on stage, as I do in every performance, and even if it’s a work of pure invention, at least one spectator will weep like never before.
(From the dressing room loudspeaker, the dry, precise voice of the Stage Manager is heard):
— "Maestro Richard... Second call. Stand by for your entrance; we are two minutes out."
Well… That’s my cue. My entrance to the ring and the fanfares. I’m off to be applauded for being mad, blind, or imprisoned. The King will lose his kingdom, once more. With a lot of arrogance, some dignity, and a bit of cynicism: the only makeup that doesn't run with sweat and tears.
(Richard Daniel recovers an imperial elegance and exits the dressing room. The sound of the audience breaking into applause is heard just before the door clicks shut.)
THE END
