To this day, I still don’t understand the sequence of events that led me to the small role of ‘Welch’, the baseball team owner in the production of “Damn Yankees” at Rainbow Stage. After a summer “off” from Rainbow, I’d been asked to audition for their summer playbill (which also included “Brigadoon”). I had reluctantly acquiesced and, subsequently (and indecorously), was informed that there was “nothing for me” in either show. That really pissed me off. The productions were being directed by a dance studio owner from Alberta.
To my way of thinking, a theatre company should never be run by businessmen, but the “Past President’s Board” was now in its second year of overseeing the organization. Having been rejected, I let it go and, along with accepting a summer job singing the National Anthem nightly for the new Winnipeg Goldeyes Baseball Team, focused on preparing for the fall season – a hefty line-up for me at that point. So it was a great surprise to get a call from one of the Rainbow “suits” close to the start of “Damn Yankees” rehearsals offering me the tiny, non-singing ‘Welch’ role. I don’t really know what had transpired to prompt this late offer being made. Even though it sounded somewhat shady, I accepted … with a LOT of conditions – including program title page billing and a shitload of money. Out of desperation I suppose, they accepted. (A Sidebar: I got fired from singing “O Canada” at the Goldeyes games! The inequality of a line in the anthem – “True patriot love in all our sons command” – had always bothered. One night at the ballpark, I changed “sons” to “hearts” as I was singing. A few days later a writer in the “Letters To The Editor” section of the Free Press called me out for changing “the words”. While it peeved me a bit, I was also flattered in that the writer had noted that I “sang the American National Anthem flawlessly”. Apparently a few other “complaints” had come into the Team’s offices and I was let go. This was the summer of 1994. The lyrics of the Anthem were officially changed on January 31st, 2018. “Sons” was changed to “us”. The wheels of change move very slowly. Guess I was ahead of my time!)
For Rainbow’s previous season (the first for the new Board after the chaos of the Shapira Scandal) they had quickly thrown together a Winnipeg sure-fire box office draw with “Fiddler On The Roof”. They made money on the show but, with no one at the artistic helm, were now floundering in their preparations for this season. “Brigadoon” had opened to a cool reception and now “Yankees” tickets were not selling (despite some cracker jack performances from Robbie (Paterson) as ‘Young Joe’ and Brenda Gorlick as ‘Lola’). They were quickly learning that it is not a slam-dunk to merely schedule shows then head back to their corporate offices letting someone (anyone) else put it all together. After a fraught rehearsal period with the wiry, very off-putting in-your-face director muddling through mounting the monster show using “Louder!” as his main direction to the performers, we settled into the run. I did my work and tried to stay as far away as possible from the intrigue that started soon after we opened. Picturing Al Pacino in “Godfather III” railing about being “pulled back in” to the “organization”, I found myself in a similar situation during an unexpected call from one of the Board members telling me that they “didn’t know if we were going to be able to meet payroll this week and probably next week as well” and “what should we do?” What? WHAT? First, why the hell were they telling me this and, second, how could they have the nerve to approach me asking for some kind of solution to their problem? He even asked me what size the house had been the night before (it had been half full)! Why didn’t he have that information himself? It just signaled how out of control things were.
The Rainbow 40th Anniversary Party had taken place a week earlier out at the Stage. Jack Shapira had made an unexpected and, for many, unwanted appearance. I had learned via a grapevine that the Board was now thinking of hiring an actual Producer for the following season. I assumed they were becoming painfully aware of the pitfalls of running a theatre company from their corporate desks. Fortunately, there were a couple of men in this group who, at least for me, represented the possibility of a path back to sanity and some much needed organization. One was Campbell McIntyre whom I’d known since the “early days”. He was a stalwart of Rainbow, gracious and nicely laid back but astute in the ways of theatre production. The other was Ken Peter, an established Dance Studio owner, who had been associated with Rainbow for years but with whom I’d not had a lot of contact. Between the two of them, I thought there might be a chance for a brighter future for Rainbow. And that’s exactly what came to pass, but it would take some time.
“Yankees” whimpered to a close and I sped into putting together the line up for the fourth year of the “Winnipeg Cares AIDS Benefit Concert”. We managed to raise $64K bringing our four-year total to almost a quarter million dollars for the AIDS resource services we were funding in the Community. Music Services still occupied a major chunk of time and was getting bigger and bigger. With “Phantom” on the road (and about to head to Southeast Asia) and the orchestras of various regional productions also requiring my payroll skills, Sam (Lutfiyya) continued to add major projects to our roster. The new Hal Prince production of “Showboat” had just ended its Toronto sit and we had been given the contract for the orchestra of Vancouver run. We were maneuvering to get its U.S. Tour, a contract that would last for two years. “A Closer Walk With Patsy Cline” and its burgeoning licensing deals led us to opening up “Lutent Inc.” the arm of the business which would deal only with the projects (mostly “jukebox” musicals) that Dean Regan was generating … and there were a number of them. “Go big or go home” seemed to be the catch-phrase of the day and I was still mired in the thick of it!
A year earlier, I had “played” Ludwig van Beethoven (at left) in a major publicity campaign for the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra’s new season. The photo session had been great fun and working with Bramwell Tovey (the Orchestra’s Conductor) had revealed a kindred theatrical spirit. He was very funny in his dry British way and our snappy repartee during the shoot started us talking about maybe doing the same sort of thing on stage during a concert. Our chatter resulted in a series of conversations with Symphony staff about appearing as a composer for their Young People’s Concert Series. We eventually decided that bringing Johannes Brahms “back to life” might have some value.
I had been creating the script over the course of the summer and had incorporated some music selections that would be familiar and accessible for a younger audience, some by Brahms and some by his contemporaries. Brahms had been known as a very spontaneous character and, in conversations with friends, would take them off guard by suddenly changing the subject. It was just this quality that I thought could propel some exchanges between me and Bramwell on stage. I had evolved the composer’s rumpled character with the help of costuming, make-up and wig and a thick German accent. ‘Herr Brahms’ would begin the concert thinking he’s addressing a congress of music scholars and would launch into a diatribe (in German) about the current state of music. Bramwell, at his podium by this time, was to come over to tell me that our audience is made up of children prompting a series of ad lib exchanges. ‘Brahms’ is also about to leave on a trip and has brought a large trunk and a lot of clothes with him to pack during the performance. The obligatory set of extra-large-sized boxer shorts with big red lips all over them was to make an appearance as well. None of this was played out during rehearsals as Bramwell wanted to get through the music examples we were to discuss. It really was going to be a “wing-it” situation. I felt comfortable enough in the character and the situation we’d set up, so I wasn’t worried about it … too much.
When I came down from my dressing room just before the afternoon performance, the orchestra musicians socializing in the backstage lobby gasped. Apparently the disguise was astonishing. I looked like his photograph (above)! I’m only sorry we never got any pics of me as old Johannes. The concert was spectacular. The opening in German got a wonderful reaction (particularly from the orchestra, who had heard none of what we were about to do) and gave way to a narration that was elementary enough for the young people. ‘Brahms’ had been suffering from a cold and had tied a large hot water bottle around his backside. “Is anyone else warm in here?” he asks as he turns and takes off his large frock coat revealing the reason for his feeling hot. The kids went nuts. With assistance from some talented young solo musicians we helped our audience to understand various musical themes used by Haydn and Beethoven and how they related to each other. The packing the clothes bit was a hit as I held up the outrageous underwear. It got a huge laugh and an even bigger one when I ad-libbed to Bramwell “these are yours?” The exchanges between us had the adults in the house (AND the musicians) howling. The concert ends with Brahms’ “Academic Festival Overture” as he sits in the middle of the orchestra luxuriating in his music, conducting here and there and basking in the incredible sound. It was all supremely satisfying!
Backstage after a lot of bows, Bramwell came rushing over. “Richard! Richard! That was so wonderful! Thank you for letting us play real music!” referencing the fact that these Kids Concerts usually featured pop music and very little of the classical rep. As an adjunct to my preparation, I had also managed to perfect Brahms’ signature. I was lead out to the lobby and mobbed for the next half hour signing programs (as Brahms) and reveling in young kids being over the moon about the music! It reminded me of the days so many years ago in Montreal at the MSO’s Saturday morning Young Peoples Concerts, and how we young folk had the same reactions to that kind of music. Full circle! But it was on to other things now.
Early one morning in the spring of 1988 on a sidewalk in Winnipeg’s North End, a native community leader named J.J. Harper had been shot to death during a confrontation and subsequent scuffle with a Winnipeg Police officer. The initial stop by the police had turned out to be a case of mistaken identity. The internal investigation immediately following the shooting had been badly botched on a number of levels and the episode had resulted in “The Aboriginal Justice Inquiry”, a court case that consumed Canada for months. Now, years later, the story entered my life in a major way.
Earlier in the year, I had heard about a play to be produced by Prairie Theatre Exchange about the incident. It was written by local playwright Bill Harrar and, at the time, was called “Shooting JJ”. The play centered on Ken Dowson (pictured left), the Police Inspector in charge of the internal investigation after the shooting, and how some of the pertinent information regarding the incident had been lost, altered or suppressed. After making more inquiries, I discovered that Nancy Drake was to direct. I guess she considered me a serious contender for the ‘Dowson’ role because she asked to meet. We went through the play (which was now called “inQuest”) in preparation for some auditions in a short while.
The piece was intense! The first Act centers on the night of the shooting and the second Act is conjecture about the time leading up to Dowson’s scheduled appearance before the Inquiry a few months later. I spent every spare moment reading the play over and over again and doing research into the man. By now (five years later) the Inquiry had long since produced its findings and the transcripts of the proceedings provided the foundation for the first part of the play. I found myself emotionally overwrought at times as I worked my way through the second Act and Bill’s dramatization of the evolution of Dowson’s emotional state in a compressed time line. I couldn’t wait to get into rehearsals … IF I actually had the role. It took Nancy forever to decide. I read a number of times with the young and very talented Arne MacPherson reading the role of ‘Constable’ (Robert Cross). After what seemed an eternity, we were both offered the roles.
As had been the case with Ross in “Live With It”, I thought it would be advantageous to meet with Arne as much as possible prior to rehearsals to cement our relationship and to delve into the journeys of these two characters. These prolonged sessions produced profound insights and once we began rehearsals we were, as with Ross and I, way ahead of the game.
There is nothing like starting rehearsals for a newly-minted play. There are no preconceptions, no “ways” to play a role, nothing against which to measure approaches or portrayals. There is also a sense of urgency and tension mixed with excitement and anticipation. The added elements in this case were the potentially explosive subject matter and the controversy that was sure to surround the production.
One thing I should mention for context is that on the morning he was to appear before the Justice Inquiry, Ken Dowson committed suicide. The reason he killed himself has never been fully explained. While the play doesn’t make conjecture, ‘Dowson’s’ compulsions about details and precision are on display from the outset. I had learned that he was a perfectionist, a very organized, law-and-order officer who had trained at Quantico, Virginia at the FBI Academy and had been in police work for 19 years. This layering-in was helpful to me. I also learned that Dowson’s wife, Jill, had been shocked to learn that I was playing the part of her husband because I looked like him. The pressure was piling up!
During the early part of the rehearsal process we spent time talking with an officer who had been Inspector of Police at the time of the shooting. He had worked with both Dowson and Cross and was helpfully candid and insightful about the workings of the Department as well as the two men. We watched videotapes of the Justice Inquiry and were taken by Cross’s state of mind even months after the shooting. It was pitiful and shocking to watch and something that Arne was about to head into playing. We both steeled ourselves as we descended into the personal hells of these two men.
Over the past couple of years I’d gradually found myself pining to escape the stark actuality of the payrolls and spreadsheets which were consuming the better part of my days. As I sat in front of my computer screen, I longed for the vagueness of someone else’s emotional trials, an escape I could find only in rehearsing for or performing in a show. Now, that feeling had shifted a full one-eighty. The clarity and impersonal-ness of those numbers and formulae became a refuge from the relentless intensity of inhabiting the skin of a man in the process of disintegration. The playing was incredibly hard and debilitating. I was experiencing an overwhelming sense of responsibility to somehow honour the man and his circumstances but I would lie awake, unwillingly reliving the day’s work, and end up going to my desk in the middle of the night and doing payrolls just to distract myself from thinking about the inevitable return to those emotionally charged rehearsals. That went on for a long time.
Intellectually, objectively, the psychological and emotional complexities of this man were all understandable. Putting them into “action” was something no one could help me to achieve. The playing had to come from dark places and over the weeks of rehearsal, I began to poke at areas within myself, finding places from which to extricate little bits of what I imagined to be the right responses within the scenes. The construction of the play was masterful in its roadmap toward the conclusion. I discovered that Dowson’s vulnerability lay within his relinquishing of the limitations he had imposed upon himself as a perfectionist, as an idealist. As he/I did that, the barriers began to melt away, releasing us into the long-held-in emotions and fearful contradictions that had been suppressed during the investigation.
Toward the end of the play, in painfully intense 15-page scene in a hospital, ‘Dowson’ watches ‘Cross’ mentally and emotionally disintegrate, haunted because he has killed another human being. In late rehearsals, tears started to come as we played the scene, unbidden and flowing, partially out of the dialogue exchanges and, for me, partially out of watching my friend Arne falling apart right before my eyes. It was a case of no longer keeping secrets – both as the characters and as actors – and the result was cathartic. In the scene’s last moments, as ‘Dowson’ is leaving the room, ‘Cross’ asks him to “take the Indian with you” . It was all I could do to hold it together. ‘Dowson’ says “I will” and we head into the final scene.
There are no words in the final moments. ‘Dowson’ has left the hospital, still holding it in. Time is compressed. The lights change to a soft nighttime glow. There is the sound of crickets as he walks across the open stage and stops, looking up, smelling the night air. I felt a tear start down my cheek. I shook my head slightly and slowly walked off stage. There is a dimming of the light. The sound of the crickets stops. There is a moment of silence … and then, a gunshot. A moment more and the lights fade to black as the play ends.
The first time we ran through the second act, with the lights and the sound, in costume and everything as it would be in performance, it was overpowering. It had all accumulated and I was doing my damndest to hold it together but it was very difficult. I slowly walked off stage, the gun shot went off and I just dissolved. I fell into a chair and began to sob uncontrollably. The release was so utterly complete that I couldn’t bring myself back from it. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Nancy. She didn’t say anything but just stood there for a moment until I pulled myself together and we headed into the note session.
Each night before I go on stage, I have a moment in the wings when I center myself. It’s a physical arm-extending collection of energy around me, pulling it in, forcing it into my body and relaxing as it fills me. During “InQuest” I couldn’t bring myself to do that centering. Instead, I used the dread that filled me every night as I stood in the dark; I knew that with my first step onto the stage and into the light I was embarking on a journey that would leave me a little less whole as a human being and would try me mightily as an actor.
For a few nights before the opening, we were doing small-audience previews. These were tiny invited groups of four or five people. Having folks watching, listening and responding was what we needed at this point. Just the sound of them breathing or clearing throats or jostling about in the dark kept us subliminally aware of our dynamics and clarity and pacing. Sometimes after these performances, Bruce Duggan, the communications director at the theatre, would ask if we would mind saying hello to a sponsor or a special guest in the lobby. It was always interesting to get feedback because just about everyone had some kind of connection to what they had just seen. One night, we were waiting for notes to begin when Bruce came in and told us there were some folks upstairs in the Board Room to meet us. Up we went once more. Bruce led the way in. There were six people there clustered about a small attractive lady sitting in a chair. People were sometimes a bit emotional after the show and I could see this lady had been crying. Her eyes were red and she stood up to greet us. I stepped forward as Bruce introduced her.
“Richard, this is Jill Dowson”.
I stopped breathing and couldn’t speak.