by Scott Brick
From the Immortal Chronicles #2 (Winter 1998)
If most stories begin, “Chapter One: I Am Born,” then my own personal tale must have continued this way: “Chapter Two: I Am Late.”
I hate being late with submissions, but there it is. It’s been a heady time recently, article-wise, so I find myself nearly the last Immortal to submit his column. Again. Ah, well, in a perfect world I’ll be the first to submit next time ’round.
So here I am, at the eleventh hour, trying to make personal sense out of our theme, “Misanthropy.” It’s tough, as I’ve never felt it had any kind of personal impact in my life, except in very small ways. But hey, small things are what columns are made of, right? Therefore, here are two small tales, anecdotes really, that deal with our theme. Don’t look for any greater theme to tie them all together; just take ’em as they are.
It’s funny, but when you hear “Misanthropy,” actors aren’t the first thing most people think of. Maybe it’s just my own theatrical leanings that make it so, but misanthropy brings to mind two actors for me: one of them well-known and talented yet overlooked in the end; the other, well I never liked the guy, so I spent a good amount of time hoping he’d end up in obscurity, and as things have unfolded, that’s exactly how it’s turned out for him. Somehow, though, I think this has more to do with the difficulty of making it as an actor in this town than any kind of ill-will from me. Of course, I could be wrong.
For many of us, I’m sure, the mere mention of the word misanthropy brings Lon Chaney Jr. to mind, and I’m no exception. After all, Chaney’s portrayal of Lawrence Talbot, the man doomed by the werewolf’s bite in several legendary films, is arguably the most famous portrayal of a misanthrope in film history. Watching an A&E biography of him recently, I was struck by how sadly his life turned out. After beginning his career in 1932 and making over 100 films, Chaney died in the early ’70’s, his body (and career) ravaged by alcoholism. Sad, really, since his early days were filled with such promise. This guy played Lenny in Of Mice And Men years before he was transformed by the full moon.
But even though I have such fond memories of Chaney as the Wolfman, introduced to him as I was in Abbott And Costello Meet Frankenstein, my most vivid recollection of the man came from that TV biography. It seems that after several years where it seemed his career had stalled, Chaney’s appearance with the famous comedic duo gave him the jump-start he needed, and soon he was back on the upswing in Hollywood. He really needed just one more big break to remind everyone what he was capable of as an actor. Sadly, he missed his chance.
In January of 1952, Chaney was hired to play Frankenstein’s monster for an episode of Tales of Tomorrow, a television Sci-Fi anthology. Although he’d returned to playing horror roles and it was therefore something of a step backward for Chaney, it was a tremendous opportunity to showcase his dramatic abilities. The only trick was, the show was to be broadcast live. Well, I’m not sure if anyone knows the real story, but what wound up happening was that Chaney didn’t realize he was on the air. Apparently he believed this was the final dress rehearsal. It’s possible he’d had a bit to drink to help calm his nerves. However it happened, Chaney wound up walking his way through the part, permanently marring his reputation as a dramatic actor on national television. Whenever he ran across a piece of breakaway furniture he was supposed to smash, Chaney hefted it, threatened the other characters with it, then carefully put it down so as not to ruin it, assuming the furniture needed to be kept intact for the actual filming.
By all accounts, it was painful to watch, for everyone involved. There was no opportunity to stop and alert him to the fact that millions of people were watching as his career drifted away. The people associated with the show, men and women who were at least marginally aware of Chaney’s drinking problem, shook their heads in pity.
Despite a brief high-point when he played a washed-up gunslinger in High Noon, Chaney never again achieved the acclaim he should have. Although he acted for another 20 years in film, the movies were on the level of Hillbillys in a Haunted House. Sad, sad, sad.
Okay, end of first anecdote, on to the next. The next guy who comes to mind is Tony Finetti, although I’m somewhat reluctant to label him a misanthrope. Here’s why.
First of all, I should admit up front that Tony stole my girl. (Bastard!) This girl I was crazy for at UCLA, Susan Settle, wound up throwing me over for Tony. Well, maybe I wasn’t technically thrown over, never having admitted my feelings to Susan in the first place. Instead, I opted for the “she’ll figure out how I feel and come running to me when the time is right” method. Looking back, my strategy seemed like such a lock I’m frankly surprised things went awry.
The long and short of it is, I couldn’t stand the sight of Mr. Finetti, yet no matter where I turned, there he was. Tony was also an actor in my theater department, a beak-nosed SOB who had a reputation for stealing everybody’s girls. Really, it’s true, he’d switch relationships shamelessly, so I wasn’t the only guy who wished failure and obscurity on the guy. But despite everyone’s ill wishes he’d keep showing up, and perhaps the hardest part to swallow was the fact that he kept getting good roles. He was a miserable actor and a talentless hack (and I can say that because we were very close!), but he would show up on UCLA’s mainstage, nonetheless.
One such role was as the lead character in Molière’s “The Misanthrope.”
It was strange watching that show. Tony walked around in a tuxedo, similar to most of the cast, yet he’d been given this bizarre make-up, somewhat greenish in hue. An interesting choice, one I was initially intrigued by, yet it ultimately went nowhere. Oddly enough, the show never really went anywhere, either. I mean, with a title like “The Misanthrope,” there are bound to be certain expectations by audience members, myself included. As my playwriting professor was quick to point out in class, there’s a little something called The Obligatory Scene. Raise the audience’s expectations and they expect you to deliver. But by this show’s final curtain, we were all tremendously disappointed.
I wound up seeing the show’s director, Michael Hackett, backstage. Not knowing quite how to phrase my frustrations, I danced around the subject by asking why Tony’s make-up was so green. He told me it’d been done for thematic reasons, to set the character apart by making him appear sick. “We wanted to illustrate that his misanthropic behavior was making him physically ill,” said Hackett, or at least something to that effect.
I walked away, shaking my head, amazed that an intellectual fellow like Michael had missed the point. His misanthropic behavior makes the guy sick? Well, yeah, I can see that, if by behavior he means getting naked and howling at the moon in the middle of a freezing-cold night, or eating freshly-killed meat straight off a rabid dog’s carcass. Sure, that kind of thing will make anyone sick, even if you’re a hearty misanthrope, but the point is, we the audience members wanted to see that behavior! I sat there stunned. Not a hint of extra facial hair, no downy tufts on the back of the guy’s hands, no sharp teeth NADA!
I have to admit, my problem with that evening’s performance didn’t begin or end with Tony’s portrayal or even the direction. I blame Molière. I mean, what’s the point in calling a show “The Misanthrope” if you’re not going to go all the way with it? Instead of giving us the payoff we’d been expecting, Molière kept portraying his lead character as being more oh, I don’t know, maladjusted, I guess. This guy just seemed to hate everyone around him, as though he despised his fellow man. I know there’s a word for those guys that I just can’t recall right now. Maybe Molière should’ve called his show “The Misfits.” That’d come a lot closer than labeling the lead character a werewolf.
Well, the end of my story doesn’t have much in the way of a moral. It ended, and that’s about all you can say of it. Tony took his nose and his chicks and entered the Hollywood fray, never to be heard of again. (At least, not by me.) When he dumped Susan, she of course turned to me for support, but it all ended badly. I had a few lingering feelings for her, but kept thinking, “Would I really want to be with a woman who found Tony attractive?” The answer, ultimately, was “No.”
I suppose my greatest disappointment, looking back, was the sad feeling I had whenever I thought of those people who’d participated in that show. I mean, when you’re a student, you look up to your professors, anxious for the opportunity to learn from their greater wisdom. It’s a horrible feeling when you start to realize you’re more clued in than they are. I mean, I can figure out that “The Misanthrope” is a poorly-named dog of a play but my professors can’t? I still shake my head in wonder and puzzlement….